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Thursday, 23 March 2006 |
Today at around 3 PM, my father passed away. He went peacefully in his sleep, with my mother--his wife of 46 years--holding his hand and me playing one of his favorite Scottish airs on the guitar. He will be sorely missed.
I wish everyone could have met my dad. He was an amazing man. He had a PhD in Computer Science, and was a professor at UMass for thirty-some years, eventually becoming the head of the Computer Science Department before he retired. He described his job as, "When I work with a bunch of engineers I'm their mathematician; when I work with mathematicians, I'm their engineer." I lost track of the number of languages he spoke passably, but I know that he spoke German like a native, and was fluent in French and Portuguese. He maintained he was a "passing wing shot," though personally I never saw him miss. When he gave up shotguns in favor of a camera, it wasn't long before he had a picture he'd taken of a Great Gray Owl on the cover of American Birder Magazine. He designed a new Computer Science building as chair of the department, and--even more amazing to anyone with any knowledge of academia and the politics that go with it--even got it built. He raised three kids. He went to the Galapagos, Russia, Costa Rica, Israel, Dominica, and just about everywhere else on the planet. He started the rumor that Mike Nichols has no body hair. He wrote a children's book. He loved nature fiercely and his family even more. He was a renaissance man in an age of specialization, and often told me that he "could be mediocre at absolutely anything he tried."
There are experts that wish they could be as "mediocre" in their field as he was.
He was a birdwatcher, a birdsong recorder, and an owler; a golfer, a traveler, a spinner of tales. He loved to argue, but loved to teach more. He was a mentor to many and a student to some. He was known as "Siempre Listo" and "Papa Grande" and "The Man Who Knows Everything." And, of course, "Dad."
He lived well and died well, and the only bad thing I can say about him is that he is now gone. And we are all the less for it.
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Last Updated ( Thursday, 23 March 2006 )
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Friday, 10 March 2006 |
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These wide ranging poems were all written on a recent trip to visit my very sick father.
Father
When I leave tomorrow
I won’t wish you farewell.
You will not.
You have grown too thin,
insubstantial; not
a man, but a shadow
waiting to fade
into the dark.
I would ease your pain
if I could,
but you have pills for that.
So I am content to
trim your beard
change your clothes
rub your head and neck
and remember you--
not as a shadow
but a man.
And when you leave
for your sake, soon--
I hope that you are wrong
about God.
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