I went by my mom’s house to check up on her. We took a brief walk. She seemed rather unfocused.
As a distraction, I showed her Dave Carroll’s video, United Breaks Guitars, the country music customer service complaint that is making its way around the Internet to great acclaim.
When I first saw it I kept thinking how I wished I could have run over to my folks’ home and share with my dad. I know he would have loved it and I would have loved showing it to him. ...But I can’t.
My mom loved the video, too. Just after it finished, she looked at me and said excitedly that she couldn’t wait to tell Gloria about it. She abruptly stopped talking and just looked at me for a few moments, and finally quietly and sadly added “Oh.” Clearly, the shock hasn’t worn off.
Friday, August 7, 2009
Gloria is dead
She was diagnosed months before my dad. She outlived him by almost twenty–eight months—much longer than expected, an extraordinary outlier. Last week a doctor told her “You shouldn’t be here.”
Allowing for her age and other factors, my aunt was in the top 0.1% of lung cancer victims. But that’s all moot now. Gloria, my aunt and my mother’s favorite sister of her three is dead. She died yesterday morning, apparently in her sleep.
Gloria was an amazing woman, determined and strong in spirit and strength. She had been shopping for fall outfits with my mom last week. She was driving just two days before she died, albeit in a lot of pain (she took her first dose of morphine a few hours before she died). But on the same day she last driven her car, she told my mom that she thought it was time to begin hospice care. It was scheduled to have begun yesterday.
Actually, I don’t think it was the disease that killed Gloria. Yes, the cancer had metastasized and spread to her brain, spinal column, and elsewhere, causing her great pain. And it was clearly going to win soon. But the cancer had not completely debilitated and wasted her, as it had with my dad, as is typical. She did not spend her last few weeks confined to a hospital bed, her body shutting down around her like my dad. Instead, I think that she had at last come to understand that she really had reached the end of her life (her initiation of hospice being indicative). And in so accepting, her body, exhausted from her unceasing effort to live as long as possible while simultaneously fighting the cancer and bearing up under the burdens of [palliative] chemotherapy and radiation treatments, simply shut down.
Losing an older friend or a family member is a disconcerting experience. We grow up with a sense of the preceding generation being a safety net beneath us, always there, more experienced and wiser, ready to catch us when we fall. With each death the net becomes more tattered, eventually completely fraying into the illusion it always was. We are left with the sobering realization that we are in fact floating over the inevitable void, into which we, too, will eventually will be drawn.
My mother has lost three of the four most important people in her life, all to cancer: her mother, husband and sister. (And she herself has had three instances of melanoma). Now I’m all she has left.
Allowing for her age and other factors, my aunt was in the top 0.1% of lung cancer victims. But that’s all moot now. Gloria, my aunt and my mother’s favorite sister of her three is dead. She died yesterday morning, apparently in her sleep.
Gloria was an amazing woman, determined and strong in spirit and strength. She had been shopping for fall outfits with my mom last week. She was driving just two days before she died, albeit in a lot of pain (she took her first dose of morphine a few hours before she died). But on the same day she last driven her car, she told my mom that she thought it was time to begin hospice care. It was scheduled to have begun yesterday.
Actually, I don’t think it was the disease that killed Gloria. Yes, the cancer had metastasized and spread to her brain, spinal column, and elsewhere, causing her great pain. And it was clearly going to win soon. But the cancer had not completely debilitated and wasted her, as it had with my dad, as is typical. She did not spend her last few weeks confined to a hospital bed, her body shutting down around her like my dad. Instead, I think that she had at last come to understand that she really had reached the end of her life (her initiation of hospice being indicative). And in so accepting, her body, exhausted from her unceasing effort to live as long as possible while simultaneously fighting the cancer and bearing up under the burdens of [palliative] chemotherapy and radiation treatments, simply shut down.
Losing an older friend or a family member is a disconcerting experience. We grow up with a sense of the preceding generation being a safety net beneath us, always there, more experienced and wiser, ready to catch us when we fall. With each death the net becomes more tattered, eventually completely fraying into the illusion it always was. We are left with the sobering realization that we are in fact floating over the inevitable void, into which we, too, will eventually will be drawn.
My mother has lost three of the four most important people in her life, all to cancer: her mother, husband and sister. (And she herself has had three instances of melanoma). Now I’m all she has left.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Father's Day
I cried today, twice, as Kate held me. I miss my best friend. I miss my dad. I will, every day, for the rest of my life. And I know that I am not alone: http://fchowell.blogspot.com/2008/03/one-year.html. My assessment of the universe stands.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Counterpoint and Bookeneds
A week ago today, on June 14th, I married the love of my life. A week from today, on June 28th, I will be standing atop a hillock, in the middle of a wheat field, overlooking the small Spanish town of Ambrona, about two hours’ drive from Madrid. I will be one of about thirty Americans there. An untold number of Spaniards and at least one Frenchman will be there as well. The wedding was four months in planning. Planning for this event, though much more informal, began more than twice as many months ago.
I have not been to Ambrona since I was eighteen, a newly–minted high school graduate. I spent much of that summer there. At the time, there were numerous pits in the ground, sectioned off by pegs and long white strings, and filled with lots of older folks, covered with sweat and clay dust and, as a consequence, a rather viscous mud. (Those ‘older folks’ were principally Cal upper-division and graduate anthropology students. If conditions were similar today, their peers would all seem quite young to me by comparison, such are the many years that have passed.)
We are meeting there to remember my dad, who passed away fifteen months ago. The location is one of the four big archeological sites he excavated. (The others are in the Omo river basin in southern Ethiopia, Isimila in Tanzania and Yarimburgaz in Turkey.) It is my expectation that people will be gathering in those places as well (two of the three other sites are being actively excavated).
My mother will be by my side. My sister, who could not join us will be with us in spirit. My wife, who is still recovering from our wedding, is staying home by choice; she is right that the event will be no honeymoon. The one day recuperating and three days we spent in Monterey following our joining was far from sufficient for either of us. We will be going to Hawai’i for ten days for our ‘official honeymoon’ on the Monday following the events in Spain. (I will be recording the entire affair so that both my sister and wife will be able to see what will have transpired.)
This is my trip. I knew last summer, just a few months after my dad died, that I would have to go. I need the closure. When I mentioned my intent to my mother, she thought it to be a wonderful idea and wanted to accompany me. We set a date. It was at which point I reached out to my dad’s friends and colleagues to see if any of them would like to join us... There will probably be at least sixty joining my mother and me on that little grassy hilltop. We are stunned and gratified. Many more who cannot join us have sent us brief remembrances and thoughts of my father to read aloud. I know there will be tears.
The site has long been quiet. No stakes nor pegs remain. The pits have long since silted up in the winter rains. Wheat grows over the shallow depressions that remain, all but hiding them. There is little evidence of what took place for all those years my father worked there save for a bumpy gravel road up to the site and a one room ‘museum’ that is as much a storehouse for some of the bigger fossils that were found there well more than two decades ago. Every once in a while, somebody comes by to check on it.
For me the trip will be frantic: I leave for Madrid Thursday morning, arriving Friday morning and drive to Siguenza, about twenty minutes from Ambrona, where I will stay for two nights. The memorial is on Saturday morning. On Sunday morning, I drive to Madrid and catch a flight back to the states. I arrive into San Francisco at 11PM. I then continue on to Hawai’i at 4PM the next day, Monday. Then I will relax. But the effort will be worth it. It will be a closure, a bookend, for myself, my mother and many of my dad‘s friends. My mother and many other people are more sanely going to stay and enjoy more of Spain, as well as England, France and Morocco, and other destinations.
And so the joy of my marriage is counter-pointed by the memories that are being evinced as a pack and prepare. I find myself at perhaps the most profound moment in my life, looking back with tears while looking ahead with smiles. Life is complicated.
I have not been to Ambrona since I was eighteen, a newly–minted high school graduate. I spent much of that summer there. At the time, there were numerous pits in the ground, sectioned off by pegs and long white strings, and filled with lots of older folks, covered with sweat and clay dust and, as a consequence, a rather viscous mud. (Those ‘older folks’ were principally Cal upper-division and graduate anthropology students. If conditions were similar today, their peers would all seem quite young to me by comparison, such are the many years that have passed.)
We are meeting there to remember my dad, who passed away fifteen months ago. The location is one of the four big archeological sites he excavated. (The others are in the Omo river basin in southern Ethiopia, Isimila in Tanzania and Yarimburgaz in Turkey.) It is my expectation that people will be gathering in those places as well (two of the three other sites are being actively excavated).
My mother will be by my side. My sister, who could not join us will be with us in spirit. My wife, who is still recovering from our wedding, is staying home by choice; she is right that the event will be no honeymoon. The one day recuperating and three days we spent in Monterey following our joining was far from sufficient for either of us. We will be going to Hawai’i for ten days for our ‘official honeymoon’ on the Monday following the events in Spain. (I will be recording the entire affair so that both my sister and wife will be able to see what will have transpired.)
This is my trip. I knew last summer, just a few months after my dad died, that I would have to go. I need the closure. When I mentioned my intent to my mother, she thought it to be a wonderful idea and wanted to accompany me. We set a date. It was at which point I reached out to my dad’s friends and colleagues to see if any of them would like to join us... There will probably be at least sixty joining my mother and me on that little grassy hilltop. We are stunned and gratified. Many more who cannot join us have sent us brief remembrances and thoughts of my father to read aloud. I know there will be tears.
The site has long been quiet. No stakes nor pegs remain. The pits have long since silted up in the winter rains. Wheat grows over the shallow depressions that remain, all but hiding them. There is little evidence of what took place for all those years my father worked there save for a bumpy gravel road up to the site and a one room ‘museum’ that is as much a storehouse for some of the bigger fossils that were found there well more than two decades ago. Every once in a while, somebody comes by to check on it.
For me the trip will be frantic: I leave for Madrid Thursday morning, arriving Friday morning and drive to Siguenza, about twenty minutes from Ambrona, where I will stay for two nights. The memorial is on Saturday morning. On Sunday morning, I drive to Madrid and catch a flight back to the states. I arrive into San Francisco at 11PM. I then continue on to Hawai’i at 4PM the next day, Monday. Then I will relax. But the effort will be worth it. It will be a closure, a bookend, for myself, my mother and many of my dad‘s friends. My mother and many other people are more sanely going to stay and enjoy more of Spain, as well as England, France and Morocco, and other destinations.
And so the joy of my marriage is counter-pointed by the memories that are being evinced as a pack and prepare. I find myself at perhaps the most profound moment in my life, looking back with tears while looking ahead with smiles. Life is complicated.
Monday, March 10, 2008
One Year
In a few short hours it will be one year since my dad died. Remembering the aching slowness of the first few weeks following his passing, it seems amazing that the remainder could fly by so quickly.
We’ve survived our first Thanksgiving, our first Christmas and now we will live through the first anniversary. None has been pleasant for there has always been a ghost among us. One who may haunt each of us for the rest of our lives. For the dead-but-loved never really leave us. They stay deep inside of us, a chronic ache that adds poignancy to our experiences.
A few weeks ago, I was driving up to my mom’s home. I was driving my dad’s old white Honda Accord; part of my inheritance and a frequent reminder. It was a warm, sunny afternoon and I had the window rolled down. It was about the time my dad used to come home from work.
As I rolled up San Luis Avenue near her home, I espied my mother taking her daily stroll around her neighborhood. I tapped the horn twice ('beep beep') and called out 'Hi!' My mother looked up and saw the car and froze. She started to tremble. "Why it’s... it’s... It’s been so long! I’m so glad to see you!" And then she sort of shook her head and stared at me and she started to cry. She was still crying several minutes later after she finished her walk and we met back at her home.
No, those we love, those we need and cherish, never really leave us. They are there, right inside.
We’ve survived our first Thanksgiving, our first Christmas and now we will live through the first anniversary. None has been pleasant for there has always been a ghost among us. One who may haunt each of us for the rest of our lives. For the dead-but-loved never really leave us. They stay deep inside of us, a chronic ache that adds poignancy to our experiences.
A few weeks ago, I was driving up to my mom’s home. I was driving my dad’s old white Honda Accord; part of my inheritance and a frequent reminder. It was a warm, sunny afternoon and I had the window rolled down. It was about the time my dad used to come home from work.
As I rolled up San Luis Avenue near her home, I espied my mother taking her daily stroll around her neighborhood. I tapped the horn twice ('beep beep') and called out 'Hi!' My mother looked up and saw the car and froze. She started to tremble. "Why it’s... it’s... It’s been so long! I’m so glad to see you!" And then she sort of shook her head and stared at me and she started to cry. She was still crying several minutes later after she finished her walk and we met back at her home.
No, those we love, those we need and cherish, never really leave us. They are there, right inside.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Half A World Away
A couple of weeks after my dad died, I allowed this blog to be indexed by search engines (notably Google. Theretofore, though this blog was publicly accessible, if you typed ‘F. Clark Howell’ into Google or Yahoo, these entries from this blog wouldn’t appear among the search results. As I wrote then, one of my impetuses for so doing was:
My encouragers have been proven right: On February 23, 2008, I received the following e-mail:
I do not know how many other people have stumbled across this blog, if any. But if only for Mr. D’Monte, I am amazed and gratified.
A number of people have commented that they think other people facing the loss of a loved one may find value in reading about my dad’s disease and death, and my experiences of it. One person even recommeded I formally publish the text. Again, I am flattered. If other people find useful information or solace herein, then this effort will have served a far greater purpose than I ever intended.
My encouragers have been proven right: On February 23, 2008, I received the following e-mail:
Hello Brian,
I just wanted to drop you a note to say thank you for your wonderful blog on your father's battle with cancer. My mother passed away of cancer just yesterday, after a four-month ordeal during which I was with her all the time. I had read your blog during that time, and it helped immensely to deal with what we were going through. I particularly appreciated the honesty with which you wrote, without romanticising the uglier aspects of dying.
You have my heartfelt thanks.
Best regards,
Sunil D'Monte
Bombay, India.
I do not know how many other people have stumbled across this blog, if any. But if only for Mr. D’Monte, I am amazed and gratified.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Phantasm
I’m a 45 years-old man and I just spent a couple of minutes clutching my Teddy bear. Ridiculous!? The bear is a souvenir of a recent trip to Peru with Kate. I found him in a shop for Peruvian handicrafts. He is extremely soft–it’s amusing to see people pick him up for the first time: They see him on my sofa and kind of laugh. Then, almost invariably, they bend over to pick him up for a better look for they know me and they know that his presence there implies he’s something special. The moment they first touch him they discover that specialness. He is extraordinarily soft! It is almost unbelievable how soft he is. His fur is made from baby alpaca.
I bought him as much because I knew I could never communicate the unbelievable sensuousness of touching him as a desire of finding an especially worthy small child on whom to bestow him. However, he has grown on me, gamely and genially sitting as he does in the middle of one of my sofas. And he’s become a conversation piece and a happy reminder of a remarkable trip. So he may remain in my company for quite some time to come.
I named him ‘Peru Bear’, both to acknowledge his provenance and as an homage to my dad, who from my earliest memories, called me “Pooh Bear” after the character in the A.A. Milne books, which I adored as a child and of which I demanded incessant repeated readings from both my parents. (My childhood Teddy bear was named ‘Pooh Bear’, too, for that very reason.)
I am listening to the voice of my father. Tears are running down my face. It is playing back on the little digital voice recorder I purchased to record his stories when he was first diagnosed. Alas, circumstances being as they were, I have just a couple of hours. What I have is extremely precious. The portion that I am listening to was recorded December 3rd, 2006, just over three months before he died. He is chatting with Kate’s parents in my parents’s bedroom. He is his typical self: Charming, warm, entertaining and fascinating. People are chuckling and laughing. His topics range broadly, from his early years with my mother to working with Louis Leakey. Stories that I always just kind of took in stride but now realize in part define just how remarkable a man he really was.
At worst, I cried inconsolably. I felt like the ground was falling away from under me.
Grieving alone, when there is nobody to hold or console you, is doubly miserable. I ran and grabbed my bear. I needed to hold on to something warm and comforting. I clutched the bear for a few minutes as I cried deeply and the tears surged.
I miss my dad terribly.
The worst part of watching my dad die was the feeling of absolute powerlessness, of wanting to do something–anything to help him, to prolong his time with me just a bit, fundamentally selfish though that was. Listening to him now brought back those feelings. There is nothing more horrifying that watching the life being inexorably and irrevocably drained from someone you love.
I have searched on the Web for the phrase “I miss my dad”. I found thousands of blog posts, essays, poems and other messages from people of all ages who deeply miss their own dads. And I have been told that my blog induced some of its readers to hours of tears as it evoked them to relive the losses of their own parents. I am somewhat comforted knowing that I am far from alone in the strength of my feelings. But I realize, too, that I am afflicted with a gaping rent in my psyche that can never be mended. The loss is simply too great.
I think about my dad every day. I want to talk to him. To see him. To see his face light up and hear him say with his distinctive, cheery intonation, “Hi Brian! How are you?” when I walk in to his home. Pressing ‘play’ doesn’t begin to come close.
I bought him as much because I knew I could never communicate the unbelievable sensuousness of touching him as a desire of finding an especially worthy small child on whom to bestow him. However, he has grown on me, gamely and genially sitting as he does in the middle of one of my sofas. And he’s become a conversation piece and a happy reminder of a remarkable trip. So he may remain in my company for quite some time to come.
I named him ‘Peru Bear’, both to acknowledge his provenance and as an homage to my dad, who from my earliest memories, called me “Pooh Bear” after the character in the A.A. Milne books, which I adored as a child and of which I demanded incessant repeated readings from both my parents. (My childhood Teddy bear was named ‘Pooh Bear’, too, for that very reason.)
I am listening to the voice of my father. Tears are running down my face. It is playing back on the little digital voice recorder I purchased to record his stories when he was first diagnosed. Alas, circumstances being as they were, I have just a couple of hours. What I have is extremely precious. The portion that I am listening to was recorded December 3rd, 2006, just over three months before he died. He is chatting with Kate’s parents in my parents’s bedroom. He is his typical self: Charming, warm, entertaining and fascinating. People are chuckling and laughing. His topics range broadly, from his early years with my mother to working with Louis Leakey. Stories that I always just kind of took in stride but now realize in part define just how remarkable a man he really was.
At worst, I cried inconsolably. I felt like the ground was falling away from under me.
Grieving alone, when there is nobody to hold or console you, is doubly miserable. I ran and grabbed my bear. I needed to hold on to something warm and comforting. I clutched the bear for a few minutes as I cried deeply and the tears surged.
I miss my dad terribly.
The worst part of watching my dad die was the feeling of absolute powerlessness, of wanting to do something–anything to help him, to prolong his time with me just a bit, fundamentally selfish though that was. Listening to him now brought back those feelings. There is nothing more horrifying that watching the life being inexorably and irrevocably drained from someone you love.
I have searched on the Web for the phrase “I miss my dad”. I found thousands of blog posts, essays, poems and other messages from people of all ages who deeply miss their own dads. And I have been told that my blog induced some of its readers to hours of tears as it evoked them to relive the losses of their own parents. I am somewhat comforted knowing that I am far from alone in the strength of my feelings. But I realize, too, that I am afflicted with a gaping rent in my psyche that can never be mended. The loss is simply too great.
I think about my dad every day. I want to talk to him. To see him. To see his face light up and hear him say with his distinctive, cheery intonation, “Hi Brian! How are you?” when I walk in to his home. Pressing ‘play’ doesn’t begin to come close.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Three Months
I know I said this blog was finished. I lied. It may never be finished. I don’t know or care whether anybody even reads it anymore.
Today it is three months since my dad died. Well, technically, he died three months ago yesterday, March 10th, but it was so close to midnight that it seems like it happened on March 11th. That’s when all the people came and his body was taken away.
The cards and letters did finally stop. Oh, one appears every week or so as word is still spreading, though pretty much everybody knows by now. Nature and Science each published obituaries, as have several other scientific publications. Friends still ask how I’m doing or how my mother is holding up.
My mother, sister and I share dull and chronic aches from deep wounds that will never completely heal. We still each cry from time to time; the intervals between are increasing. And we wonder if he was really real. My mom and I talked about it today as we walked together. It’s almost as if he never existed, that he was simply a character in a story we both know. Neither of us can explain why we feel this way. Perhaps we’re still isolating ourselves from the magnitude of our loss. After all, we’re used to his being gone months at a time—three months was typical. But he’s not coming home from this absence.
If he was indeed a fiction, at least he was in a hell of a hell of a good story.
Today it is three months since my dad died. Well, technically, he died three months ago yesterday, March 10th, but it was so close to midnight that it seems like it happened on March 11th. That’s when all the people came and his body was taken away.
The cards and letters did finally stop. Oh, one appears every week or so as word is still spreading, though pretty much everybody knows by now. Nature and Science each published obituaries, as have several other scientific publications. Friends still ask how I’m doing or how my mother is holding up.
My mother, sister and I share dull and chronic aches from deep wounds that will never completely heal. We still each cry from time to time; the intervals between are increasing. And we wonder if he was really real. My mom and I talked about it today as we walked together. It’s almost as if he never existed, that he was simply a character in a story we both know. Neither of us can explain why we feel this way. Perhaps we’re still isolating ourselves from the magnitude of our loss. After all, we’re used to his being gone months at a time—three months was typical. But he’s not coming home from this absence.
If he was indeed a fiction, at least he was in a hell of a hell of a good story.
Monday, May 7, 2007
Finis
Today was the memorial service for my dad at the U.C. Berkeley Faculty Club. Guests and speakers came from literally all over the globe: Ethiopia; China; France; and many other places. Well more than 200 in total. All for just a two hour service. The celebration was warm, thoughtful and reverential, as I hoped it would be. Sixteen speakers spoke. My family was flattered by the breadth of attendees who included many friends of mine and my parents, my girlfriend’s parents and aunt; my sister’s ex-boyfriend and his father, and numerous colleagues and long–time friends of my father. My mother, sister and I were each very touched.
My family is grateful to Alan Almquist and Meg Starr, and to Tim White, Henry Gilbert and all of the other HERC staff for their efforts in arranging the memorial. We are also grateful to Don Dana for hosting and to each of the speakers for their efforts.
I want to interject here a belated but very heartfelt ‘thanks’ to Paul Johnson, who arranged for my and my mother’s recent trip to Hawai’i. It was everything my mother and I wanted and hoped for: quiet; relaxing; and, above all else, reflective. While there, there were no cards, letters or gifts to be received. The phone wasn’t constantly ringing with condolences. My mother and I spent much of our time there simply walking along the coast, talking about my dad, and reclaiming our proprietary interest in my dad’s memory; sharing him with noone else.
So there it is. My dad has died, and been cremated , celebrated, remembered and mourned [today]. And so this blog will now end. I send my heartfelt thanks to each of you reading my blog. Thank you for staying with me throughout this extraordinary journey. I am sorry that we had to take it but I am glad that we were able to take it together.
I leave you with the text of the speech I gave today in memory of my father at the U.C. Faculty Club...
On behalf of my mother, Betty, and my sister, Jennifer, I want to thank Cal’s Human Evolution Resource Center (HERC) for organizing and staging this memorial, and for setting up and running the very nice Web site with the photos and testimonials. My thanks particularly to Henry Gilbert for his work on the Web site. I also want to thank all of the the HERC staff and interns. And special thanks go to Tim White, Alan Almquist, Meg Starr and Leslea Hlusko for their yeoman efforts for this memorial, which I know they began almost immediately upon my father’s passing, now nearly two months ago. We are indebted and grateful to all of you.
I also want to thank Don Dana for agreeing to host today and each of our speakers for taking time to be here—especially those who have come considerable distances. I know my dad would have felt very honored that each of you are here today on his behalf.
When I was ten years old, my father gave me magazine subscriptions to ‘Popular Science’ and ‘Scientific American’. For years thereafter, they were both annually renewed on my birthday. When I was twelve, he gave me a copy of a high school science textbook, Introduction to Physical Science. And when I was in 7th grade, he purchased for me a copy of Asimov’s Guide to Science, a general compendium of basic scientific knowledge. These were in addition to the numerous encyclopedia, atlases and other reference and science books that my dad brought home. They were perquisites of his participation on various editorial boards and sufficient in count to well stock any library. My dad once told me he brought them home, as opposed to shelving them in his office, specifically for my pleasure and benefit.
When I was eleven, my father began working on an exhibit for the California Academy of Sciences. He would go there each Wednesday afternoon for meetings. After his second trip there, he suggested at dinner that evening that I should go with him on his next one. My dad countered my mom’s objections of my being out of school by arguing that I would learn as much or more than I would in a classroom. At length my mother acquiesced and my dad picked me up just before lunch the next day and off we went.
I had a great time! My enthusiasm encouraged my dad to argue in favor of repeating the excursion the following week and then again the week after that, after which it simply became a happy routine. My dad and I would discuss what I’d learned on each drive home.
Finally, when I was sixteen, my dad, my mother and I were passed through Montana. As we did, he gave me a running commentary on the geomorphology of the landscape, including describing the structure and depositional history of an alluvial fan which we drove up. This was followed by a lively and interesting discussion about flood plains and river terraces. I have similar recollections of discussing vulcanism when we visited Kilauea volcano on the big island of Hawai‘i and the seafaring and astronavigational skills of the polynesians while vacationing in New Zealand.
I can’t share any heart–warming anecdotes of playing ball with my dad. Nor do I have humorous stories of going on fishing trips with him, or recounting how he and I were almost eaten by a bear on a father–son camping trip into the mountains. There simply weren’t any such adventures. Although we did love to watch Jeopardy! together. With us it was a blood sport! But, in the end, I find great joy and tremendous value in the memories I do have. I realize how much my dad has influenced and continues to influence me, how much I learned from him and because of him, and, for all that, how very much I am his son, and how extremely fortunate I am to be able to claim that relationship.
Life with my dad was a continuously rich and fascinating lesson. I know that everybody here shares those feelings. For though these memories are mine, I know that nearly all of you have been touched by my dad’s extraordinarily giving spirit and his remarkable ability for recognizing our talents and skills, and for helping us—deeply wanting us—to make the most of them. And often that help came completely unbidden and by surprise. Last night, a colleague of my dad told me that early in her career, just after her receiving Ph.D., she would receive small blue hand-written notes of encouragement from my dad after he’d read her monographs. She hadn’t been his student. She didn’t know him that well. But still the notes came.
Since my dad’s passing, I have heard so many stories from people who were overwhelmed and gratified by how my dad gave his valuable time to explain something to a self–described lowly freshman or inconsequential layperson. Or by how my dad went out of his way to create or facilitate an opportunity for someone. I know that many here were able to make their first trips to the field because of my dad’s efforts. Still others had papers published because my dad gave his estimable imprimatur. That was how my dad was: Always generous in sharing his copious intellect and, ready and beyond willing to provide whatever assistance and encouragement he could to all whom he thought deserved it. Now he is gone and each of us is impoverished by this loss. But our sadness is mollified by our many wonderful memories and our loss is more than offset by how he enriched each of our lives.
Thank you
My family is grateful to Alan Almquist and Meg Starr, and to Tim White, Henry Gilbert and all of the other HERC staff for their efforts in arranging the memorial. We are also grateful to Don Dana for hosting and to each of the speakers for their efforts.
I want to interject here a belated but very heartfelt ‘thanks’ to Paul Johnson, who arranged for my and my mother’s recent trip to Hawai’i. It was everything my mother and I wanted and hoped for: quiet; relaxing; and, above all else, reflective. While there, there were no cards, letters or gifts to be received. The phone wasn’t constantly ringing with condolences. My mother and I spent much of our time there simply walking along the coast, talking about my dad, and reclaiming our proprietary interest in my dad’s memory; sharing him with noone else.
So there it is. My dad has died, and been cremated , celebrated, remembered and mourned [today]. And so this blog will now end. I send my heartfelt thanks to each of you reading my blog. Thank you for staying with me throughout this extraordinary journey. I am sorry that we had to take it but I am glad that we were able to take it together.
I leave you with the text of the speech I gave today in memory of my father at the U.C. Faculty Club...
On behalf of my mother, Betty, and my sister, Jennifer, I want to thank Cal’s Human Evolution Resource Center (HERC) for organizing and staging this memorial, and for setting up and running the very nice Web site with the photos and testimonials. My thanks particularly to Henry Gilbert for his work on the Web site. I also want to thank all of the the HERC staff and interns. And special thanks go to Tim White, Alan Almquist, Meg Starr and Leslea Hlusko for their yeoman efforts for this memorial, which I know they began almost immediately upon my father’s passing, now nearly two months ago. We are indebted and grateful to all of you.
I also want to thank Don Dana for agreeing to host today and each of our speakers for taking time to be here—especially those who have come considerable distances. I know my dad would have felt very honored that each of you are here today on his behalf.
When I was ten years old, my father gave me magazine subscriptions to ‘Popular Science’ and ‘Scientific American’. For years thereafter, they were both annually renewed on my birthday. When I was twelve, he gave me a copy of a high school science textbook, Introduction to Physical Science. And when I was in 7th grade, he purchased for me a copy of Asimov’s Guide to Science, a general compendium of basic scientific knowledge. These were in addition to the numerous encyclopedia, atlases and other reference and science books that my dad brought home. They were perquisites of his participation on various editorial boards and sufficient in count to well stock any library. My dad once told me he brought them home, as opposed to shelving them in his office, specifically for my pleasure and benefit.
When I was eleven, my father began working on an exhibit for the California Academy of Sciences. He would go there each Wednesday afternoon for meetings. After his second trip there, he suggested at dinner that evening that I should go with him on his next one. My dad countered my mom’s objections of my being out of school by arguing that I would learn as much or more than I would in a classroom. At length my mother acquiesced and my dad picked me up just before lunch the next day and off we went.
I had a great time! My enthusiasm encouraged my dad to argue in favor of repeating the excursion the following week and then again the week after that, after which it simply became a happy routine. My dad and I would discuss what I’d learned on each drive home.
Finally, when I was sixteen, my dad, my mother and I were passed through Montana. As we did, he gave me a running commentary on the geomorphology of the landscape, including describing the structure and depositional history of an alluvial fan which we drove up. This was followed by a lively and interesting discussion about flood plains and river terraces. I have similar recollections of discussing vulcanism when we visited Kilauea volcano on the big island of Hawai‘i and the seafaring and astronavigational skills of the polynesians while vacationing in New Zealand.
I can’t share any heart–warming anecdotes of playing ball with my dad. Nor do I have humorous stories of going on fishing trips with him, or recounting how he and I were almost eaten by a bear on a father–son camping trip into the mountains. There simply weren’t any such adventures. Although we did love to watch Jeopardy! together. With us it was a blood sport! But, in the end, I find great joy and tremendous value in the memories I do have. I realize how much my dad has influenced and continues to influence me, how much I learned from him and because of him, and, for all that, how very much I am his son, and how extremely fortunate I am to be able to claim that relationship.
Life with my dad was a continuously rich and fascinating lesson. I know that everybody here shares those feelings. For though these memories are mine, I know that nearly all of you have been touched by my dad’s extraordinarily giving spirit and his remarkable ability for recognizing our talents and skills, and for helping us—deeply wanting us—to make the most of them. And often that help came completely unbidden and by surprise. Last night, a colleague of my dad told me that early in her career, just after her receiving Ph.D., she would receive small blue hand-written notes of encouragement from my dad after he’d read her monographs. She hadn’t been his student. She didn’t know him that well. But still the notes came.
Since my dad’s passing, I have heard so many stories from people who were overwhelmed and gratified by how my dad gave his valuable time to explain something to a self–described lowly freshman or inconsequential layperson. Or by how my dad went out of his way to create or facilitate an opportunity for someone. I know that many here were able to make their first trips to the field because of my dad’s efforts. Still others had papers published because my dad gave his estimable imprimatur. That was how my dad was: Always generous in sharing his copious intellect and, ready and beyond willing to provide whatever assistance and encouragement he could to all whom he thought deserved it. Now he is gone and each of us is impoverished by this loss. But our sadness is mollified by our many wonderful memories and our loss is more than offset by how he enriched each of our lives.
Thank you
Monday, April 30, 2007
Getting to the Memorial
The collapse of a portion of the San Francisco Bay Bridge interchange (‘the MacArthur Maze’) may significantly impact your ability to get to Berkeley for the Memorial. Regardless, parking is limited around the campus and, where available, metered spaces are often for only an hour. So using public transporation is a very good idea.
The Faculty Club is in the interior of the campus of the Univeristy of California. It is at found at location C5 on this map. An index to the map and other resources can be found here.
Driving
If you do drive, do not expect to be able to park at the Faculty Club or at any nearby campus lot! No daytime parking is allowed! The best place to try and park is at a public lot on the south side of the campus. There are three lots and are indicated by markers D, F and H on this Google map.
Public Transportation
The nearest BART station is Berkeley. It’s relatively easy to walk from there to the Faculty Club. Exit the station at its central exit at Center and Shattuck. It’s about a 7–10 minute walk up Center into the campus to the Faculty Club.
Alternatively, people can take UC’s Bear Transit bus service, lines ‘R’ or ‘C’. They run in opposite directions around the campus, but both end up at Hearst Mining Circle at the top of the campus, the stop closest to the Faculty Club From there It’ss about 1/10th of a mile walk to the Faculty Club. Each line leaves from a stop across Shattuck from the BART station and runs every 20 minutes. The fare is $1.00.
There are maps all over campus to help people find their way.
The Faculty Club is in the interior of the campus of the Univeristy of California. It is at found at location C5 on this map. An index to the map and other resources can be found here.
Driving
If you do drive, do not expect to be able to park at the Faculty Club or at any nearby campus lot! No daytime parking is allowed! The best place to try and park is at a public lot on the south side of the campus. There are three lots and are indicated by markers D, F and H on this Google map.
Public Transportation
The nearest BART station is Berkeley. It’s relatively easy to walk from there to the Faculty Club. Exit the station at its central exit at Center and Shattuck. It’s about a 7–10 minute walk up Center into the campus to the Faculty Club.
Alternatively, people can take UC’s Bear Transit bus service, lines ‘R’ or ‘C’. They run in opposite directions around the campus, but both end up at Hearst Mining Circle at the top of the campus, the stop closest to the Faculty Club From there It’ss about 1/10th of a mile walk to the Faculty Club. Each line leaves from a stop across Shattuck from the BART station and runs every 20 minutes. The fare is $1.00.
There are maps all over campus to help people find their way.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Transcript
Last Thursday, the L.S.B. Leakey Foundation, an organization in which my dad invested a huge portion of his life, had a dinner in my dad’s honor. It was very nice, very thoughtful. Many of the Foundation’s trustees attended, as did much of its staff. My mother and I were the guests of honor.
The evening began with a reception and dinner. Afterwards, they had a program with several speakers, a quartet playing classical music such as my dad appreciated, and several speakers—I among them.
Being that I am not deeply familiar with my dad’s work, as my life focuses on technology, I could not speak to my dad’s scientific and academic accomplishments. Instead I thought the audience might find it interesting to hear about some of the experiences that helped shape his personality.
Here is the text of my speech, like they say in the radio and television industries, ‘as done’:
Hello,
Personally and on behalf of my mother, Betty Howell, and my sister, Jennifer, who is at home in Oregon tonight, I want to thank the Leakey Foundation for this wonderful dinner honoring my father’s memory and legacy. Particularly I want to thank Sharal Camisa and the other self-described Leakey Ladies for their extraordinary efforts in arranging the dinner. Sharal worked closely with my mother and me to ensure our wishes were met. But we appreciate the efforts of each of you.
I want to also thank all of you. By your attendance and your efforts to be here, you, too, honor my father. Thank you.
My dad loved and was very proud of this organization. It was an extremely important part of his life since its very inception. My dad was there when Robert Beck gave the Foundation its first million dollar check.
There is a story about how Bob ceremoniously handed the check to Louis, who held it almost in awe for several minutes, till my dad took it gently from Louis’ hands, kindly reminding Louis that the check wasn’t in fact, actually his.
My dad would have been overwhelmed by all of this tonight and certainly would have deemed himself unworthy. He always did in such circumstances. He never let his extraordinary success go to his head...
Sam Yamasaki, my parents’ gardener of thirty–seven years, last week told my mother that “Professor Howell was my favorite customer.” When my mother asked why, he went on to say that most professors, they “see themselves as high, above everybody else. But Professor Howell wasn’t like that. He would always stop and and talk.”
My dad saw himself as being no different, no better, no more deserving of praise than anyone else. He frequently described himself as being “just plain folks.” That was a remarkable attitude in light of his many accomplishments...
Now I am far from qualified to speak of them but even the few details I know are daunting:
I could go on, probably for days. Last I heard, my dad’s curriculum vitae ran well more than thirty single-spaced typewritten pages.
My father was born in Kansas City, Missouri in November, 1925. Much of his childhood was spent on farms in Kansas and Nebraska. During those years, like any farm boy, my dad had to get up, often before dawn, to take care of chickens, cows and other animals, and perform many other chores. More chores awaited him when he came home from school. And though it is a specious claim used by many parents to quiet their complaining children, my dad really did have to walk two miles to school. Even through snow during winter. I don't know, though, if it was uphill both ways.
My paternal grandfather was a traveling salesman who sold newfangled electric ranges. His frequent long absences forced my father to grow up early to take care of his mother and two younger sisters. My dad also grew up quite a bit when, during the Great Depression, his family was forced into bankruptcy and the bank foreclosed on their farm. They were evicted by court order. A little later, my dad witnessed the farm and many of his family's other belongings being sold at a "sheriff's sale." That's a court–authorized auction whose proceeds are used to repay creditors. Throughout much of my dad's childhood, the hard times outnumbered the easy ones.
Happily, things did get a bit better when my dad was a teenager. His father was more successful in his career and his family was able to move to the city. There was then enough money to send him to a private preparatory high school, his parents having taken notice of my dad’s academic achievements. With no more farm chores to do, my dad at last found himself with time to indulge his own interests. He filled it, in part, puttering in the wood shop at the school, and as the pitcher for his school's baseball team. And he excelled at his prep school, graduating with honors in 1943.
After graduation, my dad foresaw a future for himself as a history teacher. He loved the Civil War and American history in general. But real war was still raging and my dad joined the Navy. This was partly out of a desire to see more of the world and also to guarantee his choice of service as he had become eligible for the draft. He shipped out of a still recovering Pearl Harbor and spent his tour of duty in the Pacific theater, serving as a signal man. He did see a bit more of the world.
Mustering out of the Navy in Portland Oregon after more than a year at sea, he briefly returned to his family in Nebraska. He spent several months working on the farm and for the Malibo Range Company that made the electric ranges his father sold, to accumulate money for college. College back then wasn't like it is now. Back then, higher education was pretty much an avocation of the well to do. There was no Sallie Mae, no college loan programs. Few scholarships existed. The best schools, such as my dad yearned to attend, were unattainable to all but the very wealthy. My dad knew he wouldn't be able to accumulate enough money to attend a really good school as he deeply desired, let alone continue on to graduate school and this frustrated him.
But then Congress passed the GI Bill. My father often spoke of the Bill with near veneration for it enabled him to realize his goal to attend a top school, the University of Chicago, and freed him of the need to do any work other than simply study. It was there that he discovered his love of anthropology. The rest, of course, is history.
In his later life, my father never forgot the farm, the chores before dawn, the long, cold snowy walks to school, his own father's necessary hard work and long absences. The image of the sheriff’s sale was burned into his memory. Conversely, he appreciated the privilege of having been able to attend his private high school, as it prepared him for the intense academic climate of Chicago. And he always knew how lucky he was that the GI Bill had come along. That without it, he might have wound up attending a third-rate college, if any at all, and teaching high school history. He simply saw himself as someone from ordinary circumstances who had been fortunate enough to have had some good opportunities. And that his taking advantage of such opportunities didn’t make him deserving of praise or honors when those opportunities could have just as easily fallen to somebody else.
And so our brief archeological excavation and a little analysis have unearthed the bases of my dad’s two most noted traits: His vaunted generosity, which was simply a desire to provide others with good opportunities; and his unfailing humility.
I would like to end by taking special notice of what I regard as the single most important of my father’s many remarkable achievements: Keeping all of his others in perspective.
Thank you.
The evening began with a reception and dinner. Afterwards, they had a program with several speakers, a quartet playing classical music such as my dad appreciated, and several speakers—I among them.
Being that I am not deeply familiar with my dad’s work, as my life focuses on technology, I could not speak to my dad’s scientific and academic accomplishments. Instead I thought the audience might find it interesting to hear about some of the experiences that helped shape his personality.
Here is the text of my speech, like they say in the radio and television industries, ‘as done’:
Hello,
Personally and on behalf of my mother, Betty Howell, and my sister, Jennifer, who is at home in Oregon tonight, I want to thank the Leakey Foundation for this wonderful dinner honoring my father’s memory and legacy. Particularly I want to thank Sharal Camisa and the other self-described Leakey Ladies for their extraordinary efforts in arranging the dinner. Sharal worked closely with my mother and me to ensure our wishes were met. But we appreciate the efforts of each of you.
I want to also thank all of you. By your attendance and your efforts to be here, you, too, honor my father. Thank you.
My dad loved and was very proud of this organization. It was an extremely important part of his life since its very inception. My dad was there when Robert Beck gave the Foundation its first million dollar check.
There is a story about how Bob ceremoniously handed the check to Louis, who held it almost in awe for several minutes, till my dad took it gently from Louis’ hands, kindly reminding Louis that the check wasn’t in fact, actually his.
My dad would have been overwhelmed by all of this tonight and certainly would have deemed himself unworthy. He always did in such circumstances. He never let his extraordinary success go to his head...
Sam Yamasaki, my parents’ gardener of thirty–seven years, last week told my mother that “Professor Howell was my favorite customer.” When my mother asked why, he went on to say that most professors, they “see themselves as high, above everybody else. But Professor Howell wasn’t like that. He would always stop and and talk.”
My dad saw himself as being no different, no better, no more deserving of praise than anyone else. He frequently described himself as being “just plain folks.” That was a remarkable attitude in light of his many accomplishments...
Now I am far from qualified to speak of them but even the few details I know are daunting:
- Bachelor of Arts degree in anatomy with minors in German and French from the University of Chicago. My dad graduated Phi Beta Kappa and then went on to earn his M.A. and Ph.D. from the same institution, accomplishing it all in just six years. And he still found time to frequent the many jazz joints Chicago’s south side.
- Leader of the famed Omo expeditions. During which he pioneered the now standard multi-disciplinary approach for paleonanthropological research.
- Need I add, professor at Berkeley, one of the world’s preeminent universities.
- Member of the National Academy of Sciences. At the time of his election he was one of the organization’s few life scientists. While a member, he lead one of the first scientific delegations into a then just opening China.
- Fellow of the British Royal Society, member of the national academies of science of France and several other countries.
- Trustee and past president of the California Academy of Sciences. John McCosker, chair of the Academy’s department of Aquatic Biology recently told my mother and me that my dad was one of the two best presidents the Academy had ever had, the other being famed naturalist Starker Leopold.
- Contributing editor to and author for Time/Life, Encyclopaedia Britanica, World Book/Childcraft, National Geographic, and many other prestigious publishers. (In my high school social studies, we had a unit on human evolution—the text was from Early Man. My teacher, Mr. Evans, must have noticed my expression because he asked quite loudly: “Is this your father, Mr. Howell?” My meek “yes” made me instantly hated as my classmates realized I had an inside advantage on the material which none of them could match.
- And, of course, many key roles in the Leakey Foundation.
I could go on, probably for days. Last I heard, my dad’s curriculum vitae ran well more than thirty single-spaced typewritten pages.
My father was born in Kansas City, Missouri in November, 1925. Much of his childhood was spent on farms in Kansas and Nebraska. During those years, like any farm boy, my dad had to get up, often before dawn, to take care of chickens, cows and other animals, and perform many other chores. More chores awaited him when he came home from school. And though it is a specious claim used by many parents to quiet their complaining children, my dad really did have to walk two miles to school. Even through snow during winter. I don't know, though, if it was uphill both ways.
My paternal grandfather was a traveling salesman who sold newfangled electric ranges. His frequent long absences forced my father to grow up early to take care of his mother and two younger sisters. My dad also grew up quite a bit when, during the Great Depression, his family was forced into bankruptcy and the bank foreclosed on their farm. They were evicted by court order. A little later, my dad witnessed the farm and many of his family's other belongings being sold at a "sheriff's sale." That's a court–authorized auction whose proceeds are used to repay creditors. Throughout much of my dad's childhood, the hard times outnumbered the easy ones.
Happily, things did get a bit better when my dad was a teenager. His father was more successful in his career and his family was able to move to the city. There was then enough money to send him to a private preparatory high school, his parents having taken notice of my dad’s academic achievements. With no more farm chores to do, my dad at last found himself with time to indulge his own interests. He filled it, in part, puttering in the wood shop at the school, and as the pitcher for his school's baseball team. And he excelled at his prep school, graduating with honors in 1943.
After graduation, my dad foresaw a future for himself as a history teacher. He loved the Civil War and American history in general. But real war was still raging and my dad joined the Navy. This was partly out of a desire to see more of the world and also to guarantee his choice of service as he had become eligible for the draft. He shipped out of a still recovering Pearl Harbor and spent his tour of duty in the Pacific theater, serving as a signal man. He did see a bit more of the world.
Mustering out of the Navy in Portland Oregon after more than a year at sea, he briefly returned to his family in Nebraska. He spent several months working on the farm and for the Malibo Range Company that made the electric ranges his father sold, to accumulate money for college. College back then wasn't like it is now. Back then, higher education was pretty much an avocation of the well to do. There was no Sallie Mae, no college loan programs. Few scholarships existed. The best schools, such as my dad yearned to attend, were unattainable to all but the very wealthy. My dad knew he wouldn't be able to accumulate enough money to attend a really good school as he deeply desired, let alone continue on to graduate school and this frustrated him.
But then Congress passed the GI Bill. My father often spoke of the Bill with near veneration for it enabled him to realize his goal to attend a top school, the University of Chicago, and freed him of the need to do any work other than simply study. It was there that he discovered his love of anthropology. The rest, of course, is history.
In his later life, my father never forgot the farm, the chores before dawn, the long, cold snowy walks to school, his own father's necessary hard work and long absences. The image of the sheriff’s sale was burned into his memory. Conversely, he appreciated the privilege of having been able to attend his private high school, as it prepared him for the intense academic climate of Chicago. And he always knew how lucky he was that the GI Bill had come along. That without it, he might have wound up attending a third-rate college, if any at all, and teaching high school history. He simply saw himself as someone from ordinary circumstances who had been fortunate enough to have had some good opportunities. And that his taking advantage of such opportunities didn’t make him deserving of praise or honors when those opportunities could have just as easily fallen to somebody else.
And so our brief archeological excavation and a little analysis have unearthed the bases of my dad’s two most noted traits: His vaunted generosity, which was simply a desire to provide others with good opportunities; and his unfailing humility.
I would like to end by taking special notice of what I regard as the single most important of my father’s many remarkable achievements: Keeping all of his others in perspective.
Thank you.
Sunday, April 22, 2007
Time
It is 09:30PM HST on Saturday. The clock on my laptop says its 00:34 (using 24-hour PDT) on Sunday. I am tired. It has been a very long day. A day that began in San Francisco, side–tripped to Berkeley, passed back through San Francisco and then transited approximately 2,140 miles across the Pacific. I am on Hawai‘i. The Big Island. The Orchid Island.
The sunset was a bright orange sun setting against a partially–clouded sky shot with horizontal bands of near crimson and purple reaching seemingly to infinity to the west, with a deepening–to–indigo sky spangled with diamond-like stars and lit by narrow crescent moon to the east of the zenith.
My mother and I are in an extraordinarily beautiful condo, on the Kona coast, about 20 minutes north of the airport. Our presence here is the utterly undeserved gift of a very generous friend of my father’s. But we are deeply grateful.
The temperature outside right now is 71F. If I listen, I can hear ocean waves hissing onto the beach about 100 feet from my bedroom. In the hotel nextdoor, at what I assume to be a regular weekend luau, a Don Ho wannabe croons innocuous songs to slack key guitar.
Neither of us is happy to be here. To the contrary, the trip so far has seemed to be a chore. Each of us quietly cried a bit on the flight. We were probably two of the most solemn people to ever deplane in the Islands. But at last we will have a week of peace. Of quiet. With no memorials. No dinners.
Here we are isolated from the seemingly ceaseless stream of cards, letters, e-mails, phone calls and gifts. More than six weeks on, word of my dad’s death seems to be still spreading around the world. Each call or missive, each package reminds, saddens and burdens us with the thought of yet another friend/colleague/ex-student whom we then know shares a little of our pain. At least the flow is gradually subsiding; it is only a stream now, not the torrent it was immediately after he died.
Please understand: This is not to make any of you who are reading this feel guilty. That is not my intent at all. My mother and I appreciate everything that we have received, heard or experienced in my dad’s memory. But here, for the next few days, we can be just mother and son. I can set aside being Clark Howell’s son. My mother can set aside being Clark Howell’s wife. For the next few days I am simply Brian and my dad is...was just my dad. For the next few days my mom is just Betty and my dad was just her husband. For the next few days that is enough.
For the next few days we can reclaim ownership of my dad’s memory, his relationships with us and his importance to us, sharing him with nobody else.
We just need some time for us.
The sunset was a bright orange sun setting against a partially–clouded sky shot with horizontal bands of near crimson and purple reaching seemingly to infinity to the west, with a deepening–to–indigo sky spangled with diamond-like stars and lit by narrow crescent moon to the east of the zenith.
My mother and I are in an extraordinarily beautiful condo, on the Kona coast, about 20 minutes north of the airport. Our presence here is the utterly undeserved gift of a very generous friend of my father’s. But we are deeply grateful.
The temperature outside right now is 71F. If I listen, I can hear ocean waves hissing onto the beach about 100 feet from my bedroom. In the hotel nextdoor, at what I assume to be a regular weekend luau, a Don Ho wannabe croons innocuous songs to slack key guitar.
Neither of us is happy to be here. To the contrary, the trip so far has seemed to be a chore. Each of us quietly cried a bit on the flight. We were probably two of the most solemn people to ever deplane in the Islands. But at last we will have a week of peace. Of quiet. With no memorials. No dinners.
Here we are isolated from the seemingly ceaseless stream of cards, letters, e-mails, phone calls and gifts. More than six weeks on, word of my dad’s death seems to be still spreading around the world. Each call or missive, each package reminds, saddens and burdens us with the thought of yet another friend/colleague/ex-student whom we then know shares a little of our pain. At least the flow is gradually subsiding; it is only a stream now, not the torrent it was immediately after he died.
Please understand: This is not to make any of you who are reading this feel guilty. That is not my intent at all. My mother and I appreciate everything that we have received, heard or experienced in my dad’s memory. But here, for the next few days, we can be just mother and son. I can set aside being Clark Howell’s son. My mother can set aside being Clark Howell’s wife. For the next few days I am simply Brian and my dad is...was just my dad. For the next few days my mom is just Betty and my dad was just her husband. For the next few days that is enough.
For the next few days we can reclaim ownership of my dad’s memory, his relationships with us and his importance to us, sharing him with nobody else.
We just need some time for us.
Friday, April 13, 2007
Boulders and Grains
The process of grieving the loss of a loved one is particular to the individual. Even before he died, I cried in anticipation of losing my dad (psychologists call such grieving anticipatory grief). And I cried in the arms of my cousin as the mortuary people carried away his cold emaciated corpse. Those were the boulders, tumbling out in an avalanche of overarching pain and obvious loss.
Yesterday I was looking through my collection of DVDs for a movie to watch. I chanced upon Ray, the biography of Ray Charles, the 20th Century musical giant. It’s a wonderful movie.
After several weeks of cajoling, I managed to get my skeptical dad to a theater to see Ray. He was sure it wouldn’t do justice to one of his musical heroes. My efforts paid off: He loved it! He watched it again on TV a few months later when it ran on HBO and even rented the movie from a video store at least twice more after that. He told me he would never get tired of seeing it.
A few weeks before he died, I chanced upon a copy of the Ray DVD on sale for $10. I grabbed it specifically to show it to my dad. I had recently purchased a large flat screen television with a very nice sound system and looked forward to having my parents over for dinner and playing the DVD for him. Alas, he died before I ever had the chance. For now the movie remains on the shelf.
I will watch Ray eventually. But when I saw the movie yesterday during my search, a twinge of pain ran through my whole body. I didn’t cry though I grew a little bit sadder. That’s how it is now. Every day, sometimes several times in a day, I see, hear or think about something I want to share with my dad. But I can’t any longer. Each is a little grain of loss that accumulates in my soul, weighing me down a bit. And I realize a bit more just how deeply and richly my and my father’s lives intertwined.
None of the grains is significant enough to merit grief on its own, but their impact is in the aggregate. Eventually, their increasing combined weight crushes me and I am overwhelmed, releasing the load and recommencing the process. I expect their accumulations to continue for a very long time.
I miss you Dad!
Yesterday I was looking through my collection of DVDs for a movie to watch. I chanced upon Ray, the biography of Ray Charles, the 20th Century musical giant. It’s a wonderful movie.
After several weeks of cajoling, I managed to get my skeptical dad to a theater to see Ray. He was sure it wouldn’t do justice to one of his musical heroes. My efforts paid off: He loved it! He watched it again on TV a few months later when it ran on HBO and even rented the movie from a video store at least twice more after that. He told me he would never get tired of seeing it.
A few weeks before he died, I chanced upon a copy of the Ray DVD on sale for $10. I grabbed it specifically to show it to my dad. I had recently purchased a large flat screen television with a very nice sound system and looked forward to having my parents over for dinner and playing the DVD for him. Alas, he died before I ever had the chance. For now the movie remains on the shelf.
I will watch Ray eventually. But when I saw the movie yesterday during my search, a twinge of pain ran through my whole body. I didn’t cry though I grew a little bit sadder. That’s how it is now. Every day, sometimes several times in a day, I see, hear or think about something I want to share with my dad. But I can’t any longer. Each is a little grain of loss that accumulates in my soul, weighing me down a bit. And I realize a bit more just how deeply and richly my and my father’s lives intertwined.
None of the grains is significant enough to merit grief on its own, but their impact is in the aggregate. Eventually, their increasing combined weight crushes me and I am overwhelmed, releasing the load and recommencing the process. I expect their accumulations to continue for a very long time.
I miss you Dad!
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Memorial Service Update
It will be a good memorial service. We are assembling an impressive array of excellent speakers. I hope to see or meet you there.
Closing on 100 people have already RSPV’d. Many more will probably just show up. Speakers and guests are coming from all over the globe: Asia; Africa; Europe; and from all over North America. No greater honor could be bestowed upon my dad.
Closing on 100 people have already RSPV’d. Many more will probably just show up. Speakers and guests are coming from all over the globe: Asia; Africa; Europe; and from all over North America. No greater honor could be bestowed upon my dad.
Thursday, April 5, 2007
Nearly Four Weeks
I think today was the first without a condolence card. The phone calls and e-mails have all ceased as well. It’s funny: For a long time my mom wanted them all to stop, so she could have some peace and quiet. Now I don’t think she is so sure.
They Just Keep Popping Up
Today it is an obit in the San Diego Union Tribune. Actually, it was run a couple of days ago. I don’t know why the paper waited the better part of a month to run it. Must have been a very slow news day. I would have never dreamt of my dad as ‘filler’ material. Ah, well.
I also belatedly found a blog post at Science News.
They’ve been added to the cumulative round–up.
I also belatedly found a blog post at Science News.
They’ve been added to the cumulative round–up.
Wednesday, April 4, 2007
Memorial RSVP
Please RSVP if you are attending my dad’s memorial service at Cal on May 7th. This will help ensure sufficient seating and refreshments.
Please pass the RSVP link (http://herc.berkeley.edu/fc_howell_memorial/) along to others whom you think will be attending.
Thank you.
Please pass the RSVP link (http://herc.berkeley.edu/fc_howell_memorial/) along to others whom you think will be attending.
Thank you.
It’s Turkish
Apparently people are still reading this blog. The day after I posted a reference to a foreign obituary in an unknown language, I received an e-mail informing me that the language was, as I suspected, Turkish.
Thanks!
Thanks!
Monday, April 2, 2007
And They Just Keep Coming...
More obits....
Post Chronicle (UK?)
Daily Californian (U.C. at Berkeley)
San Jose Mercury News
Neanderthalis Blog (en Español)
Tgier07 Blog
Zalambdalestids (scroll down to ‘obit’)
As usual, added to the round–up.
Post Chronicle (UK?)
Daily Californian (U.C. at Berkeley)
San Jose Mercury News
Neanderthalis Blog (en Español)
Tgier07 Blog
Zalambdalestids (scroll down to ‘obit’)
As usual, added to the round–up.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)