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.

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.

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.

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:

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.

— fchowell.blogspot.com (31 March 2007)

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.

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.

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.

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