Wednesday, March 25, 2020
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+ 5
Daddy Bug,
For as long as I can remember, you were a loving, nurturing and comforting force and presence in my life, and from a fairly young age I can remember hanging on your every word and gesture, looking to you for guidance and wisdom but also for humor, empathy and inspiration. I don’t remember exactly how old I was, I think I was about nine, but I know exactly where I was when I became aware of and began to form what will be my lifelong aspiration to emulate the things you did, the way you did them and your worldview. We were on the Cub Lake Trail in Rocky Mountain National Park on the first of our many Daddy Daughter backpacking adventures. We had spent the day hiking together on a trail that we had mostly to ourselves but for the occasional day hiker.
In the parking lot at the trailhead, you had fitted me with your small red daypack that, on me, was like an expedition pack. Another Dad might have haphazardly swung the pack over their kid’s shoulders and taken off. Not you. We spent what felt like hours and was easily 20 minutes in the lot while you worked to fit the pack just right. I remember you showing me how to hoist it so that the waistband hit not at my waist but around my hip bones, then you held onto my shoulder with one hand and with a series of swift, strong pulls, you used your other hand to cinch the belt’s webbing strap corset-tight. If you hadn’t been bracing me, I would have fallen over, and I’m sure I griped vigorously and questioned your methods with great impatience and probably a little melodrama. But when you were finished and my protests subsided, I grudgingly admitted that the pack was secure and comfortable and positioned just right so that my hips and not my shoulders carried the load that was easily more than half my weight. Though, disappointingly, mine didn’t appear as “hardcore” as your external-frame pack, I had so much pride that I was carrying everything I would need for our adventure on my own back.
Along the trail, you taught me to use a compass and a topographic map. We hiked briskly but deliberately, with you constantly reminding me to place my feet carefully. I walked behind you, watching your enormous calf muscles flex to propel you like a gazelle over logs and boulders. We stopped to examine plants and trees and small waterfalls that gurgled down the hillside. I remember investigating a patch of green fuzz on a fallen log and you teaching me the difference between moss and lichen. You explained how the water formed the landscape. We delighted in the rhythmic sound of the gravel crunching under our feet. We drank water from your round aluminum canteen and would later cook dinner in the aluminum mess kit that you still had from your Boy Scout days. It came in an army green canvas satchel and had “Bobby Marks, Troop #9” written in faded marker on it.
That night, as I snuggled into the brand new down mummy bag you’d bought me — a blue North Face Windy Pass, 800-fill, 30-degree sleeping bag that I still use — I looked over at you and felt so overcome with pride in and awareness of how special our relationship was and how committed you were to being the kind of dad who had little care or desire for material wealth but who wanted to shower his girls in the exorbitant riches gained from experiences.
On that adventure and the countless others that we shared together, I learned so many things about you and about the type of person I want to be.
Dad, you found as much joy in the pursuit of a goal as you did in the achievement of it or the accolades that came after. You taught me that what you learn about yourself during the pursuit is more valuable than what anyone else thinks about your achievement when you’ve finished.
You taught me to constantly seek discovery. You believed and showed us that meeting and truly getting to know foreign people was as soul-expanding as visiting foreign places. Indeed, you cannot appreciate or understand one without the other.
You knew something about EVERYTHING. Anytime you met someone and had a conversation that went at all beyond pleasantries, within minutes you would find a common point of interest or familiarity and could engage in a real conversation.
Your humor was not so much about the hilarity of the punchline as the perfect timing and surgical precision of the delivery. You could make people laugh by doing or saying something goofy but you also had an ability to bring levity to times of chaos or uncertainty. You never took it over the line but you could relieve undue tension with a well-placed witty one-line zinger.
You had more than a superficial love or enjoyment of music but a deep understanding of its power as a medium to convey stories and a respect for music theory. You loved the connection that music has to your roots, Jewish and Appalachian. We bonded over country and bluegrass music and the fact that they drew from African and European and Klezmer styles to make something so uniquely and perfectly American. You got your diagnosis the week PBS — which Lara and I once called “the boring channel” and now watch almost constantly— aired the Ken Burns Country Music documentary, and I stayed up late watching all 12 hours, twice, because It made me feel so close to you.
As Lara so eloquently said, you had reverence for the rule of law balanced with a healthy penchant for questioning and challenging convention.
I have tried to think of times when Lara or I got into scrapes or encountered adversity and how you reacted. I tried to remember a time when you sat us down and lectured or expounded about what lesson we should take from the experience. But you didn’t do that. As a writer, I so deeply value that ability to show not tell, and that is exactly how you wove your narrative. You didn’t tell us how we should do things or what we should value in life or how we should behave or what we should learn from our mistakes. You showed us how to be thoughtful and inquisitive and fair and just, how to live your values, how to learn and how to grow. And as a writer, I’ve learned from you that a reporter’s ability to ask fair and balanced questions is paramount to writing prowess. You showed me that you can recognize a wise person not by what she says, but how well she listens.
You delighted in the brilliant simplicity of a bicycle’s drivetrain. As much as I cherish the memories we made on our long-distance rides, I’ll never forget our spins around the reservoir when you’d encourage me to ride super slow, keeping my tires on the thin white line of the shoulder, a task that’s vastly more difficult — and arguably more important — than hammering a steep climb. The trick, of course, is counterintuitive — to ease your grip on the handlebars and shift your weight over the saddle so you can steer the front tire with feather-touch precision, not blunt power. I think you loved bicycles because they were the vehicle precursors to flight, and they gave you the same sense of freedom and exploration.
I remember several times I went over the handlebars, crashed on skis or lost my temper, but I cannot remember a time when you dismissively insisted that I “calm down,” or “stop crying.” Instead, you’d tell me calmly to “take some deep breaths.” It always works.
I remember when we were skiing one time, and we stopped in the trees while it was snowing. I remarked how it seemed to be more silent and peaceful than any place I could remember, and you — always a scientist and teacher — explained that snow actually absorbs sound waves. When I want peace and quiet and solitude, I find it in the snow-covered trees.
And Dad, it’s true that skiing with you in the early years was, as Mom likes to say, a forced march through hell. That’s not an exaggeration, and we probably all have a little residual trauma from the too-tight boots, too-cold fingers, too-early mornings, too-long runs, too-many traffic jams on I-70 and too-many hours of smooth jazz. But there has simply been no greater classroom for character development than the ski slopes under your tutelage. I came through the other side of those early torture sessions with the ability to calibrate my own personal barometer, and I learned from you that whether you think you can or think you can’t, you’re right. The last several days we spent on the snow together — exactly one year ago this week — will remain in my heart as long as I live.
And you and Hwitley. In the absence of spoken language, you spoke to him with your heart and your soul. He is everything you have passed to us. He is adventurous and precocious and inquisitive and hilarious and athletic and strong and loving. Every time I look at him I think of you.
I love you so much, Dad.
