My father, 1960s

First Father’s Day without you, Dad.

There is no death, daughter. People die only when we forget them. If you can remember me, I will be with you always.

~Isabel Allende, “Eva Luna”

My father died yesterday morning. He left this world the way he lived his life, with dignity, and without fuss. No drama — that was Dad. At 91, his life force had been ramping down in recent years and he often spent his days sleeping in his favorite chair under the watchful gaze of my mother, his bride of 69 years. Yesterday, as the family gathered around her at the home Mom and Dad shared for some 50 years, we agreed that Dad’s timing was right. He was tired.

And yet, nothing about this is easy. So much ink has been spilled through the millennia on grief and loss and death and bereavement that there is scarcely much to be said that hasn’t already been set to poem, book, song, theatrical piece, film, opera and blog. Yet we know that every loss is unique. There was no one on this Earth, ever, exactly like my father and his loss leaves an enormous void. Also, he and my mother both have — had — an eternal quality about them that prompted my long-time friend Bonita to weep into the phone to me yesterday on hearing the news, “I just sort of thought your parents would live forever.” We all did. And even a 91-year life span goes by too swiftly.

It feels terribly wrong to sum up Dad’s life in a series of words and phrases because he was so much more than devoted and deeply loved husband, father, grandfather and great-grandfather; Depression-era survivor; Pearl Harbor veteran; life member of the VFW; career Bank of America employee; and serial hobbyist whose passions hopscotched him from trout-fishing to raising pigeons to playing pinochle to building model airplanes to archery to bridge to Ham radio and probably many more I’m forgetting. Those are only roles and reflections of his joy of learning; they don’t reveal his steel-hard integrity, his commitment to a moral and ethical life, his unwavering determination to always, always do the right thing — by his country, his community, his wife, and his three children. There was much more of Atticus Finch in my Dad than he ever would have acknowledged, because such comparisons would have flown in the face of his insistence on simplicity. Dad didn’t like complication or complexity.

With that in mind, he probably wouldn’t like knowing about the turmoil of emotions his loss has caused. Though death is inevitable, it always comes too soon. Even at 91 years old — too soon. I got to have my Dad for fully two-thirds of his long life and yet it all feels like a slideshow set on high speed. He was my anchor; I am unmoored. We all are, and no one more than his grieving life partner who in a final sigh transitioned from wife to next-of-kin. Nevertheless, she and all of us proceed now to Take Care of Things, which include writing an obituary we never wanted to read and planning a memorial service we hoped never would be necessary.

I know from my sister’s memorial just over two years ago — when I couldn’t even look at her “life celebration” table without falling apart — that I’m not the family member most likely to deliver the eulogy after such unthinkable loss. Dad’s memorial is set for Saturday and if I could speak then, I’d want to talk about all the gifts my father gave me in the form of a good upbringing, education, countless joyful memories including camping trips to Hat Creek, life lessons, Dad wisdom, his caring concern to ensure I was okay (always, always asking if I had bridge fare to cross the Carquinez when I left their house after a visit, even well into my fifth decade of life), and too many more to list. But my father’s greatest gift to me was last year, when we were talking on the phone and he told me, quite out of the blue, “I know how much you love me.” Until my father handed me that peace of mind, I’d never realized how much worry and stress go into wondering how much more we need to do and be and say to prove the depth of our devotion to the ones we cherish most. My Dad, the practical one, who had all of his “pre-need” arrangements taken care of well in advance, was letting me know that I didn’t need to worry, that I didn’t need to be more than I was. He knew the day would come when I would need to cling to that knowledge as fiercely as I’d clung to his hand as a little girl.

That day was yesterday. Thank you, Dad. For all you were, for all you left us, and for every single moment, thank you.

A Photo Opp Waiting to Happen

I’m exceedingly pleased that the Santa Rosa Press-Democrat published the Close to Home piece that I recently submitted for publication, in which I express my gratitude for my time at our local community college. What follows is the article in its entirety.~Ann

GUEST OPINION: A bittersweet farewell to SRJC

By ANN CLARK

Published: Wednesday, May 18, 2011 at 6:26 p.m.

“Good parents give their children roots and wings. Roots to know where home is, wings to fly away and exercise what’s been taught them.”

— Jonas Salk

On Wednesday, I walked away from the Santa Rosa Junior College campus for the last time, ending an almost 20-year relationship with that institution. I’m already missing the school I fell in love with from the first time I laid brains on it, in August of 1992. But it’s time to move on, time to “exercise what’s been taught” to me there.

In the early 1990s, my husband, Neal, and I moved into a cottage two blocks west of SRJC. I had long harbored dreams of a college degree so I enrolled in Psych 1A and was instantly hooked not just on the subject matter but on the entire SRJC experience. I was charmed by everything about it, from its oak leaf logo to its lush tree-rich grounds to its quality professors and high standing in the academic community.

After successful completion of the Psych 1A class, I kept going. The next semester I took 13 units, which included another psych class, stellar astronomy and pre-algebra. The late Jerry Waxman was my astronomy professor, and he coaxed from me a previously unrecognized awe for the magnificence of the natural world and cultivated in me latent, surprising skills: I never imagined that my math-challenged brain could triangulate the distance to a star.

I have specific and wonder-filled memories of practically every corner of the campus and every moment of my experiences there. Both my personal world and the larger world have transformed during my tenure there.

It was at the phone booth in front of Plover Hall in 1993 — then the library — when I discovered that my son’s wife was in labor. And in the spring of 1995, when I had to give an informational speech, I chose “the Internet” as my topic. It was so new then that I was one of the few JC students with a modem. My visual aids were posterboards explaining domain extensions such as “dot gov” and “dot edu” and predicting that “within five years the majority of households in America would have a modem in their homes.” Now, of course, we’ve essentially outgrown modems and most students are connected online, wireless or otherwise.

The highlight, however, was my May 1996 graduation where, as a valedictorian, I stood under a canopy of oaks on a hot May morning, quoting from Robert Anton Wilson’s essay “Ten Reasons to Get Out of Bed in the Morning” and telling my classmates how critically they are needed. I truly felt like a child of the college, wanting to honor my “parent” by doing her proud.

I was away from the college for a few years, but in 2007 I returned to add some general education classes for my bachelor’s degree and two psychology prerequisites I needed for my desired graduate program. Now I’m finishing a social psychology course at the JC, I’ve been accepted into the graduate program, and in August, I’ll be going back to my other beloved alma mater, Sonoma State University, as a graduate student. But being forever finished with SRJC is bittersweet indeed.

“Alma mater” is Latin for “nourishing mother,” and SRJC has indeed served as my educational progenitor — my starter school, my training wheels, the “parent” institution that gave me roots and wings. I leave forever changed and eternally grateful.

Ann Clark is a Sonoma resident.

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