Oliver’s Eulogy for Dad
My dad loved nature, and he taught all of us to love nature too. He taught us to sail and kayak and ski and hike, in the very same mountains where he himself had hiked and skied with his own father decades before.
My dad and I once decided to hike a 12 mile loop on Mt. Chocorua in New Hampshire. It was a hot summer day and for some reason we each optimistically elected to bring only a single canteen of water. On the trail up the mountain, we were reassured to see a plethora of clear mountain streams. The views from the summit were gorgeous and we were in good spirits. Awkwardly, we soon learned that the second part of the loop leading back down the mountain did not—for reasons which eluded both of us—have any streams or really any water whatsoever… and our canteens were both, at this point, bone dry. So we made it down just around dusk, starving and thirsty beyond belief. We headed straight to my grandparents’ house in Conway—the big A—and there ate my grandmother’s lamb chops. And for those of you who never had the pleasure of eating my grandmother’s lamb chops: they have no seasoning and the consistency of tire rubber.
Yet my dad and I both remembered this as a uniquely delicious meal and always looked back on this memory with special fondness… Even when we were both hungry and thirsty and exhausted, there was something special about just being on an adventure together.
On the Sunday after my dad’s recent passing, Camilla, Ben, and I hiked that same Mt. Chocorua once again (for the first time since that infamous hike 15 or so years ago). And this time, I’m proud to say, we brought exorbitant amounts of water and food.
My dad was a man of many talents—among them he was an excellent cook. His specialties included grilled salmon, duck with cherry sauce, and cream of mushroom chicken. But it was on those rare occasions when my mom and sisters were away and my dad and I had the house to ourselves that his cooking really shined. Specifically, he and I once ate steak and mashed potatoes four nights in a row, each night accompanied by a war movie, until finally we both reached our limit, and decided to have salmon on the fifth night (still accompanied by a war movie). When she returned, my mom was simultaneously shocked and unsurprised to hear about our diets over the past week. Jokes aside, I think there’s an important moral to take away from this short anecdote… namely, my dad grilled a mean ribeye.
My dad loved the English language. He loved beautiful words as well as horrific puns. And he was a terrific writer, with a forthcoming book. He also loved accents. He had lived in England for 7 years and, in his time there, had honed an excellent British accent. One story that I’ve often reflected on of late is one that I’ve never actually shared with anybody… deliberately, because it’s one of those memories that I think about at 3am when I’m trying to fall back asleep and I’m suddenly remembering everything embarrassing that has ever happened to me.
We were on a family trip in Scotland, and I really wanted to pretend to be Scottish. So I asked my dad if he would come back me up while I asked the waiter where the “loo” was in a Scottish accent. When we came up to the waiter, I completely wimped out, and just stared up at my dad. Without missing a beat, in a full-throated Scottish accent, he announced “whar’s the loo please?”. Recently, I’ve reflected a lot on this small moment, where my dad had my back without a second thought. More recently, I’ve reflected even more, and realized that maybe my dad was just thrilled to have a chance to test out his Scottish accent.
***
The other day, I was asked what values or traits or legacies from my father I would carry with me going forward.
My answer was… I don’t plan on having children for a number of years… unless my lovely girlfriend Annelise has a surprise she hasn’t told me about… but when the time comes, as difficult as I’m sure parenting must be, I am grateful that I will have a template to follow in how to be a good father.
I’ll take my son kayaking in my lap on Conway Lake … and if he steps into a bees nest while exploring an island I’ll quickly run grab him and paddle us away.
I’ll teach him to sail and take him on hikes in the White Mountains.
At night, I’ll read him books, including all 1500 pages of the Lord of the Rings.
On Sundays, I’ll take him to Pats games at Gillette... and hopefully at that point we’ll be having slightly better seasons again.
I’ll cook him ribeye and watch war movies with him.
For his 21st birthday, I’ll take him on a father/son ski trip, and be by his side when he buys his first legal beer.
I can go on endlessly, but in short, I am enormously grateful that my dad was my dad, and as Julia put it, we will all ensure that he becomes immortal.
