Came across this at Ann Althouse’s place and it put me in a melancholy mood to think that Farah Fawcett, someone so associated with youth and vitality in my generation is close to death at the relatively young age of 62. It’s enough to make a guy of my age reflect on his life and realize that he is likely closer to the end of it than the beginning.
Maybe much closer but that’s not for us to know.

About a year ago I lost my father to congestive heart failure at 78. He was a great man from a dirt poor background who through will, determination, and the GI Bill worked his way through college to become an aerospace engineer with Boeing. As a kid I remember him waking before dawn for the two hour commute to Vandenberg AFB and then arriving home long after my sister and I had eaten supper and been tucked into bed. When I was very young I recall the sounds of his harmonica and those of a few of his friends playing guitar and banjo and learned that he had been an accomplished musician in his youth and had dreamed of playing for a living. Over time as his family grew and he settled enthusiastically into his role of husband and father, his playing became less and less frequent until taking a new position with Boeing near Seattle moved him away from his band mates, and his collection of harmonica’s were relegated to a box in the basement with the other flotsam of life that falls out of favor for one reason or another. He was a very good engineer and took his responsibilities of being a husband and father as his highest priorities but he kept his creative mind alive by becoming a pretty decent sculptor of wood and later developed a deep appreciation of Native American design, teaching himself the art of silver smithing and becoming a master at creating silver jewelry using the spiritual forms of the northwest coastal tribes.

At the age of 62 he suffered a stroke leaving him unable to speak and his left side mostly paralyzed. He was no longer able to practice his profession or indulge his creative passion, forced into an early retirement. You may be thinking this is the part of the story where I recount my fathers decent into bitterness and resentment and early death but you would be wrong. After a long rehab he partially regained mobility and improved his speech to where he could be understood. He came to understand his forced early retirement as a second chance to do some of the things that he had long ago dismissed as unpractcal or unrealistic. His final fifteen years were a time of traveling. Of buying a small place on the Sea of Cortez in Baja. Of exploring and adventure. Of living with no rules other than where to, what next.

Mortality is often defined as how long rather than how well you have lived. We are delt unexpected hands throughout life and as free human beings it is up to each of us to make the most of them.

H/T to Gerard for Sandburg’s “The People Yes”.


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