Two Saturday’s: on one, seven astronauts died in a fiery flash across a blue sky; and on the Saturday before, my Dad died quietly, walking in the woods with his dog.
He was 84 and lived his life fully until the moment he died. Going so quickly in his beloved woods was his reward for a life of devotion to his family and to the great mystery behind life some call God.
No one loved nature more. He dedicated his energy to looking after the nation’s forests in Wisconsin, the Black Hills of South Dakota, in southern Illinois and for awhile in the head office of the Forest Service in Washington, D.C.
It is a particular piece of learning to have a public and private tragedy so close together. My brother said of the national tragedy, as we were all still reeling and sorting out details of Dad’s passing, “I feel sorry for them, but in the midst of a personal tragedy …”
I know what he meant. When someone dies whom you have loved very much, no matter how prepared or unprepared you are, the body and the mind go into shock. Food is tasteless, concentration is nil, floods of tears alternate with a zombie-like feeling. There is little energy for tasks that must be done and even less for sensitivity to someone else’s tragedy.
Our family has always had a great sense of humor and I have to say, the times I felt most normal were when we were laughing together. I recalled all the times I used to entertain Dad with funny little episodes of my work life at the paper (many of which did not make it into print). Still, grief takes over for most of the time. It is shock that we will not all live forever, silly as that sounds.
Others grieving on television was a jarring sight; placing the flowers, talking about those gone, the survivors holding each other, and the resolve to continue the mission of those who were lost.
It was validation of my own grief to see it, the whole nation grieving for seven shining stars, while our smaller circle grieves for our own shining star.
His mission will also go on.
Feb. 8, 2003