The end of an era.

My father passed away this week, at a mere 91 years old.

Now I realize that to a lot of people, 91 is downright ancient. But Dad didn’t really start showing his age until the last few years, after being hit by a couple strokes. He climbed his last mountain, Pacaya, at 80, with my cousin’s family.  He stopped playing racquetball at 72, not because he couldn’t play anymore, but because there weren’t racquetball courts nearby.  And at 91, he was still happily traveling at every opportunity – he visited his little sister in England, went to his mother-in-law’s birthday party in Oregon, and was on a cruise in September when he fell ill.  As I said, a mere 91.

I can’t tell most of Dad’s story; I’ve only been around for about half of it.  But it started in Darlington, England before World War II, included military service just after the war, and was followed by a move to the United States after he completed his Library Science degree.  He spend a couple of years in Ohio, followed by some time at the University of Illinois, Penn State University, and Portland State University (yes, he went from one PSU to another), before finishing his career at the University of Miami in Florida.  A work trip brought him to Guatemala when I was in elementary school; the next summer, we came to Guatemala to learn Spanish.

Our family has never quite left since then, as we moved here for junior high with visits between here and Miami.  By the time Dad retired, they had a house here, which they used as a base to help raise some of the grandchildren while traveling around the world.  We are left with a great number of books, including an extensive Jerome K. Jerome collection, whose bibliography Dad worked on for years.  Dad was rather excited the day I cracked open one of his English copies of Three Men in a Boat and found a printing mistake he didn’t have cataloged.

He also collected stamps, primarily ones featuring Catholic saints, and was a 50-year member of the American Philatelic Society.  In his younger years, he also enjoyed rock climbing; he took us once when I was young.  (I enjoyed that adventure far more than my sister did.)  When I visited Devil’s Tower a few years ago and saw people climbing the sides of it, I asked him if he had done that.  He had visited, but never climbed it.

As a child, I was spoiled not only by living in a house with thousands of books – and free access to all of them – but with access to an incredible research library as well.  My sister and I were frequent visitors at the university’s library throughout our childhood, so I was quite familiar with it by the time I started college.  I’m sure Dad hadn’t read all of those books, but if you ever played a trivia game with him, you might have thought he had.  Even a year ago, I was still losing to him at trivia.

He was fiercely independent, rarely requesting assistance and frequently refusing it outright when offered for something he thought he could still do.  He appreciated a fine drink – wine, whiskey, or good beer – but would politely accepted cheaper alternatives, like whatever beer Mom drinks.  He  took advantage of Miami’s climate to light up the Big Green Egg year round, and grilled a fabulous steak.

He will be missed.