Dad's funeral

I've been asked to post here the comments I made at Dad's funeral, that sunny afternoon of July 15.

I've re-read these words many times since that day, and for some reason they always seem to give me the same comfort that they gave when I wrote them, late at night and alone with my thoughts and fears. When I feel my resolve slipping away, when the loss begins to outweigh the gain, they seem to help me focus on the latter rather than the former.

In the hope that they may in some fashion do the same for you, I'll offer them again here.

- Clay


In deference to Archie R. McCardell

Dark thoughts come far too easily, sometimes, during earth-shattering events.

We wonder what we would do if the worst thing we could imagine came to pass, how we would handle it, and whether our actions or reactions would measure up. In our family, we all strove to measure up to my Dad – to be as considerate, to be as thoughtful, to be as fair, and to simply be as good as we all knew him to be.

In my darkest thoughts, I never once imagined who I would be without my father’s steadying presence. I never once imagined my family without my father’s wisdom and comfort, our businesses without his guidance, or his comfort when I failed, and his congratulations when I succeeded. I never once imagined what I would say at my father’s funeral. There’s a reason, though, that my darkest thoughts never ventured here.

Through all the tears, and all the heartache, I realize that if I learned anything at all from my dad, I should know that this time is, at its heart, far from dark. When all is said and done, it’s far too obvious that we’ve been given a great gift. We were given so much time – as wife, as sibling, as child, as grandchild, as extended family - growing up, living together, playing together, working together – to fine tune ourselves and learn what life should mean from a wise man who took it upon himself to share his wisdom with us. We’ve been given a rare opportunity to look back at the past, without rose-colored glasses or deference to the dearly departed or empty, meaningless phrases, to look back honestly and still in wonder at a life well lived, and to savor what Dad will always mean to all of us. “Celebration of life” used not to mean quite so much to me. But that’s indeed where find ourselves today, and we have all been blessed to have known a man whose life, much more so than most, deserves celebration.

But I need to stop here. In our family - and from the unfortunately limited time I spend with our extended family, this is perhaps far from unique – we have a strange tradition. We can never speak anything other than ill of someone present – it’s just not done. And I know, looking at my Dad’s wife, brothers, sister, children, and grandchildren that he is much more here than gone. The life lessons that he imparted to each of us I see in myself, and in you all. He may not be here in body, but he certainly lives on in our hearts, in our thoughts, and in our souls – in who we are as people as we gather here today.

So if we all choose to accept that, then I am constrained by family tradition to briefly offer the following:

He was kind of a bastard. Sometimes, he was even an asshole - just ask my long-suffering mom. Certainly he was never very far removed from his mischievous side. You could look far and wide, and would be hard-pressed to find a more dishonest, unethical man anywhere. A slacker, as well – untrustworthy when push came to shove, inconsiderate, couldn’t hold a job for the life of him. A flighty, uncertain man, unsure of who and what he was and completely forgettable, also – he could pass unnoticed in any crowd. His presence had so little effect on those that he met that I constantly had to remind people that they had, in fact, met my father several times. An ungracious, selfish man who looked out for himself at the expense of others. Even a disloyal man, prone to disappoint, never to be relied on.

For a quick translation, I’ll share with you one of my co-workers’ views; since he’s not family, he doesn’t suffer under the same constraints. He said:

I know everyone who gets to spend time with him benefits from it and I for one did not get enough. This in mind, I cannot imagine your family’s grief and my heart is heavy for you all but envious of the amount of time you all had with such an inspiring human being. I have no words that can explain how much I thought of your dad but I am sure you know how he affected people. The impression he left on me and I am sure everyone he shared a room with is something only a few people in this world possess, the charisma and magnetism was as big as I have ever seen. I do feel lucky to have had the chance to speak one on one with him a few times in my life; I know I am a better person for having had the chance to steal a few minutes of his wisdom and I thank you for that opportunity. I am counting on you to spread some of that around as I know you had the chance to soak up a lifetime of lessons on how to be a good man. My thoughts are with your mom, you and your entire family.

I can’t speak for anyone else, but my dad has always been my main motivation to be the best man he taught me it is possible to be. I would rather have shriveled up and crawled in a hole than know that he was disappointed in me. Certainly none of us is perfect – but dad could always see beyond the imperfections, forgive us and love us without reservation despite them. There may have been some wiggle room, but for me there was a line that should never be crossed, lest I lose the pride in me and respect for me that I always hoped he had.

We all know Dad’s life. We all know that, despite his rise to the top of the international business world, despite the time he spent with presidents and vice presidents and in the corridors of power, he was an intensely private man. He didn’t much need public recognition, and he certainly never sought fame. Whatever he did, and whatever his accomplishments, he did with a sense of decency and a concern for the good of others. Despite – or more probably because of - his wisdom, his intellect, and his sense of self, I always thought of him as a simple man. Important to him, above all else, were honesty, fairness, a consideration of others, and pride in what you do. It didn’t matter who or what you were – a corporate leader, a breakfast waitress, a mechanic, a president, a plumber. If he knew you well enough to know that you had those traits, you had his respect. And somehow, however well people knew him, they always understood that his respect was something to be earned and, once earned, to be kept and nurtured and treasured.

Look around you, here in this remote, special place. I’m sure that the corporate chieftains and powerbrokers of yesteryear - not to mention the current crop of what dad felt to be self-promoting business leaders - would wonder why a man of Dad’s accomplishments would feel most comfortable here. Unless they knew him as we did, of course – unless they understood what this place is. This is a place for pioneers, of strong men and women who made a difference in the land, and in its people. A place for people who never demanded or expected respect, but rather who earned it through hard work and dedication to principle. A place for a man who accomplished much in his long and storied life, read voraciously about current affairs, but when enjoying some well-earned down time, lost himself in Louis L’Amour’s simple tales about men, and women, who represented the essence of what he knew was important in life.

Dad would never have wanted a large, public service. Even in this place, with the never-ending sky and the expanse of high desert all around, there never would have been enough room to hold the people whose lives he touched over the course of his 81 years. He would look around now at his wife, his brothers, his sister, his children and grandchildren and the rest of his family, and he’d be satisfied that he had done all that he could do, more than most are ever capable of, of showing us the way, of leading us down the right path, and showing us how to handle life’s ups and downs with the grace and compassion that too few people on this earth possess.

So the bright sun is out, and despite the tears and the sense of finality, I’m left to wonder what on earth I did to deserve the uninterrupted 45 years that I was lucky enough to learn from my dad – as a child, as a teenager, as a businessman, and as a son. I was given the opportunity that few sons have, to revere him as a father, to grow up and work with him, to learn as I grew older that he wasn’t perfect – but that he was very definitely far more than just “one of us”. He was a gift to us. I find myself wanting more, but that of course is selfish – I can’t think of any possible way that he could have given us more than he did.

Not one of us was unsure of what he meant to us in life, any more than we’re unsure of what he meant to us now that he’s left us. Not one of us was ever unappreciative of the time we always felt privileged to spend with him. We have always known and completely understood how integral a part of our lives he was, just as we have always known how important we were to him. The true gift that he gave to all of us, and that I will treasure until I join him, is that we always knew this great man loved us. There is nothing left unsaid.

This day – this week – gives us the necessity of focusing on the minute details of our time together, of putting our lives with him in clear focus, and of redefining ourselves. In doing so, we find that we are lacking – nothing. There are, truly, no regrets – and that is a rare privilege in itself. There is sadness, and there is heartache, and there are tears - but there is no darkness. The gift that he gave us could not possibly be more complete, or more enduring, or more appreciated. For that, Dad, I will always be eternally grateful. Even though you’re a creep sometimes.