The Eulogy

Harry Leland Ducey “The Duce”, as he liked to call himself
We are all thankful for many things but today we are gathered to be thankful for our time and experiences with Harry.
When I sat down to write this eulogy, I imagined Harry as a big beautiful Oak tree up against the golden hills with many broad branches reaching out into the infinite blue of our California skies and an equally extensive root system likewise plunging into the earth, the past from which he sprang, anchoring the wide and vibrant life above. I see each branch representing the values he cherished and the leaves, its foliage, his achievements. I’d like to also believe each acorn embodies those experiences where he touched, informed, shared, and shaped our lives. In an old birthday card Cheryl uncovered this week, it was written: “Just as a leaf tells much about a tree, the heart of a child says much about a father,” therefore this week, I asked all his children to reveal just that, their hearts, in the stories, events, and experiences that they remember fondly about Harry so that today in our commemoration of him we might assemble a sense of the collage of oak groves he sowed over the decades and across our landscapes. Harry lives eternally on through our memories and in the ideals he inculcated in us. We are in many ways but the budding expression of his many facets. Where is Harry? He is here, there, …he is in us, …in our views of the world and our relationships…
While looking over the amazing photos of Harry’s life this week, I did feel at one point my sadness dissipate and certain stillness wash over me as I thought, “What a marvelous life he had!” The panoply of pictures wove the image of a man passionately engaged in his career in the fight against injustice, as a great lover of nature in all its manifestations, and finally as an enthusiast for the earth’s bounty in foods and wine, its human communions; he was undeniably a reveler of sorts.
Harry was born to a loving nurturing mother, Lois Dolley, and a very talented father, Henry Ducey. She no doubt instilled in him an appreciation for education and intellectual engagement, and his father, being a highly skilled wicker furniture artist, worked with his hands, had built the house he grew up in with beautiful mahogany portals and built in beds that made it look and feel like a ship. Numerous stories recount how he and his cousins played in the hull of that basement and when docked at a port, they built forts in the yard protecting them from the savages lurking just beyond the property line. The memory of his house was always something he was very proud of and it framed beautifully much of what he admired in his father, … could it have been the balance between his down-to-earth and aesthetic sensibilities?
All of my siblings and I can also certainly remember the stories Harry told us about how he’d join the janitor of his elementary school as he fired up the boilers and warmed up the place; or a bit later in life when he’d get up before the crack of dawn, say, around 4am, to work in the local bakery before beginning his day in high school. Harry was wired as an early bird and hard work was no stranger to him. His love of coffee and pots of it, coincided neatly with this aspect of his personality. I’m not sure if the story about him drying corn husk silk, attempting to smoke it behind his house and becoming very ill was evidence of his spirit of experimentation or the frugality and resourcefulness of a child raised in the late Depression, but I enjoyed it because maybe it underscored yet again a boy yearning to grow up after having lost his father at the tender age of 7, it reminded me that my dad was like us all, once a child with his mistakes and wayward paths. It positively ended his fascination with smoking.
His unshakable reverence for nature was likely sown when his father took him trekking across the upper Sierra Pass where the wide expanses of those vistas breathed a sublime freedom. He taught all his children the beauty and the value of the raw wilderness. Dad would always stress the preparation and packing for camping several weeks in advance, often visiting local Outdoor shops to purchase the required gear. He had a particular way of organizing his boxes and camping equipment. Two blue containers held the cooking utensils, dishes, and knives. Each knife had its own special case. He always prepared several trail books and maps to guide our adventures. Wherever one travelled with Harry, by car or by foot, one felt completely safe. To this day, those who are able to pack a car – patiently maximizing all use of space by taking into consideration the geometry of the luggage and necessary accessibility of each item – are often labeled by our kin as doing it ‘Ducey-style’;… that is, packing was taken to the level of an art form, or to the fullest expression in a trunk of a car of the marriage between rationality and pragmatism. In a sense, his caution and preparation were acts of humility in the face of nature, a force he undoubtedly saw as transcendentally beautiful as it was unpredictable, stingy, terrific and dangerous. Bear encounters were not uncommon in those early, exhilarating days when our backpacking excursions took us deep into the bosom of the wild. In the days before bear canisters, Harry spent a great deal of time, counterbalancing in duffel bags our food supplies on the delicate limbs of trees, only to have had them looted by the savvy beasts, who, Mike recently reminded me, cut one of our trips short by a couple of days as our meals were reduced to a few packs of salvaged oatmeal and M&Ms. What a fright Harry must have endured when that one mama bear ‘treed’ her cubs but a few feet from where Galen slept, who remained protected from the prospective peril by his evidently compelling dreams. Time around the campfire was looked forward to each year because all those old stories came dancing out amid the flames and good company cheer. Needless to say, bear stories always abounded and perhaps in their shadow was an acknowledgement of our frailty in the great web of nature, a gratitude for being here at all. Something of that deference and intrigue for the power of nature comes to the surface in Cheryl’s description of their stay at the Curry Village lodge at the Vernal Falls Trail, where the bridge crosses between the falls and the water pounded, thundered and roared beneath one’s feet, shaking the bridge with its strength. Cheryl recalled how the force of so much water crashing down some considerable distance below them worried her somewhat, … while Harry marveled at it, imbibing the sensation like a divine bourbon.
When hiking in Yosemite, Harry always seemed conscious of what he was walking on. He would find areas where obsidian was present. Many hours were spent looking for arrowheads. He had an amazing collection of them, which I always felt was emblematic of the attentive observation and patience and heightened awareness he brought in those wooded strolls. These meticulously kept remnants of a distant race of humans so deeply enmeshed in nature also seemed to overlap with his view of nature with its emphasis on preservation, harmony and balance. The Native Americans propitiated nature with rites of gratitude before or after the hunt and Harry made it his business to erase every trace of human activity by packing out garbage along the trail or making sure we all gathered our belongings and waste before leaving a camp site. His posture of stewardship, of guardianship toward all things natural remains with all of us to this day.
Socially, Harry was gregarious, enthusiastic and not infrequently at the center of interaction and human fellowship. While attending Dorsey High school, he became the student body president with lots of great and lasting friendships. He attended Occidental College and was the Mascot, Oswald the Tiger. He might have gotten kidnapped a few times by USC, if I’m not mistaken, a testimony to his likely over brimming gusto. When Harry “let his hair down” we all had lots of fun. In his typical cautionary fashion, he had Cheryl sign a liability agreement at her own wedding as he was concerned about her, friends drinking and possible driving following the reception. It was 118 degrees that day, though, and Harry was the one who enjoyed numerous refreshments. Once Spud Loomis began zealously playing ragtime on the piano, it seduced him thoroughly. He seized the moment and climbed up on the broad instrument and started dancing back and forth, kicking his legs up into the air, dangling his body on its syncopated rhythms, and wrapping himself in the curtain. “Happy Harry” he was called from that day forward. Incidentally, as many of you might know, he was ordained by the Universal Life Church to officiate over marriages, which he did, and also serves us as a useful image for what he stood for, bringing people together. Something of that early ebullience, levity and good humor seemed re-generated when he married Gail. They were often found giggling like school kids whether it was at one of his grandchildren’s birthday parties, or Thanksgiving, or during Christmas. Apparently, a flight attendant on their way to Europe identified in them this particular dynamic when she approached them half way across the Atlantic with a bottle of wine, saying: “You two are having more fun than anyone else on this airplane. Have this one on us!” And she passed the bottle to them. And, what of the time in Russia? We were later told, the two mounted a bus where local riders looked unsurprisingly grim and dour, but once infected with Harry and Gail’s giggling and guffaws, their stern mood had been quickly mollified and smiles stole across everyone of their faces. Together, their lightheartedness was contagious. Dan reminded me too of Harry’s incorrigible inclination to pick up every weary backpacker in a need of a ride in Yosemite. He felt an immediate connection with his fellow campers and hikers in the Park. Invariably, they’d be invited to break bread with us by the campfire where Harry became a great story teller re-kindling tales about encounters with bad weather, late season snowpack and of course bears, always bears. Finally and not unrelated to Harry’s fervor for human connection, was that episode in our lives marked by spiritual retreats in the late 70’s to early 80’s. We learned to drink Keifer, those early probiotic yogurts, and played with kids named ‘Candle’ and ‘Redwood.’ And, for his initiative in community living, we won’t talk about the ‘Dreamhouse,’ but behind such social experiments with my mom were a fundamental open-mindedness, flexibility and optimism no one could denigrate.
As an attorney, Harry had a deep passion for his work, which was informed by a strong ethic and moral compass generally protecting the powerless against the powerful, often the poor against those with great means. He practiced for almost 47 years fighting against injustice in the arenas of corporate insurance fraud or medical malpractice. One of Harry’s lawyer friends once said going up against Harry in court was like being in a shoot-out at the OK Corral. You’d show up with a squinty mean look, the well-oiled six shooters, a knife hidden in your boot, maybe your posse ready to deliver an ambush from the shadowy, narrow alleys nearby, and at high noon. Harry would stroll out like Charles Bronson, confident, unflinching, focused on the beads of sweat moving down your temples. And in a flash, amid a salvo of shots, he’d disarm you with his facts and rhetorical precision. One was done in Harry’s courtroom, where he would be at his best in many ways. He was our Atticus Finch, eloquent, handsome, honest, principled and courageous …..BUT likely OVER prepared….
As he made his way into retired life, he developed a keen interest in cooking to match his dedication to gardening, both extensions of his awe for nature into the domesticated realm. He was a great tomato connoisseur and spent many an hour building soil in his compost pits, those places where the building blocks of life were churned out of its decomposition. Despite his level of organization and talent, it often took three trips to the grocery store to complete his intended dish. He taught us how to use and store our knives, cooking pans, and other utensils with care, but more importantly he brought to his cooking the same painstaking attention he brought to his outdoor adventures. Classic Harry dishes -- Coq au Vin, pork tenderloin and paella – were the products of patience and scrupulous immersion in the process. We all savored many meals from Harry’s kitchen. There was nothing more grounding and restorative than walking into his home to be met with those heady aromas and simmering bouquets of his cooking. His love for such fundamental pleasures as good food, lively conversation and ample wine remain with us today. Whenever the slow cooker is used today and in the years to come, Harry’s memory will waft alongside the redolences of simmering onions, carrots and hearty meats.
If any one called Harry on the telephone, one would ask “how are you” and always got the same answer “not bad for an old man” which I thought was rather funny since I always viewed Harry as healthy and strong with a clear mind. It always made me laugh. He said that up until the departure of his spirit. Gail tells us his last quotable phrase ran something like: “I look forward possibly to great adventures!” That you are!

Eulogy for Harry

Harry. My "step" father..departed January 23rd, 2011. I am in utter disbelief. Numb and saddened. I watched him waste away in the same manner my mother did three and half years ago. Except his death was 100 times faster.

My birth father was killed in the line of duty in 1969, I was just a little 18 month old. I never really knew him.

In 1970, my mother remarried Harry Ducey. He adopted me as one of his own. I never felt like he was a "step" or anything unfamilliar.

He treated me like his own, believed that I could achieve anything I set my mind to and scolded me when I lost hope. This is the Eulogy that I crafted.

The First Grade Concert.

Again I am at another milestone in my child's life..a happy day..a day of pictures..videos..cheering..laughing... the first grade concert.

There he is on stage with his freshly ironed shirt, his badly mended black pants, his curly hair bouncing freely with a huge smile on his face. I sit alone in the audience of happy parents reserving seats for every grandparent they can invite. I sit alone in the back with no one to share in the reverie. I watch as the mothers smile and wave their mothers over. I sit and watch as they casually take for granted how lucky their children are to have their "nannies, bubbees, abuelas and nonnas" present. I wonder if my son notices.

In a fit of feeling sorry for myself. I feel angry at the fat suburban dad that can't give up his seat for me. These guys that are my age that all seem to be bursting from the seams of their pants and shirts, all wearing the same uniform, Khaki pleated slacks and dry cleaned button down shirts. That dad keeps his seat for his swollen bottom and for his whole family who are non-existent at the present moment. I sit in the back with the outcasts not included in this elite circle of guests. The parents with parents get the front.

My beloved mother died three years ago. I still wake up and wonder everyday "when the hell is she coming back? When will this absence end. ...Okay the jokes over Mom...come home!" We were best friends. We talked every day. My healthy mother was diagnosed and died five years later of ovarian cancer. It took her down fast but not with out the fight of her life. A fight that took her spirit and left nothing but her skin and bones. Then she left us.. with her memory..on Memorial day 05/30/2007.

So I sit watching my seven year old on stage singing at the top of his lungs as if he was singing to her in the blue sky above the walls of the cold gym. He looks up and holds his arms up as if he was preaching to the sky. I smile...when they start to sing I forget about the seats and the grandparents surrounding me. I see my mother in my son. Her bravery, forthrightness and emotionalism.

I have three children. They were young when she died but they still talk about her as if she is still with us but above as if in the clouds, the trees or the wind.

The concert ends and I blow kisses at my little boy as he exits the gym. I slip out the door to avoid the social after party.

I can't seem to get used to the idea that I am parent-less yet and thatI have the responsibility to be a parent and create the memories for my children that I still hold dear. I just assumed she would be here physically to guide me until she grew old. I feel like I am left to feel around in the dark and figure it all out. My anger overcomes me daily.

I am forever grateful that I have a wonderful husband that loves me unconditional..in my depression, sadness and anger. He never judges or tells me how I should behave. I have three beautiful children that cheer me daily. I have a view from my dining room of green mountain hilltops that occasionally are dotted with cows. The view gives me solace daily. This is what saves me from that cold, dark angry world.