My father's name was Lee Henry Schmidt. He died on June 5th of this year after 67 years of living. These are the words I spoke at his memorial service.
I don't believe there is some sort of universal truth about my father, a kind of objective story that can neatly summarize his life and who he was. All I can do is share with you a small slice of how I see him.
I first met Lee Schmidt one night in a hospital. The details of the meeting I've long forgotten, but something clicked between us. He seems to have taken a liking to me at that moment, and me to him. There were a tumultuous first few years in which it was an open question whether I'd live with him or with my birth mother. The early 1970s were not an era in which fathers often won child custody battles, but my dad fought to have me in his home and emerged victorious. It may sound like an exaggeration to say that in so doing he saved my life, but to me that's exactly what he did.
He worked six days a week in the lean years when construction had slowed to a trickle in Santa Cruz County. We'd throw the baseball in the yard, or play Frisbee. Then we discovered the Wham-O Track Ball and our moments together became even more exciting. He built me an epic tree fort on top of a mammoth redwood stump behind our back deck. He taught me how to play chess, and how to get in front of a grounder.
As I got older his desire to keep me from turning into a jackass and my desire to act like a jackass frequently clashed. We frequently exchanged unpleasant words. I went away to college and joined ROTC. The hostilities quickly ceased. We became amigos again. I had made choices almost diametrically in opposition to those he'd made at my age, but that didn't matter to him. He was happy that I was becoming my own self.
Over the years we shared adventures on the San Juan River and the Annapurna Circuit in Nepal. But mostly we shared words. By phone, by the US Postal Service, by email. The topics ranged far and wide, but the ideas were always central. There was an exploration, a care to avoid presumption and dogma. Even if there was no one true meaning to this life, the mere fact that I could explore all its facets with him gave me a secret joy.
The cancer came and he fought it. He fought it hard, like a warrior. I don't use that term lightly. It was personal combat - him against that implacable foe. As it slowly became obvious that he was not going to prevail, he opened himself up in an astounding display of grace under pressure. At the time in his life when he was most vulnerable and physically weakest, he was mentally and emotionally strongest. And he gave. He shared his thoughts. He created the best writings of his life, full of emotion and wit and always, always honest.
My dad never presented himself as an exemplar of anything other than, perhaps, endurance. He just did what he felt he needed to do. Instead of telling me what I should be, he told me to be my own man. He told me he was proud of me. He told me he loved me. He left nothing unsaid. And when I saw him for the last time, he smiled through tears.
I know I lucked out that night in the hospital.
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