in memoriam: jack wilkes

"To An Athlete Dying Young"

The time you won your town the race
We chaired you through the market-place;
Man and boy stood cheering by,
And home we brought you shoulder-high.

To-day, the road all runners come,
Shoulder-high we bring you home,
And set you at your threshold down,
Townsman of a stiller town.

Smart lad, to slip betimes away
From fields where glory does not stay
And early though the laurel grows
It withers quicker than the rose.

Eyes the shady night has shut
Cannot see the record cut,
And silence sounds no worse than cheers
After earth has stopped the ears:

Now you will not swell the rout
Of lads that wore their honours out,
Runners whom renown outran
And the name died before the man.

So set, before its echoes fade,
The fleet foot on the sill of shade,
And hold to the low lintel up
The still-defended challenge-cup.

And round that early-laurelled head
Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead,
And find unwithered on its curls
The garland briefer than a girl's.

-A.E. Housman

My grandfather died a year ago today, very early in the morning on Pearl Harbor Day. My phone rang at 2:00 am, and I knew. As we cried, my mom also laughed as she mentioned that one of the last things he had eaten was one of her chocolate chip cookies, his absolute favorite. She wasn't sure whether this was a good or bad thing.

Papa Chief (as all his grand- and great-grandchildren knew him) had developed a cancer in his lungs two years earlier, and he made the decision to refuse further chemotherapy treatment after one round almost killed him. And he wanted to live out what remained of his life at home, with his family. His hair fell out, then grew back, white, thick, and curly. He declined pretty rapidly in his last few months, having trouble breathing when he walked even the smallest distance. Over Labor Day weekend last year I remember seeing him--at our family's regular Tex-Mex eatery in Austin, Tres Amigos--completely winded because of the trip from the car to the restaurant. He made it to my brother's wedding at the end of October, although at that point he knew it was just a matter of weeks. He looked handsome as always in his suit, but he could speak only just above a whisper, so we all encircled him at the reception to hear stories.

But he wouldn't have liked me to dwell on the end. As he said, he wanted us to remember him as he once was. And the man he became in his last six months certainly bore little resemblance to the engaged, active, mirthful "gentle giant" (he was 6'2") that I experienced my whole life. In my lifetime he enjoyed semi- or full retirement, and he made good use of his leisure: he played golf several times a week, mowed the lawn and tended to the yard, read voraciously, completed two crossword puzzles a day, and watched all the Astros games and Texas sporting events that aired on television. I was lucky enough to spend my five years of college in Austin, so I got see him and my grandmother at least once a week. Sometimes we ate together at Tres Amigos, and other times I would just use their house as a quiet place for homework and laundry. Once, after dinner there, Papa turned to me and said, "I'm so glad that you came over this evening." I smiled and thanked him, thinking that he was referring to my company or conversation. He continued, "Your grandmother makes the best food when you're here."

Walter Jackson Wilkes was born literally in the center of Texas (in Brownwood), on December 25, 1918. As a child, I found his birthday unenviable because he often received dual birthday/Christmas presents, thereby lessening his take for the year; he, however, liked to celebrate his day on the holiday because "I am always surrounded by my family." He wasn't totally angelic, though: in a story that has become the backbone of the Jack Wilkes legacy, he was once placed in charge of the family's Christmas present name drawing. Before passing around the hat, he gave the standard caveat that everyone was to keep secret his/her recipient, but a few days later, the calls started coming in to my grandmother. "Gay, I've got Jack. What does he want?" "Gay, I chose Jack's name from the hat. Can you suggest something?" When confronted about his subterfuge, though, he admitted to having filled the drawing with only his name, but about his deed he felt no shame, just vindication, that his wife's family--as he suspected--was in fact incapable of keeping a secret.

My cousin Seth best summed up Papa's legacy in a speech at the funeral, when he identified Papa's traits in each of his grandchildren. Seth ascribed Papa's impishness to Josh; his kind and gentle nature to Gabriel; his love of learning to me; his love of family to Sara; his engineer's skill and precision to Jordan; and his know-how in raising daughters to Theo. As the speaker, Seth left himself out, but I think we would all agree that Seth has Papa's great sense of humor and ability to tell a great story.

My Papa's passing has been hard for me to process. I didn't feel his absence right away, partly because I was living far away from him and my grandmother when he finally succumbed to the cancer. But even in Austin for the funeral and for my spring break a few months later, I kept expecting to walk into the den and find him sitting in his favorite chair. He was such a quiet, unassuming person in a family known for its cacophony that it was not unreasonable to think that Papa might simply be in another room, engaged in his daily ritual of reading every article in USA Today. I'll be walking along the streets of this city--where he and my grandmother spent the war years while he served the Federal Highway Administration as Bridge Division Chief (the job that inspired his nickname)--and all of a sudden it will hit me, like a rush of cold air that stops my heart: Papa's not around anymore. At his funeral, in the hotel room I shared with Sara, I glanced at her open planner to see written in the December 7 box, in blue ink, in her familiar handwriting, "Papa died." Period. My heart stops again. In Breckenridge this summer, Papa's brother Jeff had me doing double takes, my heart rising up in hope and stopping in disappointment each time I caught a glimpse of the sweet smile, soft eyes, tall frame, or deliberative step that he shared with his younger brother. Even being around my mom is bittersweet, since she looks so much like her father and in her soft-spoken, supportive demeanor is the true heir to Papa's spirit.

On a road trip several years ago, his youngest great-grandson, in a child's understanding of his profession, would proclaim that each bridge passed was built by Papa Chief, but even as an adult, I still feel that way. Every bridge I see reminds me of my grandfather. When I don't know that he didn't built a certain one, I assume that he might have (especially if it is beautiful) because I know that even if he didn't, he would know all about it, and he would tell me all about it. Because of the breadth of his knowledge, many a bridge is conflated in my mind that way. This summer, for instance, I stood on the Brooklyn Bridge and cried, thinking of Papa. The structure was one of his favorites; I read David McCullough's book about its construction, The Great Bridge, at Papa's recommendation, and afterwards we talked about the book and the bridge. For me, he was Washington Roebling.

I don't pretend that what I am saying now, a year after his death, could begin to encompass everything he was, for he was a truly great man. I want to be more like my grandfather, and I frequently think about how to be worthy of him. I think about how he would certainly know the answer to the tough clue in the crossword that I have taken to completing each day. I think about visiting the Panama Canal someday because he wanted to (especially after reading McCullough's The Path Between the Seas) but never did. I think about him when, eating, I glance down at my plate to see that I have exactly one bite left of everything, his fastidious habit of "making it come out even." Mostly I think about getting from him just one more hug. He wasn't exactly an "athlete dying young," but he certainly left before I was ready to give him up.

Austin-American Statesman obituary

Email me for "Jack Wilkes: A Remembrance," by NPR reporter Larry Schooler (Blogger doesn't allow mp3 file hosting!)