The following was read by myself at the Memorial Service for my father, A. Taylor Clapp, at the Spencerville Adventist Church in Silver Spring, Maryland on September 29, 2013. For my six excellent ways to write and deliver a eulogy, check out my post: How to Write and Deliver a Eulogy that will Knock ‘Em Dead.
My father was born, and almost 61 years later he died. Between those bookends are a collection of stories we will remember as his life. Between those certain, unbudging dates he navigated through the uncharted waters we all wade through on our own journeys. How fortunate we all are to have crossed paths with Taylor, or even traveled along side him for awhile.
Perhaps some of you know that Taylor had eidetic memory, which is a gift that allowed him to remember everything in full color detail, and to replay whole events from his past in his mind as vividly as when he first experienced them. He often spoke of his memory as a curse — what a burden, he’d say, to carry everything with you all the time — to never forget the good, but also the bad.
Today is our day to remember him, in vivid color, to recall all the details, the nuiances that, like a fingerprint, made his life unique.
Taylor was born into a family, who on his father’s side, stretches back 13 generations to our ancestor Captain Roger Clapp who arrived in what is now Massachusetts nine years prior to the Mayflower. His mother, in contrast, is a first generation American, born of Polish and Russian immigrants who, we found out only a few years ago, never legally gained citizenship, but worked very hard and were proud Americans none-the-less. Taylor lived with this dual legacy — the certainty and history of an old family line, and the direct connection back to Europe. He remembers sitting on his Grandmother’s lap, while she told him stories, thick-accented, of “dee owld county.”
If you ask his mother, Franna, she will tell you that on Christmas Day, 1952, she was quietly but painfully in labor all day as she and Allen entertained holiday guests. That night, they drove from their house on Riggs Road to Washington Adventist Hospital and on the 26th Allen Taylor Clapp Jr. was born.
Within a couple of years, the threesome moved to a house on the Severn River, which feeds into the Chesapeake Bay. He could sail as soon as he could walk. The boat he remembers best was the Alfranta, an amalgamation of Allen, Franna, and Taylor. He loved the water, and it called to him. In recent years, he enjoyed the occasional yacht cruise down the South River out of Annapolis, or simply a meal in a restaurant overlooking the harbor.
Taylor attended public school in Anne Arundel County, and then for 7th grade, Al and Franna thought is was important for Taylor to attend Adventist school. So during the week he lived with his grandmother Clintie and his mathematician aunt Dee, whom he adored, on Elm Avenue in Takoma Park so he could attend John Neven Andrews School.
Taylor had no siblings, and no cousins. He said to us once that at family gatherings he was hovered over and doted on profusely. As an introvert he appreciated escaping the masses and making his own fun. He developed a voracious appetite for reading, enjoyed building small electronics, and tinkering with chemistry.
There is one story I know staring my Dad and a certain young Gary Schewell that features the two of them wiring a toilet seat to deliver a shock when sat upon by presumably Gary’s grandmother. As I understand it, she was more impressed than upset, but maybe we should ask Gary about that later.
Adeolescent Taylor, known to his school friends as Tayl or Flick, continued his education at Takoma Academy, where he became close to a few, friends with many, and liked by all, with his quiet, thoughtful demeanor, often seen with his camera and photography equipment.
Over the years, thanks to online social networking, he reconnected with many of you here today that he met during those formative TA years.
With no siblings nor cousins, Dad was free to construct his own ragtag crew of a peer group. I imagine my father, a kind of Peter Pan, at the center of a pack of lost boys, roving Rock Creek Park, reenacting scenes from Lord of the Rings, and hoping beyond hope for a date Saturday nights.
When Taylor was 16, Franna and Al bought a Royal Berry Wills-designed house in Hillandale. With his Dad, Al, he helped construct a small barn, a harpsichord, a greenhouse that to this day houses hundreds of exotic orchids, and his very own darkroom in the basement for his photography.
In 1970 he graduated from Takoma Academy and that fall began work towards an associate degree in electrical engineering which he completed in two years before attending Collumbia Union College. While there, he enjoyed writing and taking photos for the college newspaper and working for Stewart Bainum. After two years at CUC, Taylor graduated as a Bachelor of Science, having studied business administration. This, his father told him, would unlock many doors to him. Though, I suspect my Dad would have prefered using a lockpick on an actual lock rather than the perverbial one that formal education was supposedly going to open.
Dad always learned best by teaching himself. In 1980 when he began working at the Psyciatric Institute of America, which later became National Medical Enterprises, he helped create computer networks and data systems the so-called experts deemed impossbile. He always thought beyond the problem in front of him.
During our discussions over the past few years, I began to understand how my Dad visualized the evolution of technology from the lever and wheel straight through the 20th century industrial boom and into the age of information today. He was capable of following this trajectory into the future as we discussed predictions for space travel, medicine, and weapons development and the ever-changing political and economic landscape within which these technologies would burgeon or fizzle.
I have always been fascinated by the eclectic pack of people my Dad ran with. Be it at PIA, NME, Chestnut Lodge, Genetics and IVF Institute or more recently at Compania, he developed strong personal and professional relationships with lots of different kinds of people, with a wide variety of technical backgrounds and skills. He had a brilliant way of empathlising with you and unlocking what it was you cared for or knew the most about. Chances are, he knew something about your passion and the communion of common thought began, and a friendship sparked.
And now we get to the part about Arla, his best girl, as he refered to her affectionately on Facebook.
Taylor and Arla met on a blind date set up by a mutual friend after Taylor’s initial plans for the weekend fell through. They went to the Kennedy Center to experience Bach’s Mass in B minor. A high bar to set for date number one, if you ask me. But music was always something that brought my parents together. A shared passion.
So much so, that Taylor asked Arla if she would like a harpsichord of her very own. As a proficient organist and pianist, she enthusiastically said, “Yes!” “Well I don’t have one, Taylor said. “But I can make one for you.” So they cleared out a space in Franna and Al’s basement and got to work building the instrument together.
Over the following weeks, the two worked whilst discussing a range of topics, getting to know each other better. Until one day, Taylor confessed that if he were to propose marriage to a girl, he always wanted to do it in front of a monument or public statue — you know, some place important so that years later they could drive by with the grandkids and say, “That’s were Pop Pop proposed to Grandma.”
I think my mom said something like, “That sounds like a nice idea.” And they tromped up the stairs to the living room where Al lowered his newspaper to ask if they had hit a snag with the harpsichord. My Dad, in plain-spoken TC-fashion, said, “Well, Arla and I are getting married.” Franna hit the ceiling with excitement.
This, of course, was news to my mom who thought at the very least she’d have a car ride to the Washington Monument, or whereever, to gather her wits.
They were married in Mom’s home church in Carmichael, California in March of 1980.
They never made it to a famous place for a proper proposal, but almost exactly 30 years later, when my then boyfriend Johnathon flew me to Berlin and proposed as the snow was softly falling by the Brandenberg Gate, my Dad told me he knew Johnathon was a good guy because he had done it right — the way he had always wanted to propose to Arla, but was too excited at the prospect of marrying his best girl to get any further than his parent’s living room.
That living room has seen a lot over the years. Christmases, birthdays, Christmas-slash-birthdays. (My Dad always felt cheated in the gift-department having been born on December 26.) That living room even hosted a wedding — Franna to her old flame Gordon Laing in a small ceremony where my sister and I stood as bridesmaids and Taylor walked his mother down the aisle.
In May of 1984, I was born, and in February of 1988 my sister Elizabeth came along. We share fond memories of trips to the park, museums, watching This Old House on Saturday nights, grits and saucettes for breakfast on Sunday mornings while Mom was working playing the organ. We remember pinball marathons in the basement, watching as he carefully measured and cut wood in his workshop for this or that project. We remember Star Trek and Orson Wells radio dramas and VHS tapes of the moon landings. We remember listening to him riff on the piano when he came home from the office, working out from memory songs he heard on the radio during that morning’s commute. Elizabeth remembers dancing — spinning and spinning herself dizzy as Dad played tunes from the Moody Blues, The Beatles, The Who, Brahams, and British hymns alike. Dad coined her nickname, Dizzy Lizzy, perhaps because of moments like these. I remember my Dad teaching me to drive stick shift, and helping Lizzy move to Austin last year, and I remember seeing him hold his granddaughters for the first time.
He was always up for a project, working with Mom on the design and making things in his basement workshop, using their half-finished harpsichord as a workbench. In case you were wondering, it’s still there, the carcas of a harpsichord, in my Mom’s basement, waiting to be finished. There’s nothing Taylor liked more than starting a project.
Taylor was a maker and enjoyed constructing elaborate Halloween costumes including a butterfly, a shower, dresser with drawers, and a traffic light complete with wiring allowing the wearer to change the lights from green to yellow to red.
The piece I am proud to say will remain in the family for generations to come is a rocking lion, patterned after an FAO Schwartz version he studied on his lunch hour. He even called his aunt Dee to get a refresher on the quadradic equation to get the curve of the neck just right. Lizzy and I loved to rock on that lion, and now Taylor’s grandchildren, Beatrice who turned two yesterday, and little Penelope, will be able to enjoy Pop Pop’s rocking lion, too.
On Taylor’s Facebook page he posted photographs of his latest projects made with a Carvewright, computer-driven wood-carving machine. You can see his attention to detail and love of the materials. There was nothing more exciting at the start of a project than an untouched board of cherry wood or black walnut.
He had slowed his pace in the last few years, opting instead to channel his creativity once again into his writing, mostly in the form of pithy Facebook messages and email correspondance with old friends. It was through this network that my sister and I were able to reach out and inform the world of his health. And you all answered back, allowing him to be surrounded by words of love and comfort in his final hours. I thank you all now again for that wonderful gift.
I am thankful also for the technology that allowed my parents to communicate a world away as his kidneys were failing and Arla was in Indonesia. My Mom and I were Skyping, in fact, when my phone buzzed and it was Dad’s doctor telling us he had passed away. We were together despite the 12 hour time difference.
Dad often began statements with the phrase, “When my ship comes in.” He used this to describe some wish or looked-forward-to event, usually requiring extra time or money.
“When my ship comes in we will start this or that project.” “When my ship comes in we will go on that trip or do that thing we have been meaning to do.”
Dad, I hope you know that your ship has been here all along, moored fast to the dock where you stand searching for it, but so massive and vast is its hull that though you stand beside it you never noticed it at all.
Dad, your ship has come in, and it leaves port with you now, destined for a beautiful place, sailing swift and sure through the waters with a seasoned navigator at the helm.
May you rest now, soothed by the rocking of this great boat. Sail on, Dad.
And what is the destination? To quote Captain James T. Kirk at the end of Star Trek VI, the Undiscovered Country: “Second star to the right, and straight on ’til morning.”
Thanks for reading! This is a very personal piece of writing, for obvious reasons, but one I am proud to share, as I did for my father’s memorial service. For six excellent ways to begin a eulogy for your loved one, check out my post How to Write and Deliver a Eulogy that will Knock ‘Em Dead. Leave a comment! I would love to hear from you!