Darryl Was an Unusual Role Model
I know I have written about Darryl Wright several times in various venues, but I can't find them right now so I will just do it again. I have been thinking about him during this time of convalescence. He was not a person you would necessarily try to emulate, almost in any way, but he was a model of suffering -- not in silence, but without adding to the suffering of others. That is not entirely accurate, but that is how I am thinking of him these days.
For those who are new to these stories, our farm has a long history of collecting up strays. Interesting people with good hearts who just can't get traction in the regular world or who need a place to land or who just really want to be here. We find a place for a lot of unusual characters. Most of them don't stay forever but almost all of them get some real benefit from being here for a time. And of course they all contribute to the general effort of getting vegetables out of the ground, washed, and moved to a new home.
Darryl found us at least 45 years ago. He was a guy who loved plants, greenhouses, flowers. He had big ideas and small ideas and he figured out how to wiggle his way into our farm culture, little by little. I think it started with his needing a place to grow a lot of mums. Our greenhouse is under-utilized during the season when mums grow, so he began to take advantage of those spaces. He was an independent, opinionated, large man with a big voice and a laugh that lifted everyone. He could also be really cranky and mean and angry. In the early years, he scared me but I also learned to stand up to him. If he yelled at me, I yelled back. This probably made him sit up and take notice because I was about 25 years younger than he was. He called me Godzilla (and he called my mother Godzilla's mother).
The story is way too long for today, but over time Darryl found a way to live on our farm, without ever getting precise permission. First he just slept in his truck, then he set it up with an extension cord and a heater in the winter, then he moved into the upstairs of the barn, then after many years when he got too old and infirm to climb those steps we built him his own warm and safe room at ground level. I think of him as a stray cat who finally got to sleep by the fireplace, but never answered to anyone.
When he quit drinking about 30 years ago (he was an incredible beer drinker), his whole life attitude changed. He went to AA and learned a new way to live and be. It seems to me he stopped complaining, except when it really hurt to walk. He had used up his body by using it really hard as a young man in the Marine Corps, running long distances competitively. He always said he would never have traded that for anything, but in the last decades of his life, his ankles and other joints caused him so much pain. Swimming was his only relief.
So, how was he a role model? When he was here, I would never have called him that. But looking back, I see that he modeled kindness, caring, a desire to belong, a desire to be useful, an insatiable reading habit, a capacity for maintaining relationships even when they were not mutually rewarding all the time, a love for his family (that's the not mutually rewarding part), an engaging sense of humor, and a stubborn drive to be independent.
A week before he died, he and I took a trip to the phone store and we bought him his first smartphone. This might not have been so wise. He had never mastered a computer, doing everything by hand (including a law degree, working as a real estate agent, a landscape architecture degree, running a seat-of-the-pants business). But we both might have overestimated his capacity to learn something new at that late date. Alissa sat with him for an afternoon and helped him set it up, he demonstrated that he could use the simplest functions, it all seemed promising. But the next week was ferociously frustrating for him as he tried to use his phone without assistance. His son Philip thinks that is what killed him. I doubt that, but it certainly was not the best timing.
While we were in the car, I asked him what his thoughts were for the inevitable future when he would not be able to take care of himself. He sighed and shook his head -- he did not ever want to be put into one of those assisted living places. He said he just hoped he died before any of that became an issue.
As it happened, that's what he did. Jon and I were all the way to South Dakota on our cross country trip when my mother called to say that she thought Darryl might be dead. He was sitting in his chair in his room but he hadn't moved for a whole day. She asked for our advice. Jon said call the police. I said call Anna, she will know what to do. Both answers were correct. It seems that Darryl must have had a heart attack or something, after a difficult and cold morning of walking up the hill from the stand because it was snowy and icy out.
I do not exaggerate when I say that I still think of Darryl every day. Of course there are lots of cues all around me -- he planted the cherry trees, the fig trees, the blueberry bush, the willow oak tree, the wildly overgrown bushes around my house. All of it. He planted most of the established landscaping at Blueberry Hill. He is everywhere, every day. And every time we pack wet stuff in to plastic bags for the CSA, I think of Darryl sitting in his chair while packing chard, looking ruefully at his wet lap and saying that everyone will think he had an accident.
It has been on my mind for years now: I want to put his name on the memorial board at our temple. He needs to have his name somewhere. This is not relevant, actually, but his father was Jewish. His family was not raised Jewish but I feel that Darryl's name needs to be visible somewhere, and why not in our sanctuary. He came to all of our children's b'nai mitvah services and sat in the back, his head sticking up above the crowd.
Darryl's head always was above the crowd. I miss him more than I ever could have predicted. Our stray cat uncle who did everything on his own terms. His memory is a blessing.
For those who are new to these stories, our farm has a long history of collecting up strays. Interesting people with good hearts who just can't get traction in the regular world or who need a place to land or who just really want to be here. We find a place for a lot of unusual characters. Most of them don't stay forever but almost all of them get some real benefit from being here for a time. And of course they all contribute to the general effort of getting vegetables out of the ground, washed, and moved to a new home.
Darryl found us at least 45 years ago. He was a guy who loved plants, greenhouses, flowers. He had big ideas and small ideas and he figured out how to wiggle his way into our farm culture, little by little. I think it started with his needing a place to grow a lot of mums. Our greenhouse is under-utilized during the season when mums grow, so he began to take advantage of those spaces. He was an independent, opinionated, large man with a big voice and a laugh that lifted everyone. He could also be really cranky and mean and angry. In the early years, he scared me but I also learned to stand up to him. If he yelled at me, I yelled back. This probably made him sit up and take notice because I was about 25 years younger than he was. He called me Godzilla (and he called my mother Godzilla's mother).
The story is way too long for today, but over time Darryl found a way to live on our farm, without ever getting precise permission. First he just slept in his truck, then he set it up with an extension cord and a heater in the winter, then he moved into the upstairs of the barn, then after many years when he got too old and infirm to climb those steps we built him his own warm and safe room at ground level. I think of him as a stray cat who finally got to sleep by the fireplace, but never answered to anyone.
When he quit drinking about 30 years ago (he was an incredible beer drinker), his whole life attitude changed. He went to AA and learned a new way to live and be. It seems to me he stopped complaining, except when it really hurt to walk. He had used up his body by using it really hard as a young man in the Marine Corps, running long distances competitively. He always said he would never have traded that for anything, but in the last decades of his life, his ankles and other joints caused him so much pain. Swimming was his only relief.
So, how was he a role model? When he was here, I would never have called him that. But looking back, I see that he modeled kindness, caring, a desire to belong, a desire to be useful, an insatiable reading habit, a capacity for maintaining relationships even when they were not mutually rewarding all the time, a love for his family (that's the not mutually rewarding part), an engaging sense of humor, and a stubborn drive to be independent.
A week before he died, he and I took a trip to the phone store and we bought him his first smartphone. This might not have been so wise. He had never mastered a computer, doing everything by hand (including a law degree, working as a real estate agent, a landscape architecture degree, running a seat-of-the-pants business). But we both might have overestimated his capacity to learn something new at that late date. Alissa sat with him for an afternoon and helped him set it up, he demonstrated that he could use the simplest functions, it all seemed promising. But the next week was ferociously frustrating for him as he tried to use his phone without assistance. His son Philip thinks that is what killed him. I doubt that, but it certainly was not the best timing.
While we were in the car, I asked him what his thoughts were for the inevitable future when he would not be able to take care of himself. He sighed and shook his head -- he did not ever want to be put into one of those assisted living places. He said he just hoped he died before any of that became an issue.
As it happened, that's what he did. Jon and I were all the way to South Dakota on our cross country trip when my mother called to say that she thought Darryl might be dead. He was sitting in his chair in his room but he hadn't moved for a whole day. She asked for our advice. Jon said call the police. I said call Anna, she will know what to do. Both answers were correct. It seems that Darryl must have had a heart attack or something, after a difficult and cold morning of walking up the hill from the stand because it was snowy and icy out.
I do not exaggerate when I say that I still think of Darryl every day. Of course there are lots of cues all around me -- he planted the cherry trees, the fig trees, the blueberry bush, the willow oak tree, the wildly overgrown bushes around my house. All of it. He planted most of the established landscaping at Blueberry Hill. He is everywhere, every day. And every time we pack wet stuff in to plastic bags for the CSA, I think of Darryl sitting in his chair while packing chard, looking ruefully at his wet lap and saying that everyone will think he had an accident.
It has been on my mind for years now: I want to put his name on the memorial board at our temple. He needs to have his name somewhere. This is not relevant, actually, but his father was Jewish. His family was not raised Jewish but I feel that Darryl's name needs to be visible somewhere, and why not in our sanctuary. He came to all of our children's b'nai mitvah services and sat in the back, his head sticking up above the crowd.
Darryl's head always was above the crowd. I miss him more than I ever could have predicted. Our stray cat uncle who did everything on his own terms. His memory is a blessing.
He sounds like a beautiful guy; but what I really enjoyed was how your beautiful writing shone through in this post. Water does indeed flow downhill <3
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