by Wayne Snow

Once upon another time, you held your little son aloft— your long, long arms stretched far above your own head. Hands so large and powerful that it seemed like the very world was held securely in their grasp. It was in those hands that the boy soared with arms outstretched and eyes (the color of your eyes) wide with delight and imagination. The two of us, so young, laughing as the little flying ace touched the chalky white above the earth and descended safely to the earth again. And the boy knew that it was good to dream.

As the boy grew, he would hear the laughter of little sisters and altogether they would hear music, people singing and the stories of times long ago. There were stories of the Vikings and the Pilgrims, tales of pirates and of sunken treasure—and the scariest ghost stories ever told. You explained that you were a descendent of the Vikings and you knew their stories well. As the grandson of a Swedish immigrant sea captain and the son of a gentle and skilled pianist, you had many memories of growing up in interesting surroundings. You told us stories of the tough old sea captain and the basement on Herbert Street that reminded you of descending into a ship’s hold—provisioned left and right with large wooden barrels containing all the foodstuffs from Davis Square shopkeepers that a family would need whilst he went to sea again.

Then there were the stories that truly inspired a young imagination. Tales of Viking raids on the Britons and King Harold at Hastings in 1066—too weak to fend off the Normans. You then mentioned your own younger day adventures of discovery to Newfoundland, Nova Scotia, Maine and even Cape Cod. Going beyond our typical history class by explaining the American Revolution and Boston’s role in it played right into that day in 1959, when digging the footing for a new front porch, that you and I unearthed a solid cast iron cannon ball from the Revolutionary War. Life was fantastic around you—we learned not only about Robert E. Lee, President Lincoln and the Battle of Gettysburg but actually who these people were or why those events happened. You knew everything—even about the stars and the planets, the rising and setting of the sun and the moon, the movements of our own planet and the flowing and ebbing of the tides—then it would get dark and the drive-in movie would begin.

You were just nineteen when your son was born—even by today’s standards you were still a kid yourself. Those were very different times—it was the 1950’s. You drove a 1946 dark green Ford convertible—most of your friends had convertibles too. When you weren’t driving truck for First National Stores, you and your friends were fixing up a WWII 24’ military river patrol boat that you had all bought together at an auction somewhere. There were the trips to the Mystic Lakes with a convoy of your friends’ cars. Sometimes the boat’s engine would run and we’d get out of Boston Harbor. Your friends were more than just acquaintances—they were pals for life.

You were a large man and stronger than most—your stature could easily intimidate those who did not know you. Your long-legged, distinctive swagger brought to mind John Wayne and an unknowing person might wonder if something was about to happen. Nothing ever did happen because you were a gentle giant with the vision of an architect and the soul of a poet. You were also the obvious muse for the creator of MacGyver—why was it that you could fix anything? Damn it, this made me crazy. You would look at something (anything) even for the first time, understand how it was built, what made it tick and then fix it like it was a simple toy.

One of your favorite sayings was: “actions speak louder than words” and you lived by that credo. You had little use for those who were hypocrites, but your good nature allowed you to tolerate them. As your son grew, you told him to remember tolerance and that greatness comes in all forms; that there are those who will be university presidents and those that will sweep the university halls at night—and both are the same in God’s eyes. You explained that all people, however rich or poor, have feelings, and we should never forget that in our dealings with others. It is because of your actions that I slowly understood that human love is the glue that binds us all together.

As I evolved into a man, many of your teachings started to make real sense in the natural order of how things should work in this world. I know that I have learned more about living from you than I ever did by attending a university. I know that it’s good to imagine things not yet tried and ask “why not?” I know that it’s good to dream because without the dream, where lies the quest? Without the quest, the Vikings wouldn’t have left the safety of their fjords. That’s a big part of the reason I found myself in the Soviet Union back in 19901991. You had compared it to being in the Wild West, but you never did discourage my voyage of discovery.

I realized one day that you didn’t have any enemies. Those who knew you liked you or even loved you. You shared a lot of love and affection in your heart not only with your family, but with your friends, your brothers and just about everyone you ever came in contact with. I can still hear you saying: “there’s always room for one more.” I think of the all the children and the elderly shut-in hospital patients that you gave joy to as the traveling Santa for many years and how you touched their lives and it makes me smile.

I know you loved your Masonic brethren, but did you ever realize that you had already been living by the Masonic rule decades before you were introduced to its precepts? You had their respect as a Brother, but they were also in awe of your masterful knowledge of every officer’s work in the degrees. Beyond all that, they loved you as a man—for the Brother you were to them.

While you lay dying that night, surrounded by all your family, all the little nuances of my life with you were flashing through my mind. My youngest days came so clearly—the airplane “rides”, being in my highchair in the kitchen at Porter Street, amongst your pals and the laughter and the singing. Your final words were “stay together.” We all held you and sang the old songs to you as you so often had done to us. We were numb in profound grief that a person so much larger than the gentle giant himself was moving on and leaving us behind. We loved you so dearly and wanted to ease your transition from this world to the next. We couldn’t stop your disease. And somewhere in the middle of the second verse of Danny Boy (it seems only you and I could ever correctly remember the lyrics to that second verse!), you took your final breath and that great heart was forever stilled—and with it an era ended.

I’d like to think that at the moment when your burden was finally lifted, a long ship hovered just off Flag Rock, a ram’s horn sounded across the bay, and you boarded— eager to begin your next journey— another great voyage of discovery.

Dad, somewhere along the way in the last 10 years or so, I realized that you were and always have been, my best friend, my DB. I know that I have been truly blessed to experience this in my life. And I will never meet another like you.