REMARKS BY KAREN NYSTROM AT ED’S FUNERAL MASS
A while back on a long road trip, we listened to a book on tape entitled Kim by Rudyard Kipling. The story was set in
I don’t know if Ed set out to be authentic intentionally, since I have seen old photos of him wearing a suit & tie, but he definitely took the road less traveled.
In death, he is confined to a little box (at least temporarily), but he certainly was not in life.
He was an accomplished professor, but he was also the most unpretentious person I’ve ever met. He showed up at any possible event in his tennis shoes & suspenders and drove his VW camper van until it was ready for a museum.
He was my father’s age, but he acted younger than I do. He stayed in youth hostels well after retirement age & was even robbed in one in
Ed was an accountant (an occupation where many of the people in it can be characterized as being ‘uptight’), but he was one of the most easy going people around. He delivered one of his own children unexpectedly at home. And after his 8th child was born, I asked if he thought there would be more. “It’s up to Linnea” was his response. Nothing ever seemed to bother him, except the prospect of one of his wine glasses getting broken.
But most of all we knew he was on ‘the way’ because he was nearly incapable of saying anything bad about another person - unless politics were involved.
Ed, the most unlikely accountant I’ve ever met!
May you rest in the embrace of the family you so delighted in knowing through the words and objects they left behind.
Tribute to Ed
For June 16, 2007
Julia's Tribute to her Father:
Julia's Tribute to her Father:
Julia wrote this when she attended the caregivers writing group during the week that Ed was in the hospital, and read it at the Memorial Mass on June 16.
My Dad’s eyes are still the same—a living pool of humor, kindness, and self-deprecation. He doesn’t want to die, and he doesn’t want to be in pain, and he doesn’t want to trouble anyone. He wants to take care of himself.
I am like him. I want to solve my own problems without relying on other people.
My Dad is still full of hope. He wants to go home, and he wants to eat good food, make jokes at the dinner table, and pet the dog.
My Dad is afraid of not being able to breathe, and he is afraid of embarrassment and of pain.
My Dad has let go of some things. He doesn’t complain about people any more, except George W. Bush. He is very cooperative with the nurses and doctors. I am not like that yet. I want to correct them, refuse to do things on his behalf. But it’s not my decision.
My Dad still has his warm sweet voice. I would like to be more like my Dad. He is easy-going and a forgiving person. My Dad has had a long life, and he has done a lot of good in the world. If he knew when his life was going to end, he would carefully prepare and leave calmly. But the uncertainty, although normal, is hard to take. Any of us could get sick or hurt or could die at any moment.
Thank you, God, for all the caring, helpful, skilled, and hard-working people that are there at those times. I love my Dad, but I can only do a little bit to help him. I do believe in prayer and in working on things also.
Leaning, leaning, leaning on the everlasting arms.
May 3, 2007
Ross Burkhardt recited poems and shared these comments:
Our first speaker this morning, Karen Nystrom, referred to Ed by citing a line from a Robert Frost poem. I suspect that Frost might have had someone like Ed in mind when he composed these words:
The Road Not Taken
by Robert Frost
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
My name is Ross Burkhardt, and I live in Las Cruces with my wife, Jeanne. Many people have spoken of the adventures they had with Ed, and his voyages all over the world. Jeanne and I were fortunate to travel with Ed and Linnea on several occasions. We went to England and lived in a 17th century thatched cottage, where Ed cooked meat using a Raeburn stove -- the crackle was delicious. We purchased pottery in Mata Ortiz, Mexico, near the ruins of Paquime. We toured Trinity Site one cold October day, and we birded at the Bosque del Apache many times. We also enjoyed extravagent tail-gate dinners at the Santa Fe Opera.
A nineteenth century poem by Lord Byron speaks to these adventures, and to our sadness and sense of loss:
We'll Go No More A-Roving
by George Gordon Lord Byron
So, we'll go no more a-roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.
For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.
Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a-roving
By the light of the moon.