My father-in-law, Ken Willie, charting his own course. Since Eli was born, he’s loved him, worried over him, and been the best grandpa ever.
Eli pretending to be Grandpa Ken.
It was a day of unusual perfection. That delicate balance of tropical heat and cool breeze, our boat laying quietly at anchor in Punta Mita and uncrowded surf just a paddle away. We were approaching the golden hour, when the sun sinks low and drenches the world in impossibly rich and vibrant color. “I got an email. My Dad is dead,” said Steve, looking up from the computer, and like a shotgun to the heart, loss and sorrow roared through the sudden void…achingly lonely, we were lost. Bereft. Stunned.
Ken was so many things, a complicated and charismatic man. He was cool…he defined cool. The SoCal car culture that spread out across the nation and the world—he was part of that, helped shape our perception of what cool was. He was one of the smartest people you’d ever hope to meet, though he never gave himself credit for it, and had he not been so crippled by the cruelty of his childhood, there would have been no limit to what he might have achieved.
He was ambitious, always searching for that $1,000,000 deal—the thing that would put his name on the map of success. But he was also a kind and generous man and everyone who knows him would probably agree that had he actually pulled off one of those deals, the money would run like water through his fingers, helping everyone else, before he took any for his own use. I say the measure of a man is not how much money he’s got socked away in a bank account, how much fame he’s accrued, but rather the number of people’s lives he’s touched. How great the void that’s left when he leaves.
He was a man of incredible ingenuity and creativity, and he taught us all so many things. I’ll never forget the day, at the greenhouse in Los Osos, when he taught me how to successfully drive a car out of deep sand. Coincidentally, that was also the day I learned how not to park on my husband’s foot. Ken taught me how to tie a trucker’s hitch, a knot I use nearly every day, and each time I put it to use, I see him patiently going over it with me until I finally got it right. He taught Steve how to troubleshoot and repair things and Steve, in turn, taught me. Together, we are passing down that rich legacy to Eli, who is quite the mechanic in his own right.
Though he spent his life working in upholstery, or driving trucks, or fixing pretty much anything that needed fixing–Ken was a collector of people and experience, a storyteller… he was a writer, and a damn good one. He reminded me of Steinbeck, if Steinbeck had had Ken’s wicked sense of humor to balance out the stark truth of what is hard in life. He made me a better writer and though every month, thousands of people drop by in cyberspace to see the things I’ve written, in truth, they were written for him. A way to feel close, to span the distance of thousands of miles, a way to bring him with us on our journey.
Ken was also the consummate practical joker. When Eli was little, Ken had this paper bag trick he’d do, bouncing an invisible ball off the floor and into the bag. Irresistibly, no matter how many times we watched him do it, our heads would follow the arc of that invisible ball and our ears would hear the solid thwack as it hit the bag, and of course, when you looked in the bag, there was nothing but a mysterious lack of the ball that seemed so real. Ken would stand in front of Eli, bag held casually in one hand, with the ghost of a grin tugging the corner of his mouth, and when the trick was done, and Eli looked in the bag, delighted to find nothing there, Ken’s eyes would light up and that infectious laugh would come pealing out, enveloping us all in a protective bubble of ridiculousness and humor. In a childhood dominated by doctors, hospitals, surgeries, and the knowledge that death was not so much an abstract concept, but something that actively stalked him, one of Eli’s favorite memories is his Grandpa Ken’s bag trick.
Ken, more than most, was always there for us…through hard times and tragedy, celebration and wonder. He was exasperating in his worry, but it was only another form of love. He spent most of his life preparing to die, expecting it. And yet…each time he had a major health problem, he somehow sailed right through, so that this time, even though he’d had surgery to remove cancerous growths and was going through chemo to prevent it from coming back…we never really thought that this was it. The thing that would take him. I mean, he was supposed to finish up the chemo and come down to Mexico for a visit. He was doing great. We’d just talked to him and then…he was gone.
Which is how he always wanted it. He never wanted to linger on, only to die in a hospital bed. He was terrified of losing his last years to the insidious fog of dementia. He went to sleep on a Tuesday evening and simply…never woke up. Just laid down life’s baggage and became one with the universe.
It was so beautiful, that night, when we found out Ken was gone. We cried, not for him, because finally he is happy, finally he truly understands how much he was loved…how worthy of love he was. We cried for ourselves, selfishly. Because we cannot pick up the phone and hear his voice, can’t meet him at the airport and show him all the things we know he’d love about La Cruz, about Mexico. We can’t listen to his stories, laugh at his jokes, go to him for advice. And we still can’t imagine life without him. We miss him a thousand times a day and yet…
Something about it feels right. Like he’s closer to us than ever, like he’s right here. I think it was his hand that painted the clouds with gold as we pulled up the anchor. His touch that calmed the sea and made the dark water glow with neon lights, like a million stars swallowed by the ocean, shooting out in all directions. We think it was Ken who made our trip back to La Cruz a thing of magic. Of healing. Even in death, he is here, all around us, trying to make things easier for the ones he loves.
View leaving the Punta Mita anchorage, heading for La Cruz de Huanacaxtle.
Though we’d get a little bit of internet in Punta Mita, it just wasn’t enough to support an actual Skype call.
The sunset threw incredible colors across the sky, highlighting the clouds and serving as a fittingly awe-inspiring backdrop for our voyage home to La Cruz.
Bittersweet…we found ourselves alternately drowning in despair and then exultant for his soul.
