The Power of Words, Join me
Birth, Love, and Death. Beginnings and Ends
The power of words is a complicated thing. On the one hand, people go around using them mindlessly and constantly. They are like house sparrows eating birdseed at my feeder. They flock in such numbers, almost as to become invisible, a jumble of motion. Then a loud squawky Blue Jay cruises in and we take notice. A Cooper’s Hawk lands close by the feeder and a hush takes over. The power of words is at once subtle and all-consuming. Humans need words. It’s talking, explaining, thinking, and more. Without a doubt, we notice words in certain situations more than others.
Those times of surprise and wonder. We pause and use our words in ways we hope will best reflect our emotions. The birth of a child: a baptism, a thanksgiving for life. A marriage: we listen to efforts that might pass on wisdom and help explain love and commitment. Vows are exchanged. A death and we search for words. Trying to make sense. What was it all for? To cherish, remember, and honor.
Many of us have participated in all of these. I’ve presided over a wedding, most likely because I could perform fast and slow thinking—string words together when needed sympathetically. I’ve presided over funerals, most likely for the same reasons as above. I’ve spoken words of hope for newborns, emulating that sense of, now I wish upon a star…
I was listening to an interview with Daniel Jones who has edited the NYTimes Modern Love column for years. A particular line he mentioned by Alisha Gorder in her piece, “One Bouquet of Fleeting Beauty, Please” made me pause, mentally genuflect for its poetics in process. The power of six words I had not prepared for: “How startlingly beautiful impermanence can be.” Yes. Does that not say so much about life when the power of words is needed? Again: “How startlingly beautiful impermanence can be.” That which once was can still be perfect. Memory is a haunting place to be, like a still life painting, capable of sparking once-upon-a-time joy.
All this to say, I’ve been torn about whether to make this post, it’s feels a tad too personal, but then again, I’m a true believer in the power of words and writing. How they can become a legacy.
I wrote my father’s obituary this year and perhaps it was the most important and enduring bit of writing I will ever do. It’s not something a person plans for or sets their sites on doing well. When the moment comes you just hope to be up to the task. Words flow. To me, the words I wrote were a reflection on the ending of my childhood and his parenting.
Holmes Alford Semken, Jr., (husband, father, grandfather, uncle, collector, traveler, sloth chaser, friend, student, and teacher) appears to have sat down in his favorite den chair, turned his reading lamp on over his right shoulder, skimmed through the daily newspaper, folded it neatly beside him, crossed his legs, and took his last breath on January 1, 2024. If wishes can come true, perhaps his did. He lived an independent life full of friends, memories, artifacts, and an earnest wish to stay in his home. Who could blame him? On his last day, he was encircled by familiar smells, art, books, photos of his wife and family, his favorite libation, and a comforting supply of holiday treats.
He began life on January 28th, 1935 in Maryville, Tennessee (born in Knoxville), and he soon began wandering the parks and mountains, especially the nearby caves. He considered himself a spelunker his whole life even when his family ended up in Hot Springs, Arkansas, and Rockdale, Texas. His life’s story really rests on the shoulders of two things: 1) His parents: Edith and Holmes Semken Sr. His father, a well-respected chemist at Alcoa inspired him to succeed and his mother encouraged his passions including history and family. I recall when I was young how proud they were when he earned tenure during his 35-year career in Geology (as a Vertebrate Paleontologist) at the University of Iowa (1965-1999). He retired as a Professor Emeritus, although he remained busy excavating a trio of giant ground sloths in SW Iowa. 2) His wife. He adored and married Elaine Friedrichs, his University of Texas sweetheart and staunchly supportive wife of over sixty years. Together they reared two children, traveled the world, created friendships, and devised an enviable life.
He was always proud of his parent’s Southern heritage in Charleston, South Carolina. He never turned down a serving of grits with butter and hot sauce, a plate of black-eyed peas or lima beans, savored a warm bowl of okra gumbo. He was very proud of knowing his lineage was Semken, Klinck, and Tiedeman. He was a lifelong learner: almost constantly reading about the world around him. Serious perhaps on one hand, but moved just as easily to laughter. He chuckled while watching M*A*S*H, snickered listening to A Prairie Home Companion, savored groan-worthy puns, and certainly never missed the opportunity to tell an Aggie joke (it’s a Texas thing y’all).
He loved all his dogs: Button, Thunder, Patches, Charlie, Jenny, Sassy, and JJ. No more need be said really, this is a straightforward truth.
He wasn’t much for motorized items, enjoyed a few cups of coffee to start his day, and had a fondness for things a bit off-center–for instance, the first pet I recall growing up with was a kangaroo rat named Dippy (hint here: genus = Dipodomys). Our family's life on Kimball Road centered around the “department.” He walked to work and was quite content. He frequently suggested the key to success was walking to work and owning just one car.
There were times we heard others speak of him in ways that didn’t surprise us: What’s that smell? Why is he boiling animal road kills? For their skeletons. A geologist needs bones. We had a fair number of student/faculty parties at the house growing up. In Iowa City during the 1960s, serving nachos and jalapenos was uncommon, but quite popular. He attended Hawkeye football games for decades; he seemed to enjoy the losses equally as much as the wins. Although not a gardener he did make a point of planting a birch and two ginkgo trees in the yard. We also had a magical rock garden and a lively bird feeder.
If you knew him well you knew he loved collecting military items, as well as colorful beer steins, ceramic European pipes, airline swizzle sticks, tintypes, the list goes on. If you didn’t know any of this there was no problem. He was good-natured and found what others did interesting. He enjoyed most things in life, and other than seafood, indulged in the cuisine of all nationalities and liked a stiff drink to end each day.
If asked to sum him up I might say, he found it easier to trust the world and if need be, suffer what those consequences might be. He was pickpocketed in Malta but nothing came of it. He carried a lot of cash in large cities and pulled it out in crowds to pay for things with no worries. He walked Central America amidst unrest as undeterred as though he were walking the streets of Goliad, Texas.
He was intrigued by the world and blessed to have seen a lot of it. Stonehenge sure, but also remote geological locations in Siberia, and China. Snorkeled the Great Barrier Reef and the waters of Tahiti. Walked the streets in Pakistan. Loved northern Europe. Toasted the world from Cape Horn. Spotted whales in every ocean. Ventured beneath the Northern Lights while watching polar bears. Wandered Incan, Aztec, and Mayan ruins. Safaried Africa. Explored Civil War battlefields. Honored Darwin in the Galapagos and so much more. He had good timing too: Europe as a youngster soon after World War Two. Russia during the Cold War. He lived an eyes-wide-open and blessed life.
So as we begin, so must we end: Holmes A. Semken Jr. sat down in his favorite chair a few days ago. Arranged himself just right, closed his eyes, and took his last breath. I believe he trusted that this world and the ones he leaves behind will be fine.
…………..
Truly I think: How startlingly beautiful impermanence can be. I love that words can take me here.
My words are a parting gift to him, myself, and others.
Rest In Peace.
On words we go.
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I love reading obituaries—they’re the first things I read in the New York Times every day. They’re great mini-biographies, and I’ve culled many words of wisdom from them. (My favorite is some famous scientist/medical person whose favorite saying was, “Enjoy yourself! It’s later than you think!” That has become my mantra!)
I also adore obits written by family members. Those details—from the dog’s names to the boiling of bones—make the life so vivid. This one is a gem! Thanks so much for it.
Lovely. Perfect.