Eulogy for Todd H Davis

I

I have two apologies to make.

This eulogy and tribute is not

short. My dad was a lot

and I still didn’t get it all.

I am of the opinion that poetry

when performed is at it’s best

when memorized. I apologize.

This was written on short notice.

II

The best place to begin is the middle.

I am uniquely qualified to chronicle my dad’s

middle because his middle is my beginning.

It’s the only part I know.

My dad lived for his family. I relent: he lived

for everyone, but supporting his family always rose

to the top of his priority list. My brother once

told my mom, I don’t know a lot about dad, but

I do know three things: He loves God. He loves

my mom, and he loves me.

This last week Jade also said, There is no one

in the world who was more proud of his kids.

If you weren’t impatient enough to tell him to stop,

he would tell you about every one of us and what we did,

and what we were, and what we accomplished. You’d think

he was the father of gods.

My dad and humility aren’t exactly synonymous.

As previously said, I can’t speak much or accurately

to his early years, but based on the stories

he told me he was extremely well-liked, unparalleled

in brilliance, served as everyone’s go-to friend,

had a full head of hair, and never lost a track

or cross country race. That’s not quite right.

He only lost a race when the other team cheated.

Should we call them what they are? Myths? Legends?

The oral tradition of a great society? My dad

was the Gilgamesh of Ogden, the Odysseus of Utah.

Of course, that made Jade Achilles, unbreakable

even in the face of long odds and deepest loss;

Madi was Artemis, wistful and whimsical,

a mystery in the heart of the forest; Ashlyn,

mighty, unstoppable, fiery Ashlyn was Athena

the bridge between wisdom and war; and I

would give my left leg to be Apollo. Most importantly,

my mom was Helen, beautiful beyond all others.

The ten-year war of Troy would have been a picnic

compared to the battles my dad would fight for her.

III

Over the past few days, my family has shared

songs that make us think of dad. It bordered on

masochism how we sat in my parents’ living room

and listened and wept and held each other like

letting go meant the lights would turn off

and the night would fall early.

My song game is in the pee wee league

compared to my siblings, so I didn’t have much to share.

However, I do have a Master’s in Poetry, in case

you were questioning my qualifications today.

I read a few aloud, and my mom asked that I share

some of those same poems here today. I’ll mix

them in throughout the eulogy, starting with possibly

the funniest of the bunch.

The Lanyard by Billy Collins contains the musings

of the poet with his mother, which we’ll have to adapt

for today’s purposes to my dad. It doesn’t speak

directly to my family’s relationship to my dad,

but it’s the kind of poem that would make him laugh,

his rhythmic chuckle like a skipping stone on his breath.

The other day I was ricocheting slowly

off the blue walls of this room,

moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,

from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,

when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary

where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.

No cookie nibbled by a French novelist

could send one into the past more suddenly—

a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp

by a deep Adirondack lake

learning how to braid long thin plastic strips

into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.

I had never seen anyone use a lanyard

or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,

but that did not keep me from crossing

strand over strand again and again

until I had made a boxy

red and white lanyard for my mother.

She gave me life and milk from her breasts,

and I gave her a lanyard.

She nursed me in many a sick room,

lifted spoons of medicine to my lips,

laid cold face-cloths on my forehead,

And then led me out into the airy light

and taught me to walk and swim,

and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.

Here are thousands of meals, she said,

and here is clothing and a good education.

And here is your lanyard, I replied,

which I made with a little help from a counselor.

Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,

strong legs, bones and teeth,

and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,

and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.

And here, I wish to say to her now,

is a smaller gift—not the worn truth

that you can never repay your mother,

but the rueful admission that when she took

the two-tone lanyard from my hand,

I was as sure as a boy could be

that this useless, worthless thing I wove

out of boredom would be enough to make us even.

IV

Jade shared one of my dad’s favorite jobs: being a dad.

Over the past few years as Jade has entered the ranks

of parenthood, my dad has been there every

step of the way. It was a new round of first steps.

Jade has always known that if he has a question

or a conundrum, he can always call my dad. Over

the years, his wisdom and expertise has paved his way.

One picture we’ve looked at several times since my dad

passed has been a four-generation picture: grandpa Davis,

dad, Jade, and Jade’s son Theo. All oldest boys, remarkably

all born at the same hospital. All walking the same path.

All having been or will be great dads.

Two days before my dad passed away I had

my last conversation with him. I was at work, and

some coworkers asked who, in a life-or-death situation,

do I know would always pick up the phone? No matter

the time of day, if I was in trouble, who would I call?

I said my dad. We decided to test our respective answers.

I called my dad. The phone rang once, and he sent me

straight to voicemail. One ring, boom. Voicemail.

In his defense—in his defense he called back

not ten minutes later. He had been in a meeting,

one that he wasn’t supposed to have been in

until it got added to his schedule that morning.

I told him it was fine, it was just a drill. We laughed

about the bad timing, and chatted, but he didn’t end

the call before letting me know that he would pick up,

that I could always trust him to pick up. I said I knew

and we said goodbye, but not before saying I love you

because you never know if it’s the last time.

This last week, my mom asked all of us to share

our fondest memories of him with each other. Ashlyn

said her memory is more an amalgamation of moments,

the only image she conjures up when she thinks of him:

pacing the sidelines with his arms crossed: her coach.

To be honest, sometimes not her real coach, pacing

the bleachers instead and shouting instructions.

If you didn’t already know, my dad responded more readily

when we called him coach than when we called him dad.

That might sound backwards, but to us it was appropriate.

It fit. He was Ashlyn’s real coach, from start to finish, investing

all his time into her success in life on or off the field.

Madi is a bit of a rebel. Of all of us children, Madi ran

against the grain, intentionally or otherwise, more

than the rest of us combined. She confessed that in

her youth she made it her goal to find a sport that dad

couldn’t coach her in. We’d all run the same cycle:

soccer in the fall, basketball in winter, baseball

or softball in the spring. Later on, some of us traded

baseball for track, which my dad was more than pleased

to hear. Madi shocked us all one year by saying she wanted

to play volleyball. When she told my dad, sure that she’d

finally won, he said, I played volleyball in high school.

I can coach you. He’d thwarted her again, but

it wasn’t a failure. When dad coached, we all won.

He’s served as a coach for hundreds—possibly

thousands of kids over the years. His reach extends

across the country, dare I say around the world?

V

Let’s read another poem. Crossing the Bar

by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Tennyson was at the end

of his life, and he knew it. His health was failing,

all the signs were there. In this time of closing,

he penned Crossing the Bar, and later while he lay

on his deathbed, he instructed his children that if

anyone ever wanted to make a collection of his poems

that the last poem had to be Crossing the Bar.

Every publisher has honored this request.

Sunset and evening star,

      And one clear call for me!

And may there be no moaning of the bar,

      When I put out to sea,

   But such a tide as moving seems asleep,

      Too full for sound and foam,

When that which drew from out the boundless deep

      Turns again home.

   Twilight and evening bell,

      And after that the dark!

And may there be no sadness of farewell,

      When I embark;

   For tho’ from out our bourne of Time and Place

      The flood may bear me far,

I hope to see my Pilot face to face

      When I have crost the bar.

VI

As much as my dad did for his children, he did everything

for my mom. To our pre-adolescent dismay, my parents

were very affectionate with each other. They were

extremely affectionate. We never had to worry

or question their love because we saw it every day.

Beyond the physical affection, I know my dad loved

my mom. She learned fairly early on in their marriage

that my dad had a hard time saying No to her. She had to vow

to never use her superpower for evil purposes.

Only she will be able to tell you if she stuck to that.

Even if she didn’t, my dad wouldn’t have complained.

For my dad, duty and sacrifice was a greater pleasure

than pleasure. He’d set himself aside into oblivion

and smile the whole way down. If he didn’t have enough

room in his heart for someone, he made room.

The largest room by far, which always grew, was my mom’s.

He knew what she’d order for dinner before

she did. No opportunity went past

unfulfilled. He’d buy her a midnight snack,

hold her hand, play her songs, and get her door.

Even in death, he’d somehow still made sure

she had everything. A fridge full, no lack

of friends and family to have her back,

and four good kids who’d fly across the world.

He called her My angel. He whispered love

loud enough that us kids both heard and saw

what love is. His soft words, cooed like a dove,

don’t fade like whispers do. They’ll stay with mom.

He called her heavenly, and cared, and loved

so much she’ll know forever while he’s above.

VII

The next poem I’ll read is an elegy. No,

I didn’t say that wrong. An elegy and a eulogy

are two different art forms. Eulogy comes from the words

that mean “good word” meaning “a blessing”;

Elegy comes from the word that means “to grieve”

or “to mourn.” An elegy is generally broken

into three sections, one to mourn the recently passed,

one to celebrate their life, and the third to look forward

in hope, often to a glorious resurrection.

W.S. Merwin wrote his poem Elegy on the death

of his closest friend, a fellow poet. The two of them

would send poetry back and forth to each other.

W.S. Merwin’s Elegy consists of a single, lonely line:

Who would I show it to.

VIII

I thought we would get a warning shot. I relied

on it. I thought we’d get a scare, we’d get prepared, dad would

maybe learn what he needs to do to avoid any other

complications, and we’d get the rest of our time

uninterrupted. When Ashlyn called and said

Dad passed out, I thought it was the warning.

He passed out. He didn’t collapse, he passed

out. He didn’t lose consciousness, he wasn’t

unresponsive, he wasn’t losing color in his lips,

he passed out. He stood up too fast or his bathwater

was too hot. So when my mom called to say

He didn’t make it, I didn’t believe her.

The theme from then on has been It comes in waves.

I hung up the phone and broke down. I called my wife,

Lindsay, and mostly cried. Once she put me back together,

I had to think about getting a plane ticket, but I tried to pray

first. I started Dear father in heaven, and suddenly I didn’t know

who I was talking to. I got control and tried to pack my things,

then realized that he would never meet my children; all of my siblings

have generational pictures, and I will never have that.

Once I was on the New York City subway, I thought I had it together.

Yes, the place notorious for public mental breakdowns,

and I thought I was safe. It was there I had the thought

that this was the only year in my life where I saw something

earlier that week online and said to myself This year, that will be

my dad’s Christmas present.

I have tried to put the pieces back together. I will try some more,

but I know things will not be the same again.

The problem, of course, is that I don’t know what to do now.

What is appropriate? What is correct? Do we mourn?

For how long? Do we honor him? How? Do we commemorate?

celebrate? analyze? imitate? forget? At Christmas,

will he be upset if we don’t think of him? or will his gift

from us be that we’re okay? What do we do on his birthday?

Who do I call for advice? And if I call anyone else, have I

betrayed him? Jade told me the moment he broke down

after my mom called him last Friday was while buying

his plane ticket. He had to enter his full name: Jade Todd Davis.

What does he do with his name? What do any of us do?

IX

The last poem I’ll read—I’ll be clear, it’s only the last stanza.

Somewhere in the United Kingdom in a place I couldn’t

be bothered to look up, is something called

the Arundel Tomb. From what I know, it’s one

of the oldest tombs that bears the image of its occupants,

an earl and countess on its cover, holding hands in regal,

glorious garb. Philip Larkin wrote a poem after seeing

the Arundel Tomb, where he mused on its meaning.

Who knows how much these two actually loved each other?

At a time when marriages were had and given

for land rights and inheritance, who could tell

how much truth lay in the effigy? However, no matter

the truth in the people, the truth in the art remained.

Time has transfigured them into

Untruth. The stone fidelity

They hardly meant has come to be

Their final blazon, and to prove

Our almost-instinct almost true:

What will survive of us is love.

X

What will survive of Todd Davis? In middle school,

my youngest sister Madi prepared for a track meet.

She figured dad would show up for a soccer game

or a softball game, but a short, insignificant track meet

that she signed up for seemingly for no reason—why

would dad show up for this? She hit the track. Like thunder

following the lightning strike of the gun firing, she heard

the only discernible voice, the only one that mattered,

her real coach’s voice: Quicker! She cried the whole race.

What will survive of Todd Davis? On a given Sunday

in a given year, Jade set up chairs before church. Two

of his friends snapped metal against metal, clattering

the chairs against each other helter-skelter.

Exasperated, one grunted his frustrations:

Why do we do this every week? Even when he wasn’t there,

my dad’s voice remained, like a recording. Jade’s voice

echoed what my dad had whispered like a phantom

in his ear: Because that’s what we do. It’s what

we’re supposed to do. What will survive

of Todd Davis? Christmas morning 2016, all but Ashlyn

sat together with our new gifts while my dad

cooked breakfast. We waited for Ashlyn, not to arrive

but to call from her mission in Peru. Once she did,

my dad stopped what he did and raced to the den.

He talked to Ashlyn for so long, checking in with his

oldest daughter, that he let the bacon burn. What will

survive of Todd Davis? Just before the COVID-19 pandemic,

my family came to my apartment for a Sunday dinner.

I introduced a disagreement to my dad. My siblings joined,

backing my dad. Disagreement turned to debate, debate

to argument. My dad, however, withdrew early on

and just listened. At the end of the evening,

I tried to get away with a side hug and a brief goodbye.

My dad turned to me and said, You missed. He gave me

a full, strong hug and said, I’m proud of you, proud

of the son he disagreed with. What will survive

of Todd Davis? My parents played a married couples

quiz game with his newlywed children. The prompt:

What was your favorite date from before your marriage?

My mom had to consider; my dad knew immediately:

Wheeler Farms. My mom tried to figure why: they hadn’t

doubled with anyone she could remember, no inside jokes

came to mind, they hadn’t made out—at least no more

than usual. No, my dad said, It was the first time you said

you loved me. What will survive of Todd Davis?