My father disliked the word absolute. It was, he said, an aggressive word that cut out any room for discussion, consideration, debate. If something was absolute, it could not be questioned and it couldn't be reasoned with. This is, I suppose, because he was the kind of man who had the uncanny ability to hold two competing truths in his head and in his heart at the same time.
He could look toward the heavens and see the vast complexity of the universe and simultaneously believe in the simple comforts of eternity. He believed in the sanctity of all living things, even plants -- especially plants. And he simultaneously believed in dispatching any animals who got into his garden with prejudice.
I don't know much about his inner life, but I can tell you that he lit worship candles to Buckminster Fuller, Daniel Pinkwater, and Bullwinkle J. Moose.
When we thought of having time to share at his memorial service, I knew it would be an easy hour to fill. Everybody has stories. I'll tell you some if you ask. But I don't have the luxury of knowing Mel like maybe you did. Perhaps he was your teacher, your brother, your friend, mentor, your lover, or some combination of all of those.
Here's the thing: I knew him as a father, and that's a tricky word, but I have spent a great deal of time thinking about it over the last 50 years. The terrible beauty of fatherhood is indeed something to behold. Everybody has a father, with limited exceptions. Of course. So it shouldn't be hard to explain what it means to have one, and that's the rub.
Everybody's relationship with their father is uniquely theirs. And so everybody has opinions on what fatherhood is, and like newspapers and education, everybody's a goddamn expert.
But let me tell you what my experience was. And I'm going to make it very clear right here that you might not like what I'm about to say, but I urge you to take it in and hear it, or at least consider it.
Mel Wollenburg had an incredible capacity for empathy, love, compassion, and beauty. He also had a paralyzing tendency towards stubbornness. His emotionality moved through his chakras, fueling both his highest self and his shadow side in equal measure. He worked hard to find balance, sometimes finding healing in his gardens-- sometimes in a bottle.
But wheather it was gardening, drinking, or charming his careworkers, he didn't quit; he was too stubborn for that.
His final words were in response to my mother's question, "Are you okay?" And he said: "No." And that may have been the first time in a long time that he honestly answered the question. And you know what? With that, he was healed. He passed knowing the sweet embrace of candor and truth. He was not okay.
But now he is.
Now he is.
I have this tradition. I express my love for those who have moved on from this plane by saying their name out loud and remembering them.
Melvin Robert Wollenburg What is remembered lives.
The phrase “What is remembered lives” is a handy way of summarizing this practice. Indeed, that which is remembered lives, and since that is true, then last week, I can tell you, Melvin has lived the fullest experience of his life.
He is remembered. His medical support, the EMTs at his house, the staff at the funeral home, and --I did the math; over 1,500 6th-grade students. He is remembered by the wayward children who found their way to his home on Ebenezer Drive. He is remembered by wanderers and friends, and a variety of Volkswagens so old that their axles rusted solid and had to be dragged away on flatbed trucks from his land. (As, it turns out, so was he -- but it's proably too soon for that kind of talk.)
Regardless, they all remember him. He is remembered.
I ask you to say it with me. Say him name and remember him.
Melvin Robert Wollenburg. What is remembered lives.