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At home, traveling, or socially, we recall Larry with pipe in hand, perhaps a loyal dog nearby, exploring an idea, or concentrating on his next move in a game.
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I met Larry as a Law and Philosophy student at the University of Texas at Austin in 2006. Inspired by his course in legal epistemology, I wrote a paper that only someone like Larry could appreciate. There was too much math for the average philosopher and too much philosophy for the average mathematician. Larry invited me to UNAM to present my paper, and this kicked off a number of exchanges over the span of a couple of years. One my fondest memories is of Larry telephoning my home in Austin. My wife, Janet, answered. Larry asked to speak with me, introducing himself as my friend. I was touched by that. I am very sorry to hear the news of his passing and find the world a little less bright today.
My deepest sympathies on the passing of your father, Heather. The parallels between your father and mine are striking — college professors, a love of (addiction to?) intellectual conversation, disinterested in physical activity / sport, etc. Having an unusual father may have resulted in embarrassment as a youngster, but any related intrepidation, for me, was replaced by a deep appreciation as I matured. I hope the memories of your father continue to encourage, challenge, comfort, and sustain you.
An Open Letter to My Deeply Loved Big Brother
I’d just like to share with you, Larry, what it has meant to me to know you and have you for my big brother. Knowing you and living with you in our family of origin, as I reflect I realize that you came to this Earth and lived as if you always knew fully who you were – and just as importantly who you were not. It was as if Mom and Dad were there to provide the safe harbor for you to grow into you, rather than be your guides/teachers – and unlike most of us, you defined yourself not with your parent’s characteristics – absorbing their strengths or shortcomings. You were from the start and always remained distinctly you. Your family had the privilege to know you and ride on this road with you – and what a fulfilling ride it has been – but we really were not influencing or shaping you. You came with your purpose and all the pieces of life, chapter after chapter, fell beautifully into place to support that destiny.
When I think of being your sister, I will always beam as I love to remember how you indeed did shape who I am:
How you doted on me and made me feel so smart and exceptional and gifted (whether I was or not). I always held you in the esteemed position as the 2nd loving Dad in my life.
Silly laughing times; you were funny! How you loved to tease your sister and make me laugh. I feel privileged to have known the rascally, goofy side of you – rarely seen by others.
Like debts of teasing owed back to you in my bank, I remember plotting pranks on you in my later life like whipped cream pies in the face. And what about the black “soap” you found in your shower when your dog Susie needed to be washed after rolling in yuck outside? Your hands turned black with no soap bubbles to be found in that dog’s fur. (Sorry! Sort of …)
Sitting on the couch together when I was only 7 or 8 years old, with you making up logical syllogisms, and mixing in topics of belches and farts to keep the rationality lessons amusing. My logical and critical thinking process through life has its roots in that foundation and I thank you for that.
Your stamp collection, you in your boy scout uniform, you proudly playing your accordian, you as President of the Unity Church’s high school youth group. (I know you don’t want anyone to see this paragraph.)
On family trips – at K.U. in Lawrence, Ohio Wesleyan, Princeton, wading in Colorado’s streams, DC, NY World’s Fair, Ithaca, Cambridge, London, Squirrel Hill, Hawaii, Mexico – remember the teaching machine you had in Lawrence – the precursor to the earliest computers – that you so patiently taught me to use?
Your first talk with me at age 12, submitting my blind belief in God to a logical test; then me pronouncing to Mom and Dad that I would not be going to church anymore. I didn’t go to Unity again until I was 36 years old.
My first chemistry set because I wanted to be a chemist and work beside you in your lab some day. And then you changed direction.
Memorable days when you’d drive with just you and me in our black and white 1955 Oldsmobile sedan, with your head hanging out the window as you made heaving monster sounds to my complete delight and belly laughs.
Car outings with you and me to the dime store to buy wooden and rubber band airplanes and water rockets to launch together.
Hearing you practice your debate voice for hours at a time in our basement when you were in high school, mounting a fierce effort to eliminate your Texas accent, which was never again to be detected for the rest of your life.
Receiving your eagerly awaited special letters and audio tapes while you were away at college or in England.
The joyous day you were my hero and brought me the rescue dog Mom and Dad wouldn’t allow me to have – wonderful Frisky. (After Pepito the finicky chihuahua didn’t quite work out.) What a great dog Frisky was! I still talk to my dogs in the tender way you have always spoken to your dogs. You have such a sweet love for your dogs – I too can’t be without one in my life.
Being my confidante amidst all my teen crises and butting heads with Mom and Dad as I sorted out who I was becoming. Because of my older brother, I was way ahead of my years in my aspirations and also in my standards of what constitutes a desirable boyfriend. You set a high bar for the standards of what I would look for in a man. (Remember the letter I wrote to Dan Swihart after I was the Jr. Bridesmaid in your wedding?) I remember crying and crying that you and Bonnie were moving away to Princeton and Dad tried so intently to comfort me.
Being my advisor in my efforts to finish high school a year early and all of your aspirational college advice.
Welcoming me into your sweet relationship with Bonnie, your first love and your first wife – so I could have a much wished for “big sister.” When you were in high school, I fondly remember sleep-overs at her house, sewing doll clothes together, cooking, gladiolas. I even made it into your prom photos standing in between the two of you in my princess dress! You really did indulge me.
Because of you – and an assertive Mom and a sometimes temper-driven, yet tender-hearted Dad, I haven’t ever been intimidated by strong assured men and can intellectually joust with the best of them. You always believed I was up to any debate or challenge you might deliver – to my fear and delight!
All the games you played with me – remember how fast you were at playing “Hell?” As a result, I love games (and strategic are the best) and I’m passing that joy on to my grandchildren.
The predictable position you took at any family gathering – on the couch, pipe in hand, one leg folded under you (I sit the same way). Poised to intellectually pounce, you were! I would eagerly await hearing the provocative questions you might pose for this conversation with the family – which always sparked a stimulating, lively conversation – only the kind that you could initiate. And you nearly always won the argument, having built the most articulately elegant, irrefutable case and disarming all your victims with your oh, so friendly, reasonable and brilliant debating style.
You guiding me in how to say goodbye – step-by-step – to our house in Texas as we left to move to Kansas City. You walked me through the whole house telling me gently, “Say good bye to your swing in the back yard. Say good bye, kitchen. Goodbye, my room.” It was tender and offered a peek at how sentimental you were underneath your collected reasonable presence.
I’ve always treasured this memory and I share it as an example of unconditional sibling love to my grandchildren: I was 6-7 years old and annoyingly trying to persuade you to take me with you and Bonnie on your “date night.” You repeated a firm no after my incessant pleading and I began to cry and I yelled, “I hate you!” And you softly, deliberately said as you left the room, “Well . . . I love you.” I was left speechless and I will never forget that moment.
Speaking of unforgettable – Rachel, your brilliant wife and life partner of fifty years, has always been an inspirational woman to me and a joy to be with. Her deep love for you and her inner strength and resourcefulness have been so beautifully expressed as she navigated the difficult stages of you departing this world. Her steadfast devotion, all the patient actions each day to comfort you, her kind voice and touch, can only be explained by her extraordinary and tremendous love for you.
I wish we could have one of our lively debates today. I’d certainly trigger your debating spirit as I’d tell you about my journey in juggling the balance of two opposing dialogues in my head – at once your old familial questions of logic and proof about a belief in “God” and my adult efforts in unraveling for myself the mystery of the soul and the nature of spirit that rings true for me. I would tell you that I brought a certain kind of scientific inquiry of “proof” to my quest to answer this question. Suffice to say, that although I grant you that you have been right about much in life, I also believe that you will see there is much more for you to discover that we can’t see and measure in this Earth life. I believe you may now have already discovered another chapter awaiting you in your soul’s journey beyond this one. And the irony is that you have now uncovered the answer to that existential question! Might I have won just this one debate? We shall see, dear brother.
Larry, I hold the deepest gratitude for all that you’ve been as a brother who very importantly shaped who I am. I treasure the love and laughter and learning in being your sister.
I will forever hold you in my heart – and pray that wherever you are – you feel the peace and comfort and love that your little sister is wrapping around you like a warm blanket.
So much love,
Marilyn
Larry me contagió su gusto por “Hallelujah”, la joya de canción compuesta por Cohen. En alguna reunión, tuve la oportunidad de tocarla en la guitarra para él y su amada Rachel. Revisando la correspondencia que mantuvimos por muchos años, me encontré con un correo de 2012 en el que, haciendo referencia a aquella ocasión, Larry simplemente ponía: “Edgar, I thought of you when I saw and heard this brief BBC video on the history of Leonard Cohen’s HalleluJah. Enjoy!” Su partida ha hecho que en mi interior resuene, como dice uno de los versos de Cohen, un “… cold and broken hallelujah…” Mis más sentidas condolencias para su familia, amigos, alumnos… especialmente para Rachel Laudan
Universidad Autónoma del Estado de México
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uMrZ7lChK-g
I always knew my Dad wasn’t like anyone else’s.
That was as it should be, from my perspective, though there were times (mostly around the age when I was questioning whether, and if so, how, to be more like my peers) when I wished he followed the script.
Some of my earliest memories are of sitting on our front porch, counting cars, hoping for the next one to be my Dad coming home from work, looking forward to playing with him on the floor of my room. I didn’t recognize that it was anything but a game on my floor, but the early Boolean logic practice carved a groove in my brain. He and Mom also snuck memory tests into games on the kitchen counter, where I was blindfolded and quizzed on what spices I could name by smell. I loved going with him to the enormous Carnegie Library for a big bunch of picture and story books and exploring the dinosaur exhibits at the Carnegie Natural History Museum, where my many questions and speculations were met with thoughtful and thorough responses, or sometimes a curious “I don’t know – let’s look into this more together”.
Dad showed me how to find my way in new places and cultures, starting (in my memories) when our family lived in Vienna in the early 70s. Together, we explored historic and scenic sites. Brimful of sureness as a 5 year old, I was encouraged by both my parents to help them at the market, restaurants, etc, using my superior (Kindergarten exposure to German kids) German. I smile at how parenting norms have changed when I think of them sending me downstairs and across the street solo to buy our favorite dessert Topfentorte. Were they really that confident in me? Or perhaps they were tired? They were tending a baby, and that bakery was 87 steep marble stairs down from the apartment! I would head down daily with a handful of cash, and return upstairs, brandishing dessert for all, and we’d settle in for my next English-language reading lesson with flashcards (intended for teaching German kids English), or an exciting new book.
On day trips from Vienna, we’d take a ski lift to a lodge and enjoy wiener schnitzel, I recall the haze of drifting in and out of sleep in the back seat of our shiny bright orange VW Bug while I eavesdropped on my parents, and pretending to be asleep when we got home because I enjoyed the feeling of being carried up those 87 steep marble steps and settled gently into my closet/bedroom nest by my Dad.
As a young girl, I had a doll collection on display. One of my grandmothers may have started this for me. Grandmother likely contributed many of the “international” Madam Alexander dolls with bland uniform faces (perhaps slightly different skin/eye/hair shades, but the same mold). Mammam probably contributed some of the American stitched and china dolls. But as Dad traveled for work, he was also adding to it. Dad’s dolls weren’t like my other dolls. They had unique faces, materials, dresses, and (in my imagination) adventurous lives in mysterious places.
Dad wasn’t like the other Dads in encouraging or supporting sports or physical activities. I never saw him exercise intentionally, though he sure did walk fast when he was going somewhere! I remember trotting to keep up with him on Pittsburgh sidewalks on our Saturday outings. After my science classes at the Y, we always had Arby’s together.
In the mid 70s, living briefly in a high rise apartment in Munich, a building with a rooftop pool, it was time for me to learn to swim. ~8 years old and not having had any sort of sport or physical activity, I was aghast to see the German fathers and mothers tossing their toddlers into the deep pool – no floaties or people to catch them, just “Schwimmen!”. I’m not sure if this was a thing of that time – the way to teach kids, or if those kids already knew, but it seemed brutal and terrifying to me. My Dad wasn’t like those other Dads – he stood with me and my water wings, demonstrated and encouraged, and took small steps away from the side to increase the distances, and before long I was swimming along with those tortured babies.
Dad was kind of clumsy sometimes. Once I got myself in a bind – I’d climbed a tree and couldn’t figure out how to get down. Dad was there, encouraging, or perhaps needing for us to move on to another location or activity. “Jump, I’ll catch you,” he said. It was more of a fumble than a catch, and I remember maybe a sprain, but I learned that falling isn’t terminal, and to think ahead more on my next climb.
As I got older, I lived a day’s journey away from Dad, and it was harder to stay connected. We had calls, where Dad’s style of intellectual inquiry met my adolescent recalcitrance. Dad made better progress during our limited in person visits. We would spend hours late into the evening playing pool and strategy games. He never let me win, so victory was hard to come by, but sweet. He would share his favorite songs on guitar. I carry his love for playing music, for myself, without expectation of great skill or an audience.
On our visits, Dad often planned trips and adventures for us. He wanted to share experiences and connect, and I think the instruction book for divorced Dads at that time was – go to parks, beaches, ball games, Disney World! We had a trip to Disney once, and I may be totally misremembering, but it seemed like we no sooner set foot in the crowded, noisy, commercially-oriented theme-park than we knew it wasn’t for Dad and we bailed. I hadn’t read the instruction book for divorced kids, or seen the Disney ads, and hadn’t expected it to be a wonderful event, so it was not the terrible disappointment it might be in another kid’s story. Parks and beaches were less chaotic, so there was a less precipitous departure, but outdoors wasn’t really Dad’s thing. I don’t think we ever tried a sporting event – neither of us would have known what was going on. What worked better as a shared experience for us was museums, galleries, aquaria, interesting architecture, and historic sites. But still, you had to walk fast!
Moving between 2 parents and their families made it clear that there are different ways of being and living in the world. In one home, a family member was very concerned about Kevin and my use of “bad words” – that could get your mouth washed out with soap, and wasn’t what good people did. But, Dad talked a lot about words – what they mean, and how and when we use them, and he didn’t think there was such a thing as a bad word. My friends all know my great appreciation for an interesting word, my way of reflecting to find the most expressive word, and my appreciation of a well-placed profanity. Thank you, Dad for these gifts.
Dad was the first person I knew to have a personal computer, and he enjoyed sharing this tech with his kids – soon we had a PC in both homes and Kevin and I would compete for time to explore its capabilities. Of course, Dad shared games and puzzles on the PC, but he also showed me the possibilities inherent in a spreadsheet – how easy it is to organize and interpret data, and to play “what-ifs” with the variables to see how changes affect the whole. Just recently, when one of my kids had a question about some new adulting task, I said “I have a spreadsheet for that”. Kid: Mom – that’s so on-brand for you. Thank you, Dad for introducing me to powerful tools. Someday I’ll figure out those other tools – and which one is called the ratchet wrench – those are things for the other Dads.
Dad was not a fan of churches and had not yet met my sweetheart, but when I called, he was there to share my wedding celebration with our families. For me, for this one time, he was in a church, in tux and boutonniere, looking like those other Dads. My husband, Scott, quickly learned how unlike other Dads he was, and over decades of visits and eventually living in the same city, they became deeply appreciative of one another.
Dad wasn’t like the other Granddads either. When I had kids, the question of what to call him was met with an immediate “Larry” – no GrandDad, Grandpa, Pop, Papaw or baby word for him. And babies were cute and cause for celebration, but not especially interesting until they could put together a logical sentence. For my kids and husband, Larry and Rachel’s life in Mexico was a rich first introduction to another country, language, culture, and way of being. Our visits formed memories we will all hold dear – we climbed ancient pyramids, enjoyed food, music, and markets in bustling stone courtyards, and explored old silver mines. We will never forget our excursion to monarch migration grounds! I also remember with gratitude how Dad and Rachel both braved a precarious-feeling mountain truck ride to the park, and then my surprise when Dad declined to take part in the last leg required to see the massive clusters of insects. It was a hike! – outdoors! Why was I surprised? We returned from our glorious trek to find Dad happily engaged in conversation – it was Spanish, so I can only assume the content was something of intellectual interest.
Dad wanted to share the beauty of Cohen’s Hallelujah with my kids – he was probably disappointed at their reaction – yeah, we like that song, it’s from Shrek.
When he moved back to the US, we had a chance for Dad to share memories about his early years in Austin. When Dad moved to Lexington a few years ago, I was happy to spend more time with him and see our family grow closer.
Dad has given and taught me so much. I’ve described some, but I must also mention a love for good chocolate. Most of all, from his example and support – the confidence to trust and be true to myself.
With love & gratitude, peace attend thee, Dad