Betsy’s Tribute

“Where are you from?” When people ask me this, I usually pause and then answer, “Well, my dad was in the Foreign Service, but I was raised mostly in Washington DC.” So, for my entire life, my dad entered into every one of my relationships right from the start. 

Most people have no idea what I’m talking about when I say Foreign Service. “Like CIA? The military?” As a kid I would say his job was to explain America to the world, that he would bring American musicians, authors, and artists to other countries, read lots of newspapers, get to know foreign journalists, and that some of them became his best friends. “That’s so cool,” they’d say. And it was. 

My dad relished learning. His mind was a trap for a broad and sometimes odd range of facts. We used to say if Trivial Pursuit hadn’t been invented, he might have invented it himself. Being curious and wanting to understand the world was his passion, for sure. But broadly, he believed being well-read and informed was vital to democracy. He sponged up all kinds of information – history, arts, sports, literature, politics – and was able to reference these at any point, whether we wanted to hear it or not. 

On a Zoom call this past March that I happened to record, his acuity, range and active mind were on full display. We were talking about the 1960s and he mentioned the following four things over about 10 minutes: 1) the astronaut Michael Collins’ famous picture from the moon that soulfully captures the lunar module and all of humanity, living and dead, on planet earth; 2) Denis Hayes, a young guy with a big idea who started Earth Day; 3) the 1964 New Yorker article by Calvin Trillin about happening to be on the same plane as Martin Luther King, Jr. and overhearing him tell another passenger that his whole approach was based on love being the most durable element in the world (dad then reminded us the same reporter was to be thanked for diverting us on a cross-country trip in 1978 to Arthur Bryant's Barbeque, a hole in the wall Trillin called the “best restaurant in the world” and we agreed). And 4) he enticed his grandson to read 100 Years of Solitude by quoting his all-time favorite first line: “Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendía was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice.” 

When I was little, dad would stand on the sidelines of my field hockey games and hold out his handkerchief for me to blow my nose. We were in Holland. It was always rainy and cold, and I always had a drippy nose. He was forever by my side looking out for me. He wore a navy LL Bean anorak with the hood cinched tight around his cheeks. I told him this silly look embarrassed me, which he loved to hear and kept doing, of course, and this became a father-daughter joke. In rain, snow, or blistering heat, for the next four decades he came to about every game that one of us in the family played. Our coaches adored him, the refs not so much. Being on the sidelines was his way to show us his love. 

For twelve years beginning in 2005, mom and dad brought us all together every summer for a week or two at a house on Kezar Lake in Maine. This, plus their regular extended stays in Ipswich, not far from where Jim and I each live, glued us together. During this time, dad’s mobility started to fail him. He was stoic, mom was a superhero, and we all adjusted. My kids learned to dart to their car when it pulled in our driveway. Abe bought him an “as seen on tv” portable handle to help him get out of the car. Jack listened with his heart to my Dad’s wishes and responded in the ways my dad wanted. Bryson helped make light of the walker by presenting it as a new type of gym equipment, perfect for dips. Ian built a wheelchair ramp. It sucked watching my dad’s mobility fail. But even through this, he taught us the biggest lessons of life: we all will grow old, have poor health, and die. We don’t get to choose these things. He never complained or got angry or depressed. He chose to enjoy life, no matter how limited it got.

In the days before he died, Jim, mom and I were with him at home. Dad was able to see and was taking everything in but could barely speak. The grandkids each FaceTime called, he said I love you to each one. We watched a slideshow together of pictures from every period of his life. He was at peace. When he was in his last few hours, Mary Jane, Ian, Kristen, and his grandson Jake were there too. We were at his side, holding his hand, looking out for him.

Brother, husband, dad, father-in-law, granddad, friend: Jacob P. Gillespie was warm-hearted and larger than life. And we will miss him terribly.