Last weekend, my mom passed away. She was 86.
Losing someone you love always makes you pause. You reflect on their life. And, if you’re lucky, you reflect on your own too — who you are, how you got here, and how you want to live going forward.
EARLY LIFE
My mom was both West Coast and Mainer. Born in Lansing, Michigan in 1939, she moved to Riverside, California as a young girl. Her mom had been deeply unhappy in Michigan and longed for something more. In California, my mom went to nursing school at Loma Linda University, where she met and married my dad. They stayed married until his death on September 11, 2023.
After medical school, they moved to the Pacific Northwest. But that chapter didn’t last. They were driven out — literally. My mom ended up on the hood of a car. It’s a wild story. Maybe I’ll tell it another time.
MOVING TO MAINE
In 1973, when I was four, they packed up four kids — an 8-year-old, me at 4, and two 2-year-olds — into a green, wood-paneled station wagon and drove across the country to a place they had never seen. They had almost no savings and no guaranteed income. My dad was an ophthalmologist and a skier, and he was determined to live somewhere he could ski. He grew up in Montrose, Colorado, about 65 miles from the famous Telluride, so that love of mountains and snow ran deep.
The Adventist hospital in Brunswick, Maine, needed an ophthalmologist. That’s what brought them east — a hospital, a church, a calling, and a love of adventure.
They stayed in the Brunswick area the rest of their lives, surrounded by a beautiful church community. They became true Mainers. They loved the coast and spent many joyful years in Pennellville (a historic neighborhood within Brunswick, Maine), surrounded by fields, flowers, and sweeping ocean views.
HER SPIRIT
Just a few months before she died, my mom flew west with me and Kerry to visit Montana for two weeks. It involved a full sprint through O’Hare — me in flip-flops, her in a wheelchair — and we barely made our flight to Bozeman. She was exhausted, but she loved it. Montana was a place she’d never seen, but something in her just had to go. And once she made up her mind about something, that was it. You weren’t changing it. I’m so glad she went. I’m grateful we had that time. They are some of my most cherished memories.
She and my dad also visited us in Jackson Hole — them in their mid-40s, us in our early 20s. Did they hit JH like we did? Of course not. We’ve talked before about age-appropriate risk — in life and in investing. But they did it. They took the time to chase down their crazy ski-bum son and his new wife (@wild_woman_MT) and got out on the mountain — even if it was mostly groomers. A somewhat derogatory term in the Hole, but still that’s the point. They showed up. They skied the mighty Hole, despite it being well beyond their comfort zone.
Funny side note: This was during the early days of “shape skis,” which were still considered gear for beginners and intermediates. But if you know the history of skiing — Shane McConkey, water skiing, the rise of the wider powder skis — you can start to connect the dots. Water skiing. Snow skiing. Early shaped skis. A love of movement. And the 106-underfoot K2s I ride today. The line runs straight through.
Speaking of Montana — I love Bridger Bowl more than the other hill near Bozeman. Probably because I spent my childhood skiing Mt. Abram more than Sugarloaf. Bridger is one of the few remaining non-profit ski areas in the country. Sure, the terrain at the top is way gnarlier — cliffs, chutes, true expert stuff — but the vibe? The vibe is the same. A community that loves skiing. Rich, poor, old, young — all welcome.
Wear what you want. Old gear is not shunned but celebrated. Wear it out, use it up. A “value over status” principal that runs strong in both Maine & Montana. It’s a northern thing.
At Bridger, you can be who you are. No pretense. Just skiing. Pure joy.
That joy ran through everything my parents did.
My mom never stopped learning or growing. She loved her horses — really loved her horses. In her 70s, she fell off and broke her neck. But she got back on. That’s who she was. Ride or die. You can draw a straight line.
LEGACY
She passed that love of horses on to my sister and her two daughters. It’s in them now. While we were in the hospital with my mom on Saturday, one of her granddaughters sent a photo of herself riding a Friesian (because Nana loved riding and owns a Friesian too) — a big, majestic black horse. She knew “Nana” would want to see it. She was right.
And that’s the thing — I can see the imprint of my mom and dad in all the grandkids. Some love skiing. Some love horses. Some love adventure. Some love fancy (definitely my mom, not my dad). But the mark is there — unique to each of them, yet undeniably connected.
Both of my parents loved to ski. Some of my best memories are Sunday (not Saturdays — we were Seventh-day Adventists) ski trips to Mt. Abram. My dad and his best friend would organize ski trips with as many families from church as possible. If they didn’t have enough people for the group discount, they’d recruit strangers in the parking lot. Four kids, a new medical practice, 1970s inflation — money was tight, but we skied. Always used gear. Always hand-me-downs. But we went almost every weekend.
Summers were for the lake. An older couple, who were dear friends, owned a simple cabin — nothing fancy — and to this day, I don’t think it’s ever been remodeled. Sundays were filled with community, church friends, and water skiing. I still remember the time my dad almost lost his arm trying the makeshift ski jump the younger guys had built. It was basically an old dock with a barrel removed so one half sat in the water. Our job as kids was to pour water, with a 5 gallon bucket, on the carpet so it was slick for the jump. We’d leap off the dock just before the skier came flying in.
Pure chaos. Pure joy. Pure risk.
Again — you can draw the line.
My dad especially loved to explore the Maine coast. He’d hunt down tiny inlets and villages most people had never heard of — places like Round Pond, long before they were “discovered”. This was pre-GPS. You had to use a gazetteer and just go for it.
As I look back now, I see it all more clearly. My parents gave me some of the deepest values I hold:
- A love of adventure
- A love of exploration
- A love of risk
- A love of movement
- A love of community
- A love of God
“You can’t connect the dots looking forward; you can only connect them looking backwards. So you have to trust that the dots will somehow connect in your future. You have to trust in something — your gut, destiny, life, karma, whatever. This approach has never let me down, and it has made all the difference in my life.”
– Steve Jobs
This week, as I reflect on my parents’ lives, I can see the dots. I can draw the lines.
They’re all there.
Thank you – Mom and Dad. You were loved. You will be missed.
I am both an Easterner and a Westerner. Both a Mainer and Montanan. I have the indelible print of both my Mom and my Dad.
I had to reformat the image in the header and it cut out the boat in the background. If you zoom the image in, you can see another boat, the big yacht, in the background. It is named named “Legacy”.
Seeing both of these boats in one frame inspired me to write this post – “Remembrance & Legacy”.
This is not an official obituary, it is simply the memories of one of their children.
It you want to share this with others they loved, the best way is to click one of the social icons underneath the signature line.
