Lawrence Victor Oakes

A little over a year ago I was faced with writing a eulogy for my father.  Larry read it, sliced and diced it, polished it, and made it shine.  Whether he was working on a newspaper story that would win awards, or laboring on an entry in our cabin journal, Larry made words shine.  Like he illuminated a room with his smile.

Larry was in the front row at my father’s memorial service, ready to take over my speech in case I couldn’t get through it.

A month after my father died, Larry was stricken with a brain hemorrhage, and for an anxious time I glimpsed with dread the image of giving a eulogy for my friend.  I thought it would have been hard then.

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Larry Oakes and I were friends for 15 years.  It began when my family moved next-door to his in Duluth, and I realized immediately that my lawn would never match his.

Our friendship began as across-the-fence neighbors discussing some household plumbing or electrical problem, and evolved as we became interested in each other’s careers.  I came to appreciate his quick intellect, hearty sense of humor, and dedication to principle.  We had long talks, often about the implications of his stories, but he would also ask me informed and literate questions about my work in computer science and philosophy.

Many of our talks went long into the night in our living rooms or patios, sitting around fires and listening to Stan Getz or Dave Brubeck, favorites of his. Soon we were sitting around fires on the shore of Lake Superior at my family’s cabin, and we began to hatch plans for serious backpacking trips together.  In the last four years we did through-hikes of the Kekekabic and Border Route trails in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness, we did Isle Royale from end-to-end, and a host of shorter trips.

We became close, and during his battle with the brain hemorrhage he confided that I was his best friend, a concept that may appear quaint to the Facebook Nation, but which I considered an honor, because of who Larry was.

He was intelligent, full of knowledge, and incredibly self-reliant.  When I first met him he was in the middle of building an add-on to his house, and I got the idea that it was a badge of honor for him to do as much of the work as possible himself, whether it was bashing basement concrete to install drain tile, hauling an 800-pound antique bathtub up an outside ramp to the second floor, or, to my wife’s horror as she looked out our third-floor window, stuffing 25 feet of pipe into his chimney while balanced on a chair with a rope tied around his waist in case he slipped and fell.  He also chose the do-it-yourself route in intensive care after the hemorrhage, when he decided it was in his best interest to pull a drain tube out of his head.

He was resourceful and tough, qualities that became most evident to me as we shouldered 37-pound packs on one hike after another.  No trail to a possible campsite a quarter of a mile away, according to our map?  No problem.  Larry would simply crash through the woods -- the hell with bloodied shins and hornets nests -- and find it.  While I groused about rocks and roots on the trail, hills and the effects of gravity on my joints, Larry never complained.  As I would drop my pack and collapse at a lake or overlook, he would stand, gaze, and marvel, “What a gorgeous view!”  Later, around the fire and with the help of Lagavulin, he might admit, “My dogs are tired,” but that was it.

He was a peerless writer, as everyone knows, a master of language.  But before he could write, he had to get the story, and he got the story because he was truly empathetic and knew how to listen.  He wanted to not just get the story; he wanted to get the truth, and if necessary to expose injustice.  He went to great lengths to get a story right, just as he went to great lengths to rid his lawn of weeds.  

He loved to turn a phrase.  He would try them out on me, like when he described our city mayor with, “though graying around the temples, he still strikes many as wet behind the ears.”  He was witty, sociable, and great to have at a party.  He loved to make people laugh, if only at Ole-and-Lena groaners.  And he was always quick to poke fun at himself.

Larry was proud of his cultural heritage and Swedish ancestry. He had great respect for tradition and the traditional values of politeness, forthrightness, and helping your neighbor.  He was all these things, but he also took ethical stands on what he personally believed in.  He cared intensely about individual rights, and wrote an unpopular story on the rights of sex offenders.  He got into a personal row over his support of gay rights.  He deeply cared about acting for the social good, like making commitments to green living.  He even figured out how to kill lawn weeds with a mixture of molasses and beer.

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Larry Oakes was not a man who would deliberately cause sorrow.  When I first learned of how he died I thought, Larry, did I really know you?  I now understand he was taken hostage by a force none of us should have to face.  He succeeded in concealing his depression from me.   He protected me from his demons, and made sure they died with him.  

I knew you, Larry.  I didn't know your demons.

I will never doubt the power that depression can hold over the minds of the most stalwart and moral of men.  It took a friend in the prime of his life from me.  It took a husband, father, grandfather, son, and brother from loving families.  It took a man from a world that needed him.

I was at our cabin when my wife called me with the news of Larry's death. That day, a large buck walked into our cabin clearing, where we feed deer in the harshest months of winter.  He was ready to shed his antlers -- 10-point, beautiful and gnarly, with a patina like polished brown ivory.  He could have gone anywhere in the woods to drop them, but the next morning I found them both in the clearing near the feeders.  “Thank you,” they said to me.

Thank you, Larry.  I’m proud to say you were my friend.

Timothy Colburn

Duluth and Hovland, MN

January 2013