Last Friday, April 3rd, my dad passed away. It breaks my heart to speak of him in the past tense, and I’m already mourning the long conversations that won’t be coming, the things his grandchildren will do that he won’t be around to see, and the places I’ll go that I wish he could experience with me.
James Russell Mackoy was a brilliant, kind and gentle man, but also stubborn in the mode of a deeply rooted plant, determined to grow just where it is regardless of convenience or condition. He was an early computer programmer, and spent his service during the Vietnam War installing and maintaining computer systems for the government as part of the Air Force. Throughout my childhood, the trunk of his car was generally full of cards full of code, computer parts, and books, as well as hunting gear and hats to protect his bare scalp from the sun as he tromped around outside.
He was both an armchair intellectual and an outdoorsman, keen to explore the world through books and sensitive to the changing seasons’ flora and fauna. I remember him always being able to rustle up a spoon and small container to scoop up baby trees that sprouted in inopportune spots, so he could replant them elsewhere to give them a better chance or a bigger purpose. He showed me which plants to snack from, and which to stay away from; how to watch for animal tracks on the path, and how to recognize which critters could be dangerous as I played in the woods. He always wanted to fix things, to save them and repurpose them, always reluctant to throw anything away in case it could be useful.
As a child, he did Roman riding exhibitions and was so bendy he could fold himself in half like a gymnast. His family moved from California to Missouri when he was still young, where he then grew up on farm that became a crucial part of what is now the Tarkio Prairie Conservation Area, his own father having recognized the rarity of some of the plants and animals that still resided on the land there. Part of his schooling was in a one room schoolhouse, and I recall him saying that the first house they lived in out there had no electricity, and water had to be pumped by hand from the well. Over his eight decades of life, he witnessed a huge amount of technological and social change, participating in some and bemoaning plenty as well.
Whether I lived in Missouri, Colorado, California, or England, Dad was always reading in the background, traveling with me through the news and magazines so he was ready for our next phone call. He constantly surprised me with the mundane details he had picked up about wherever I was, how he would ask about my friends he had met only once or twice, attentive to these as points of connection even when distance or other difficulties got in the way. To paraphrase Gibran, he always endeavored to dwell with me in the house of tomorrow, and visit it as I lived my dreams.
His subscriptions to National Geographic and Scientific American went with me up into willow trees on hot Missouri summer days, where I would read and wonder about the world out there, even while loving the breeze through the rustling branches just where I was. If I dreamed big, in was in no small part because his own voracious intellect demanded constant input, and there was plenty of material laying around to encourage imagination.
In his final days, we talked about all the baby cedars I saw him bring home, and he said, “Some of them are probably still growing.” I hold that hope in my heart, too, even as I mourn the tall tree that has fallen.
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