Lawrence Albert Beck

Walt Whitman’s poem, “Song of Myself“ states, “I am big, I contain multiples”. This concept was exemplified in our dad. He was a man of depth and dimension. He was someone who delighted in life’s simplest senses yet carried a mind expansive enough to hold the weight of the world.

The sun dictated his day’s trajectory. He couldn’t get out to the pool fast enough in the summer. The warmth of the sun on his skin as he cat-napped by the pool was his serenity. He’d call to invite us over for a swim saying, “Looks like great weather this weekend. If you have time you should stop by for a swim.” He always closed the call with a hopeful “Ok, Maybe I’ll see ya!” Now, when the sun shines on my face I close my eyes and say “Hey Dad!”

Of course, the sun signaled the closing of another day as well.

He never missed an opportunity to watch the sun sink below the horizon line from the perch of his beloved cliffside backyard. You’d be forgiven thinking Dad was deep in contemplative reflections. Then just as the sun disappeared he’d stage whisper, “Boop!” in a goofy, decidedly unserious declaration. Those quiet moments spoke volumes about his ability to savor simplicity and delight in the sensorial.

Our dad loved the taste of discovery. You could often find him tinkering in the kitchen, chasing the perfect balance of umami. When he cracked the code on a complicated foreign sauce, he’d call us with childlike excitement, “You gotta come try this!” What I’d give to hear my dad once more call and invite me over for a meal. Cooking wasn’t just for sustenance—it was an act of joy through exploration and achievement. If you took it at face value I think you could miss that he was sharing a piece of his soul in those meals.

You can’t speak about my dad without mentioning his porousness to the world. He absorbed life fully. The things he absorbed most voraciously were feelings manifested as sounds. The sounds which he most loved seemed, at first, to compete but were alike in that they were powerful beacons of joy. First, he was enamored by a baby’s laughter—soft, pure, and exulting, unencumbered by the weight of the troubles one accumulates with more life experiences under their belt. His second favorite sound was similarly loud and unapologetic, the “Boom Boom” of his red motorcycle after he would downshift. Handling motorcycles requires a deft hand. The downshift preceded that which he truly delighted in; the mastery of a precision maneuver. Mastery of any discipline was something he held in high regard. Music was embedded in the fabric of our home life. We played an obnoxious drumming game at the dinner table and Dad would feign an exaggerated sigh, twist his face into a mock grimace and groan, “Oh! Not this game!” Before happily making complex beats and waggling his eye brows at the next player.

Our dad would sit nestled between his giant speakers and play albums for hours. He dissected songs and couldn’t wait to share his thoughts on how the tunes were produced, or wonder from where artists gleaned their inspirations. I never tired of hearing him recount the life-changing moment he saw Rick James throw off his drab coat and begin sauntering around the stage dazzling the audience in a sparkly suit, Dad ran out and bought his album that day! Oh, what I’d give to once more be held hostage by his animated gestures, sinewy arms jutting as his caterpillar-like eyebrows shot skyward, passionately explaining why drummers were the hardest-working members of a band. “They set the pace and drive a song forward. didn’t you know?”

Our dad was graceful, almost meek when it came to acknowledging his talents. His thirst for knowledge was insatiable. If someone exclaimed, “Of course Lar knew that!” it was because he always did. Rarely, if ever, did he say something just to appear smart. Although, he could be heard most nights shouting the answers to every single Jeopardy question. The only thing he begrudgingly accepted ownership of was his writing talent. Writers, especially poets, were the closest thing to deities for him.

I think in a world full of forty character communication he relished the transportation powers of a well structured poem. It was story with soul and rhythm.

His curiosity and veneration for mastery and fínese lead us on some cherished adventures. He so admired the grandeur of Richardsonian Romanesque architecture. We drove from Saint Paul to Duluth just to visit a spectacular example he’d read about. On the way home we stopped for burgers; he talked about those for the rest of his life. Another time we drove three hours to view the whopping ethereal “Water Lillies”, by Monet, measuring 70” x 167”. My jaw dropped at the sight. Tears were in my eyes, and I couldn’t stop gushing about the fifteen layers of painted beauty we had beheld. When we returned from the trip, he dug out all his coffee table art books showing me work after work by his favorite masters.

When it came to listening, he was unmatched. He’d stop what he was doing, make eye contact, and listen—really listen—making you feel like the most important person in the world. His kids were sacred to him; you’d never hear a disparaging word cross his lips.

During one of the most difficult experiences of my adult life, I drove straight to my parents’ house, curled up in a ball and sat on the couch engulfed in my dad’s embrace. He didn’t say anything. He just let me stay there until I had calmed down. Up to this point, he hadn’t been much of a hugger. Something changed that day. I decided to hug him every time I saw him. Eventually, he’d stand by the front door with his arms loose, ready to receive hugs, and then his hand would bounce a little pat pat off your back. I like to think he enjoyed them.

His ability to receive, to feel deeply, was laudable. Many causes drew his support.

He spoke with equal passion about justice and humanity. He believed deeply in prison reform and the duty of government to protect the poor and defenseless. His words were not casual opinions; they were thought-provoking prose born of hours of reflection. He donated monthly to environmental groups, planned parenthood, and other causes. He was an avid supporter of “The Squad”. Dad was in awe of those who stood up for what they believed in and changed the world.

One need look no further than our mom to understand how revered powerful women were in his mind.

Each summer we’d drive along a windy path way up in the mountains in search of the obscured, blink-and-you-miss-it campground defiantly named, “No Name.” Once you bumped over the rutted gravel the idyllic landscape was punctured by cries of “Heeeeey Professor!” A nod to my dad’s former profession and his unmatched thirst for knowledge. He truly loved spending time with his cousins, the “Mountain Becks” as he called them. They were unapologetically themselves, raucous and boisterous in a way our dad rarely showed, but we heard tales of Dad’s late night antics. A thick vein of trouble-maker ran through all the Becks, and it didn’t skip our dad.

This summer, with great honor, he will join his dad and beloved uncles among the pines he loved, under sunsets he never tired of viewing. There, his spirit will rest—surrounded by the beauty he cherished and the peace he deserves.

Elizabethan-style Closing Poem

*When evening’s glow doth kiss the fading sky,

And gentle winds through whispering pines do sigh,

Think not that he hath vanished from thy sight,

But walks in fields where day is ever bright.

Though mortal flesh to earth’s embrace be given,

His soul ascends upon the breath of heaven;

In memory’s garden let his laughter bloom,

And love eternal chase away the gloom.*

(I know rhyming poetry was your least favorite but this one is pretty darn good)

Love, Virg