Honed. Rich Slater
was not lost on us. Perhaps also it was a small act of defiance. It was far better to be able to do something and choose not to rather than do something or try to be somebody you aren’t because others expect it.
“Your Mom and I always cared more about our kids going to college than living in some big, fancy house,” Dad remarked years later.
Robbie and I were more irreverent and far more edgy than our parents. Dad’s irreverent and defiant streaks were there, but kept under restraint. Dad had too much class to be spouting off and acting dumb with the regularity of his boys. On occasion though, even Dad allowed himself to sink into silliness, offering a verbal glimpse of the genesis of this particular family trait. When referring to someone who enjoyed the obvious benefit of second, third or fourth generation wealth, Dad jokingly remarked,
“He got his company the old-fashioned way – from his father!”
“Good work if you can get it,” was Robbie’s common rejoinder.
Robbie referred to Dad as the “lender of last resort.” Dad and Robbie were both neither borrowers nor lenders, but it was a long-running family joke, dating back to a young Robbie going to Mom and Dad with requests for them to “invest” in climbing equipment or parachutes.
Dad also talked about the need to “be in the game.” To him, as a student of history and one who loves exploring ideas, life is full of fascination and opportunity. Dad hoped we would recognize this and encouraged us to search for our individual passions and niches. Doing something also entailed the responsibility of doing something productive. To Dad, the ends did not necessarily justify the means.
When we were younger, I believed only Robbie was lucky enough to have discovered a passion for something that approached Dad’s love for surgery and medicine. Rock climbing, mountaineering, ice climbing, skydiving and then BASE jumping became Robbie’s passion. Robbie was like Dad in a climbing harness instead of scrubs-with the irreverence, defiance and outspokenness traits amplified by several orders of magnitude.
The rest of us Slater boys also liked to see ourselves as some image of our father, but recognized we were merely varying, less refined versions. Dad had the polish of a true gentleman. We each carried the trait, owing to Dad and Mom, but it was something which sometimes bobbed below the surface. Our minds were adequately trained and mostly willing, but the flesh was occasionally weak. Nevertheless, Dad was always the gold standard of honed.
“Those boys just idolize their father,” Mom would say. Dad would say to us: “Remember, I’m your biggest fan,’ his most common words of encouragement and approval.
The West Virginia high school all-star football game scholarship was Dad’s ticket out of the coal mines. Contemplating his own dad’s advice, Dad chose medicine, a fascinating field where he could be independent and contribute to society. Following medical school at Maryland University, his surgical internship led Dad to Milwaukee, Wisconsin. One day in the operating room, he met a slender blonde nurse named Mary Krizek. After their first date, he said he’d call again. Playing it cool, he waited several weeks and, at the point where Mary had just about given up on him, he called back. Six months later they were husband and wife.
Mary Krizek was a hometown girl, the daughter of a prominent local family. Grandpa Chet Krizek was the long-time mayor of Shorewood, a Milwaukee suburb, a respected attorney and an accomplished sport and gamesman. Oftentimes when we were visiting, sheriff’s deputies came by the house for business related to Grandpa being mayor. They were always in uniform, complete with guns, extra ammo, handcuffs and nightsticks. We all thought that was cool.
Three walls of main family room in the Krizek home were covered with built-in bookshelves. Interspersed among the books were many trophies Grandpa won over the years for basketball, billiards and bowling. There were also many photos of a younger Chet, which included basketball team pictures, shots of him playing in billiard tournaments and photos with his bowling buddies. Grandpa Chet smoked and had slicked back hair which, in my opinion, made him look tough. My brothers and I agreed that in his day, Grandpa Chet was a bad-ass – or, as Robbie and I said, honed.
As he got older, Grandpa Krizek’s real interest was taking his grandsons fishing. Although suffering from arthritis, which caused painful swelling in his hands, he was always able to rig up poles, bait hooks and untangle the constant messes caused by four little boys. For us, fishing was a fun new way to experience a different aspect of the wild.
Grandma Betty Krizek had a charm bracelet with a little gold hearts with the names of every child and grandchild in the family. My brothers and I would gather around as she showed each one to us and told a story about that person when they were young. We liked hearing about Mom as a young girl on the swim team
At the age of 92, Grandma was incensed when Mom and her sister Betsy told her it was time to give up her driver’s license. Grandma protested vehemently as her friends, themselves well into their eighties, nineties or beyond, would be left without transportation.
“I pick them up so we can play cards and visit. Sometimes we have a couple of bourbons and when we’re all ready to go back home, I drop everyone off,” Grandma protested. No one ever got hurt and eventually Grandma Betty agreed not to drive. Grandma’s defiance and determination were pretty honed, too, Robbie and I thought.
Art Gilkey was a geologist from Iowa, finishing his Ph.D. at Columbia University when he joined the Third American Karakoram Expedition to K2 in 1953. The summer before, he had directed the Juneau Icefield Research Project in Alaska and was well-known for climbing Devil’s Tower as a boy and his numerous ascents in the Grand Tetons. During the expedition’s descent of the Abruzzi Ridge, despite being secured by two separate ice axes anchored in the slope, Gilkey, in an instant, was blown off the mountain, disappearing in a cloud of white at 25,000 feet. Before his team, badly battered by their ordeal, left on their return to civilization, they erected a 10-foot rock cairn to commemorate their fallen companion. At the base of the cairn they placed a small metal box containing some mountain flowers, the expedition flags intended for the summit, a poem and a statement about their friend. On top, they placed Art Gilkey’s ice axe. Since then, the Gilkey Memorial has accrued numerous plaques and mementoes of those lost on the “mountaineer’s mountain.”
In 1954, an Italian expedition led by Ardito Desio challenged the Abruzzi Ridge. As camps were being established, Mario Puchoz, an Alpine guide of legendary toughness and determination, developed a nagging sore throat. Not one to complain, he was not about to abandon the climb due to a slight cold. The weather then deteriorated, along with Puchoz’s condition. In the days that followed, his breathing became irregular and, in the early morning hours of June 21st, Mario Puchoz expired. Rather than call off the expedition, the climbers pressed on and, after an epic struggle for survival and the summit, Achille Compagnoni and Lino Lacedelli reached the top of K2.
Mom and Dad also told us stories about ourselves where we were little. We didn’t always remember what we’d done – and even when we did, we didn’t remember it from the perspective of our parents. We especially liked hearing stories about our supreme acts of foolishness for which, due to the passage of time, we could no longer be punished. Mom and Dad could no longer be mad and as Dad told them to us in the tent, he also thought they were funny.
One of their favorites – and ours too – happened during our year in Cleveland, when Robbie and I were six, Paul was five and Tommy three. One day, with the efficiency of a veteran fire crew, we dragged the garden hose to Mom’s 1962 Chevy convertible, which was parked on the street in front of the house. The hose was placed in the front seat and turned on. Slowly the car filled with water as we gleefully watched. When it filled up we would go swimming. No one was the wiser until the water level reached the dashboard. For mechanical reasons which were never fully explained, the car’s horn went off.
Running outside, Mom could do little more than turn off the hose. The horn, however, continued to sound, drawing the attention of the neighborhood, especially the kids. Mom had to call the fire department and then wait, as the horn blared, until they showed up. We were thrilled to see the fire engine pull up, sirens blaring and bells a-clangin’, with the firemen, decked out in their big boots, fire