MY FATHER

My father was Dean Babcock.  His life story would fill books upon books.  Yet for my life story I begin to remember nights of stars, picnics climbing up to the moraine to spend the afternoons gathering alpine flowers to press in my blottered notebook.  One night he woke us all to rush outside to see the most glorious Aurora display in the Northern sky.  As the reds and greens filled the sky in laser sweeps a great green ball began to roll across the crimson arc and disappear.

He was an artist, musician, mathematician, astronomer, writer, engineer, linguist, knew chemistry and hydraulics.

     "MCMXXII"
Januarii
"Lunai: Ventus media die surgens nubila..." so opens his daily journal for 1922, three years after my birth.  He kept journals chronicling the weather, wind and clouds.  His daily chores of chopping wood, working on mountain trails, designing memorial sundials in Latin.  His 1920 journal is fortunately in English, though it could have been in Greek (he taught us the Greek alphabet before we could read), German or French.  A glimpse of 1920: "November 2.  Walked to Estes [Park, Colorado] to vote.  (Estes Park was nine miles from our house.)  Snow in the road 6", drifted up to 12" in places.  Saw a young deer near Mills cabin."

These were the journals of a young man who had been raised in Illinois, studied art in Spain and France as well as New York and engineering in Chicago.  All by the time he was 18.  He was a concert violinist, composer of music for flute, piano, guitar and ocarina.

One plan for our place was to build an observatory...oh, yes, he was an astronomer and stone cutters were brought in to cut the granite blocks to build the structure.  When the round wall was about two feet high some guests from the "outside" were babbling about our view and one of the women said, "How wonderful this observatory will be.  It will be seen from miles around!"

That was the end of that project as far as size went.  We spent many a night watching meteor showers, the paths of the planets and the mysterious moon.  Also, it was a great picnic place.  My sister and I called it The Castle.

One summer father and I were looking at the granite blocks that were lying around unused and the thought came to him that we might build our own Stonehenge.  My first lessons in physics began.  I learned about Archimedes and the lever and fulcrum.  "Give me a fulcrum big enough and I can move the earth."

Our fulcrum was a small block of stone and I think it was a lodgepole pine that served as the lever.  We planned a dolman or menhir...the upright stone to be topped by a flatter stone to form the lintel.  We didn't dig any Aubry holes, but left the other blocks more or less tossed around the standing monument that was about three or four feet high if my memory is lucid!

"What fun future archeologists will have solving the puzzle of the Rocky Mountain Stone Henge!"  Yes, he was a punster.

These are some of the gifts I have stored in my 76 year old memory:
        "Serenade" by Pierne...played on summer evenings on his melodic violin as I slipped off to sleep on the screened porch  on my cot or snuggled upstairs in my bed tucked under the dormer window.
        The stars and a wonderful star map, an astrolabe, he designed for the northern hemisphere.
        Reading aloud at night...
        Hiring me as his surveyor's assistant; the chain and pin man.
        Showing us hidden lakes and pathways in the Rocky Mountain National Park...some of which he named on maps.
        Playing the ocarina.  And showing me how to play it.  I wanted to play the violin, but he said the little finger on my left hand was too short.  Also it saved his own sanity.  With his perfectionist nature and pride in his own perfection as a musician, his gentle soul couldn't have managed to listen to the miserable sounds a beginning violinist makes.
        Limericks and wonderful pancakes.
        Identifying the flowers and birds and caring so much for nature that he always wanted  to leave it undisturbed.

As far as I know he never raised a hand to a human being or an animal or raised a gun.
The stroke that felled him and robbed him of his creative hands as well as his dignity always seemed to me a cruel reward for his care of the planet and its people.

                                    Sylvia Tacker
 

    Sylvia Tacker passed away peacefully in her sleep on November 24, 2003 at the age of 84...Her extensive group of friends described this dynamic individual as mentor, educator, writer, weaver, humorist, scholar, traveler, a wife and mother. "Learn from the past, live for today, and look to the future" was her motto.  Growing up in Colorado, she spent her summers in Estes Park exploring the mountains on horseback or in hiking boots...
    Her love of the fine arts came from her parents, Adele and Dean Babcock, both artists and musicians. Sylvia's interest in dance led her to the University of Oklahoma where she also immersed herself in journalism classes and eventually met her husband Harold. At the end of WWII, Sylvia, Harold and their young daughter moved to the Seattle area where she soon became a writer for the Eastside Journal.
    She found weaving to be her artistic medium when she took an adult education weaving class in 1957...She was a member of the Northwest Designer Craftsmen, past president and member of the Seattle Weavers' Guild and a regular contributor of articles to fiber arts magazines. She and her husband Harold co-authored the book, Band Weaving, in which she wrote the text and he photographed the illustrations. As a team, they toured Canada, Australia and New Zealand, giving seminars, workshops and collecting samples of weaving indigenous to cultures around the world.
    She founded the Eastside Writers Association, was past president and advisor for the Pacific Northwest Writers Conference and a member of several book clubs.
    Her connection with the Northshore Senior Center was one of the most important aspects of the last 25 years of her life. Her own interests in the wonders and value technology drew her to become an assistant in the computer classes...
    She volunteered to assist with many of the Senior Center's programs including the Outreach and Adult Day Care Programs. However, her Wednesday Creative Writing Class was the spark in her life. Here, she was a master facilitator nurturing latent talents. "It doesn't matter whether you have never written a sentence in your life or have a Ph.D., you are welcome here." Her classes followed many themes such as poetry, limericks, grammer, discovering words, and writing "one's life story"...She co-edited Vintage Northwest, a senior literary magazine designed to showcase senior talents.
    In keeping with Sylvia's wishes, no frmal services were held. In lieu of flowers, remembrances in her name may be made to The Seattle Weavers' Guild or the Health and Wellness Center of the Northshore Senior Center or Evergreen Chapter of the Scleroderma Foundation (206-285-9822), founded to help in treatment of this auto-immune disease, a condition Sylvia was doagnosed with 35 years ago.

Copyright 2004, Enos Mills Cabin Museum & Gallery
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