IN MEMORIAM – DON BRUNNQUELL

JANUARY 1, 2024 – The day before I was to undergo a stem cell transplant in treatment of multiple myeloma, he and his wife Sally visited us on our back porch. Don had just been diagnosed with liver cancer, metastasized from duodenal cancer, it later turned out, and was slated to begin his own treatment in early September, 2022. At the time he still looked robust, and I was encouraged by his optimism. Sally too projected a positive outlook. They spoke cautiously but with reasonable confidence. They wished me well with my upcoming procedure.

Nevertheless, their news was a blow.

In the hundreds of times pre-Covid that I had traipsed down to Don and Sally’s big old warm welcoming house near Macalester College to rehearse music with Sally, Don was usually on hand. Sometimes he’d make only a brief appearance, greeting me warmly, then letting Sally know the status of plans regarding one of the innumerable activities that consumed their lives together and intertwined with family and wide circles of friends.

Many times, however, Don would listen to us rehearse, especially as the dates of our annual “Fiddler under the Roof” winter house concert series drew near. In his inimitable way, Don would offer encouragement and helpful suggestions. His encyclopedic knowledge of classical music was matched only by his endless command of other genres of music.  His musicianship itself—voice, guitar, song writing—was highly accomplished. Moreover, his sensitive ear was accompanied by his ability to communicate what he heard and how it could be improved. I was never made nervous by his attentive listening and critiques. By his presence I was always inspired to do my best. With confident competence, he actively ensured the successful production of our events.

On occasion at the house Don would appear with his long-time friend, Steve Maxwell, and Jay Scoggin, Sally’s older brother, after the three had been rehearsing for their own gigs performing from their huge repertoire of folk music. Stealin’ Home, as they billed themselves, always stole the show, especially when they performed right there in Don and Sally’s home, packed with a million of their two million close friends.

At other times, we’d talk about the latest developments in the lives of Don and Sally’s remarkable sons, Mike and Will, whose personalities and accomplishments reflected the deepest qualities of their parents’ tightly interwoven interests, intellects, and engagement with the world.

Or we’d talk about that wider world. Though he was a natural but also highly intentional and disciplined scholar of history, psychology, philosophy, and ethics, Don never pontificated; he listened attentively. His responses and opinions were always thoughtfully packaged in an informed understanding of things. Except by his or Sally’s reference here, another there, or from other sources would a person learn the full breadth of Don’s academic and professional accomplishments: a history major at Lawrence University where he and Sally were classmates; a Fulbright Scholar at the University of Würtzburg; a PhD in child psychology at the University of Minnesota; a masters in philosophy, with a focus on ethics, also from the University of Minnesota; a 23-year directorship of the Office of the Office of Ethics during Don’s 36 years of work at Children’s Hospitals and Clinics of Minnesota; an 18-year chairmanship of the Institutional Review Board at Children’s Hospital, overseeing protection of research subjects; not to mention Don’s decades of counseling families in end-of-life decision-making for terminally ill children.

Always learning, always engaging, Don was the consummate host, world traveler, and . . . northwoods cabin owner. Some of my fondest memories of Don were his hilarious stories about “mishaps” at the cabin that his and Sally’s family shared with Sally’s brothers and their families.

Don was always as down to earth as he was traveling figuratively far above it and actually around it. He was one of those rare individuals whose attention to the details at hand was as focused as his big-picture perspective was comprehensive. No encounter with Don ever left a person feeling troubled or diminished; only inspired, uplifted and better informed.

At other times, Don would descend from the upper reaches of the house with a fresh poem in hand and heart. Wednesday nights, I remember, were “poetry nights” when he and Dave McDonald—another published poet, our mutual friend and former law partner of Sally—would read and critique each other’s poetry.

Among his innumerable skills and proficiencies, Don’s gift for language was paramount. Invariably he spoke and wrote with clarity, substance, and accessibility. To his poetry he brought dignity to the soul, elegance to the human condition, and insight into the mundane as well as the magnificent. It reminded me of “pretension-free” Scandinavian design, except with his pen he painted from a broad palette of color giving his poetry life, warmth, and humor.

One time years ago, Don read several poems about music. They were so superb I asked if I could have print-outs. He obliged me with four, along with a light-hearted “encore” called “Punctuation (Illustrated).” Soon thereafter I re-read them, smiled, and placed them in a manila folder. On the tab I penciled “Special”—perhaps in hope that I’d later refine the designation for thoughtful organization and preservation.

The folder wound up among other folders and papers destined for “later filing.”

Years passed. One day—who knows when, but I’m sure it was either 10 below zero outside or raining all day—I got around to filing, if not necessarily organizing, a foot-high pile of papers precariously stacked under a “TO BE FILED” post-it note. Many of the papers included my own writing—some finished, much unfinished work, all better left for later disposition. Some initial organization devolved to a more generalized repository, as in boxes labeled, “MISC.”

Late this past Saturday night I was rummaging through shelves and boxes in a bedroom closet stuffed with reams of correspondence and other writings that had long ago been consigned to darkness. I was looking for shreds that would illuminate work on my latest blog series. In the mix of one box I found that manila folder marked (temporarily), “Special.” I’d long forgotten its contents, but curiosity interrupted my larger search.

Still inside the folder were the five poems that Don had recited, then kindly given me that evening a long decade ago. I sat down, and jettisoning all sense of time, I read them carefully. Each I savored as if it were Belgian chocolate.

On my mind, of course, was Don’s final approach to the end of life; eight days before Sally had sent out word that Don had entered hospice. I’d last seen him two weeks before during a rehearsal for a house concert planned for May. He’d been struggling with discomfort and fatigue and was reduced to a shadow of his former vitality. We played part of the Dvorak Romance for him while he sat nearby. I could see him out of the corner of my eye, and as always, his presence, however compromised by ill-health, still had a positive effect. When we finished, he summoned the effort to say, “That was nice,” then rose and disappeared from the room.

The next morning I received the link to Sally’s latest post on Caring Bridge: “Don died peacefully last night . . .” I sat down in our living room to process the inevitable news. Our eight-year-old granddaughter, who’d spent the night with us, saw tears spilling from my eyes.

“What’s wrong, Grandpa?” she asked.

“Remember our friend Don I told you about?”

“Yeah.”

“He died last night.”

She plunked herself down next to me and put her arm across my shoulders. “Try to think of something that will make you happy, Grandpa,” she said. It was exactly the kind of thing Don would have suggested to Illiana to do and say to lift my spirits. For her sake—and for my own grieving soul—I thought of the delight this precious child brings to the world . . . and I smiled. A moment later I picked up the “Special” folder, still near at hand. I reread my favorite of the five poems:

How All Art Portends

How all the arts portend the

Essential truth of the

Human condition:

Time passes, and

We pass on while

Art pretends, on

Our behalf, that

Time has stopped, if even a

Moment, stilled, frame by

Frame,

The song,

The story,

The shutter,

The brush, all

Hurtling toward one still moment of

Truth.

If ever a person lived life as a work of art, it was our friend, Don Brunnquell. By the art of his life, encapsulated by his poetry, he left the world a better place. May we who knew and loved him aspire to inspire as he did with every word in every encounter.

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© 2024 by Eric Nilsson