Remembering Ian

Back in the Daze: Ian and me, circa 1988. Note the little jug of Tullamore Dew next to Ian.

Ian Clarkson, 1960 - 2009

It’s true that when a friend or loved one passes on, memories long locked-away come flowing like tears into the mind’s eye. Even though I have not seen Ian in many years, my friendship with him in high-school, college and well beyond will always provide me with delightful recollections and stories (some more tart than others!). When I heard the sad news last night, the first memory that popped in to my mind was from October of 2000, the last time I saw Ian in-person. My beloved Dad had passed away and we were having the funeral, a full military honors ceremony, at Mount Hope cemetery. Unexpectedly and to my pleasant surprise, Ian showed up to express his condolences to me and my sister Dana. He’d seen the obit in the paper, and was the only one of my classmates to attend. That told me a lot about his character. Then again, I always knew Ian was a good soul. He looked great, too, wearing a nice jacket and tie and had a very healthy appearance. After the funeral we all retired to a nearby pub where Ian and I talked and drank and reminisced like the old mates we were. He really seemed to have his life on-track.

Ian and I met senior-year at Allendale, and immediately liked each other. We both wore turtlenecks, which was the way around having to wear a tie every day. Very subversive! It was the following year, however, as roommates and frat brothers at Wittenberg University that we became best buddies. Our friendship continued well after college. I hung out at his house on Rossiter and got to know his family. I remember Ian taking me in to his darkroom there, where he taught me how to develop photos. I learned that Ian was brilliantly intelligent. I don’t know what his IQ was, but it was higher than mine – and mine’s not low. He was ingenious and inventive and innovative. Like MacGyver from TV, he could make a cannon out of a tennis ball tube in about 30 seconds! Now that I think back on it, Ian rarely ceased to amaze me. I admired him.

For hours we could talk science, politics, and music. We mused about those heavy subjects idealistic college kids like to contemplate, like the universe, the meaning of life, and “all that rot” as Ian might say. Thanks to his parents, educators who came from Britain and Ireland, Ian was as articulate as any person I’ve ever known, always using proper King’s English. Indeed, he almost had an British accent. He was elegantly soft spoken. I don’t believe I ever heard him raise his voice. He was soulful. He was subtle. He was humble. He was self-deprecating. And unlike me, Ian rarely seemed bothered by anything. He was always cool and smooth.

Above all, Ian Clarkson was a charming man. He charmed me and everyone else his life touched. You wanted Ian to like you. You wanted to be his friend. He could be very magnetic. He could talk to anyone about anything. Ian always put you at ease. That’s what charming people do. One part of his charm was he always looked like he’d just rolled out of bed, which in-fact, he had. But that was endearing. And not for nothing, Ian knew how to charm the ladies back in our school days. He was a big-time chick-magnet, although he’d never admit it.

I’ll close this memoire with my fondest memory of Ian; another one that had not entered my mind in over 25 years. It’s actually more of an image, a dreamy image, than a memory. In the spring of our freshman year at Wittenberg, as the days started to lengthen and warm, Ian and I would raise the window of our first-floor dorm room, which opened out on to a large courtyard that was adjacent to The Common. We’d put a speaker in the window, drop the needle on our favorite record -- in my memory it’s The Outlaws’ “Green Grass and High Tides” -- turn up the volume, and go out in the courtyard. Once there, we’d toss the Frisbee. Ian was not just good at spinning the ‘Bee, as we called it; he was amazing. We’d have a relaxing game of Frisbee in the warm day, allowing our school stresses to melt away. Mostly we didn’t even converse. We’d get in to a whole Frisbee Zen state. So this is the soft-focus image I’ll hold in my memory forever: A 19 year old, skinny and tousle-haired Ian, wearing jeans and a loose shirt, standing there in the golden late-afternoon sun, firing a disk my way. When my time comes, I know that’s how I’ll see him. He’ll be waiting for me there in the courtyard with a cold beer, a Frisbee, and a smile. And in that smoky voice of his he’ll say, “Hello brother. Fancy a little ‘Bee?”

For Ian, 2009

Ian Clarkson Obituary, Rochester Democrat and Chronicle