All That You Leave Behind: A Memoir(50)

    My dad used to always say that everything good in his life started with us. But the truth is so many of the good things that happened in our lives and the lives of many of the people here today started with my dad. He was a devoted husband and father, unflagging mentor, and a dear friend. In my lifetime, I will likely never know a person who touched as many people as my dad did. And despite the abundance of attention and accolades, which is highly deserved, what I will remember most about my dad is so much simpler and quieter.

When my dad and I were together, we talked about cooking, Jill, Erin, Maddie, Ed. We talked about projects around the house and sometimes work. This is not to say we had a facile relationship, only that we had just as much fun talking about those things as we did talking about the important topics.

And yet, my dad’s counsel on important matters was irreplaceable. This is the one thing I will remember most, and I wanted to end today by sharing some of the things I learned from my dad with each of you. Mean what you say. This is a flagship value in our family, and it is integral to living with integrity. Down to every last swear word, my dad was genuine about what he said and he taught us to do the same. Do something you love and work hard. This is a characteristic that so many of you are familiar with but as someone who bore witness to it almost every day of my twenty-six years, it was indeed breathtaking. My dad was, yes, of course, driven and ambitious, but he was devoted, too. He cared so much about what he did, and I know his passion inspired others. Always, always say I love you, or as my dad would say to me, almost every time we spoke, “I adore you.” In good times and in bad, my father told me unfailingly that he loved me, cared for me, respected me. In my relationships, I aspire to be half as loving and compassionate as he was.



She wiped away some tears and left the podium.

Madeline stepped up. She spoke fast, willing herself to get through it.

    My dad had a bit of a hang-up on memory, on its nature, its purpose, and the natural inclination to modify the past to accommodate the ones we love, most often ourselves. In the wake of his death, I found myself scrambling to remember all the times we spent together—the good, the bad, the ugly—with the hope of securing at least the smallest thing to hold on to. As my father’s daughter, I question the authenticity of the recollection: How much of this am I fabricating? Glorifying? Enhancing?

And then I see all of you. The most honest testament to the man he was. Each and every one of you has your own piece of David Carr to confirm my shaky memories. We are here to celebrate a man who touched so many lives in so many ways. I wasn’t super-close with David Carr the professional, or David Carr the young man, but I discovered that those people weren’t so different from my David Carr, the family man.

Regardless of which of the hats my dad was wearing, he could be counted on for advice, whether you knew you needed it or not. I treasure his wisdom but I can’t seem to apply it to this new and scary territory. He frequently urged me to stop trying to wrap my head around things and to instead wrap my arms around them. But you know, what I certainly cannot wrap my head around is his absence, and I dearly want to wrap my arms around him.



It was my turn. I started by echoing the sentiment that started my twin’s eulogy. There is a video of this moment. I steel myself in the present day to watch it but need to turn away the second I appear onscreen. My face is swollen, the dress is too tight, and the words that I so carefully chose become garbled in my mouth. I remember wanting to channel him, in this singular moment, his irreverent style. I wanted to say something unique about someone I loved so dearly. But my brain was foggy due to grief and substances and so, instead, I started by mumbling, the moment too big for me to bear.

    I think you may have heard this but it deserves repeating.

“Everything good started with you” is what my father would say to my twin sister, Meagan, and I. But the truth was it was the other way around. My dad represented a blinding and fierce force in my life that will not be forgotten. When we were little kids my dad would take us for a ride when he had something important to tell us.



I again stumbled over the words but continued.

    One time he looked at us from the rearview mirror and asked us how we would feel about him asking Jilly to marry him. “What about a ring?” Meagan asked. Girls, we always know how to talk about jewels. Marry they did. My dad loved Jill within an inch of her life, and a short number of years later they had Madeline, our darling and ever serious little sister.

Our lives are full of magic, and that’s what I want to talk about. My parents had a wood-paneled and rustic cabin in the Adirondack mountain range; it was his good friend Erik Wemple’s cabin before it was ours. My dad and I so loved that cabin. Dad loved to build these giant fires, and when I say large I mean nine feet and sometimes lit with diesel fuel.



There was a huge laugh and I felt buoyed. I was doing what he would have done.

    That’s the kind of guy my dad is. Do the big, that’s always how it went. Jill would put Celine Dion on the crappy stereo and my dad and his girls would trundle down to the community house to play ping-pong after. My dad would always win and would always let us know.

I work in the media world—lord knows this gal wanted to follow in her dad’s footsteps. He legitimately did a talk the night he passed. I went backstage, eager to meet the people he spoke to. When I shook Glenn’s hand, he said, “Your dad never shuts up about you! He came to Rio and all he wanted to talk about was you. He is your biggest fan.” I stated matter-of-factly, “And I am his.”