Farwell to Don-from Melissa

My husband Ray Spiteri and I met Don and Susan in 2003-when we were living in the States, having moved from Australia a year earlier. Don and Susan welcomed us into their home, put us up, were kind and generous, and we very quickly became friends. Don and Ray were collegues, with a love of Surrealism in common and they had enjoyed a close collaboration in this field for many years.
My first impressions of Don were of a big man with a big personality and a warm heart. He always made me laugh. He was witty, charming and self depreciating at times, something intrinsically part of Australian humour (easy for us to understand). I knew within an hour of knowing him that Don would be our friend forever-some people are just like that. Geographic distance does nothing to end such friendships.

When we stayed with him, Don put on some old films-something I find very comforting after a long journey. He put on a Barbara Stanwyck movie-one of my favourite actresses-and we bonded over that. Of all the beautiful actresses of the 40's and 50's - Ava Gardener, Marilyn Monroe and countless others- Barbara seemed to be Don's favourite-and it's not that surprising. Her life had been hard and her work was mesmerising. She was an abandoned child, self made, diciplined and intelligent- and she never gave up. She stood her ground. The characters she chose were often difficult, troubled women, fierce and distainful of authority. Double Indemnity was a film we both counted as a favourite.
Don quickly worked out my achilles heel-sure, I was raised by a Hippie Mum but all my childhood crushes were on Cops-in various films and tv shows- slowly, he got the information-I loved Jack Lord in Hawaii 5 0-Clint Eastwood in Magnum Force (Mum nearly disowned me over that) and the two MI5 guys (Bodie and Doyle) in the British cop show The Professionals. He laughed heartily at this, exclaiming dramatically-"What is it with you and cops, young lady?" Don concluded I must have been rebelling against my anti-authority, peace loving upbringing-and I think he was right there.

It's hard to accept Don has gone-harder to write about it. I still wish he was here. His impact on my husband's life was profound-they had a very positive, creative relationship and Don's passing leaves a huge void. I feel an immense sense of loss for him as a friend and wish so much he could have lived longer for Susan and Benjamin and others, near and dear to him. I'll never forget his generosity and kindness.
It has been an amazing gift to have known such a wonderful, spirited and dedicated person. We'll always hold him close in our hearts. Sending love to you, Susan and Benjamin xxx
Your friends,
 Melissa and Ray

Letting Go Of Our Friend & Wordsmith Don LaCoss

Don LaCoss could write brusquely and bluntly, with an almost baffling bite.  With wordsmithing as revolutionary bile, his essays could burn power’s miserable bitterness.

Don LaCoss was a big man, with an even broader imagination. For a small man like me, the stunning size of his stature always struck me not as intimidating but as comforting. I felt him like a big brother or a mother bear; to me, his large presence reflected a larger vision.

My favorite Fifth Estate memory of Don LaCoss doesn’t involve typesetting one of his many articles in Quark Express or InDesign, even his excellent treatise on darkness that decorated our “Revisiting Primitivism” issue. It doesn’t involve discussing theory or action, surrealism or the sadness inherent to American politics.

On more than one occasion, I allowed my emotions to get-out-of-hand when dealing with an editorial dispute within our collective of hard-thinking anarchist intellectuals. This particular time, I have no idea what I was all riled up about. But as my former colleagues can attest, I could really stoke my publishing agenda with ideological fires that then fanned my personal and interpersonal passions.

In any case, Don decided to calm me down this particular day with an uncharacteristic use of  a folksy maxim, particularly uncharacteristic for an atheist-surrealist. This time, Don talked me down by reminding me to “let go and let God.” Yes, those were his exact words—they really stuck out coming from him.

I have my hunch why he chose these words, but in any case, they worked to help me unwind my mind and take tasks one at a time. It was a gesture of love and brotherhood and friendship that really tugs at me now that he’s gone from this world.

To me, someone like Don LaCoss was both spiritual and spirited about his atheist-surrealism, and even his most critical tones reserved for the most obnoxious among the world’s elite were tempered by a humor and warm-heartedness that reflected Don’s enormous character.

There’s just not enough of the kind of wit and wisdom that Don brought us in the world today, and for the last several weeks, from my home in Tennessee, I have grieved and celebrated with Susan and Benjamin and all of Don’s friends and comrades. It breaks my heart that he died on the eve of a workers’ struggle in Wisconsin in which he undoubtedly would have been a visionary and vocal ally. ~Andy Smith (Sunfrog)

My crush on Don

Don is one of the first people I remember meeting at graduate school, at an evening mixer for incoming students in the grand, formal Rackham building. He, Ian McNeely and I somehow found each other as historians in a nervous crowd of students from many departments. I was immediately drawn to them both, but especially Don – I wanted a piece of that! He was charismatic and handsome as hell.

I’d come to graduate school through a slightly unconventional path and was worried that I’d be hanging out with a bunch of over-privileged preppies at Michigan, and I would feel weird and out of place. Don quickly illustrated that wouldn’t be the case; plus, there would be opportunities to flirt with fascinating people like Don. I remember thinking later that night, “I think I’m really going to like it here!”

I never got a piece of Don. Instead, Ian and I ended up happily coupled through my graduate school years, but I was fortunate to know Don as a friend. He teased me about things like coming from a family of communists and dating a preppy. We commiserated about misspent youths. He helped me with a project I did for a video production class by talking on camera about his definition of God – I’ll see if I can find that somewhere.

Ian and I visited Don and Carolyn in Paris while they were all doing their research (I was along as an Americanist tourist). I remember Carolyn explaining how to eat stale baguettes for breakfast and Don explaining how Parisians dug up the street’s cobblestones to use during riots.

I’m so sorry and sad that he’s gone.

-- Mary Margaret Wheeler-Weber

Don's Colloquium

Here is Don's flyer for his colloquium from a couple year's ago.
~DH

A Special Dad

Fran Swift wrote the following for the "Parent Pulse" blog on the Family Resources website, and asked me to post it to Don's Blog as well....Susan Fossen


February 6, 2011

A special dad

It’s easy to become a father – but it takes hard work and intentional commitment to become a dad. This past week, a very special dad, Don LaCoss, died unexpectedly.

It’s hard to think of a young boy growing up without his dad – a dad who was hands on in the most significant ways – just “being” together, sharing insights, having conversations, discussing, explaining, asking questions, laughing, learning from one another, enjoying interests, exploring ideas and adventures, setting limits, having fun.

But that’s the way it was for this dad/son team.

Much has already been written about Don’s excellence and brilliance in the university classroom, in his extensive research and his amazing intellect.

But I want to acknowledge and celebrate Don as the special dad he was – and the caring friend, to me personally and to many Family Resources parents and staff.

One of my favorite memories of Don at Play Shoppe was on one of our winter outdoor adventures – sledding, on a very slick hill. No matter how we tried to position the sleds, they ended up heading straight for several trees at the bottom. Don volunteered to be the “protector” as he saved the day by darting from one sled to another catching the children before impact. No easy feat!

I know his son Benjamin’s six and a half years have already been packed with gifts galore from his Dad. And I know these treasures will remain a part of him as a source of comfort, joy and encouragement as the years go on.

But he will be sorely missed.

Our hearts go out to Susan and Benjamin.

An Appreciation of Donald

Don was a great mentor and friend in the academic life. Over the past few years Donald and I shared a great many ideas on our common interest in Egyptian radical art movements in which both of us had books that were to be published soon. Don was completely selfless and a dedicated colleague who inspired us all with his original insights. My most heartfelt sentiments are with Donald's family.

Patrick Kane Ph.D.
Instructor of History
Clatsop Community College
Astoria, OR
pkane@clatsopcc.edu

with gratitude

I have had the true pleasure of knowing Don, Susan and Benjamin for only four years…such an impact for such a short amount of time. As I walked away from my very first interaction with Don, I was smiling. I was instantly aware of what a remarkable man I had just met. Someone posted earlier on this blog that Don always made her feel smart. I understand that feeling – more than a sense of our own intelligence, he left us all with a clear understanding of our own individual worth and interest. I imagine that the injustice and violence of the greater world held disappointment and frustration for Don. I know, however, that the “lesser” world – the places he and Benjamin explored together, the people he loved and was loved by – that world was one of wonder for him. Don’s existence changed the world for so many of us. Seeing Don with Benjamin was a lovely picture of fatherhood. Talking to him about Susan and her accomplishments – from her work at UWL to Roller Derby – was a glimpse into a loving and respectful partnership. I will miss the happy surprises of seeing Don at the coffee shop, or at Family Resources, but I will remain grateful for the honor of knowing him. Susan Fossen

Don and Rainy

I never taught Don but I think he and I must have started, in our different ways, at UM at almost the same time. He was a lively presence all the time, but he and I also became joking friends thru the coincidence of shared routes (I still think of the brown house on Washington where he had a flat for awhile as "Don's house"), but above all because I just liked and trusted him so much that it led to him become a frequent care-giver to my cat, Rainy. That sounds like a small thing, but it wasn't. Rainy was a fluffy black foundling who was extraordinarily, effusively affective. You could've dangled her by her toes and she's still have purred her adoration at you. And Don just delighted in her sweetness and was so gentle and funny with her. But also, she had been quite cowed by being around other cats but, living with me on her own, she became more demanding. Not grumpy, but loud and sort of a bossyboots. We referred to this as "when Rainy learned to swear." She would purr and shout at the same time and Don just scooped her up and teased her and played with her. Way back then in the dark ages too, music was still often on tapes and I would notice when I'd return from a trip out of town that Don might borrow tapes (disco and hi-NRG--hmm!) or they'd just be in a different order and I knew he'd been there not just to feed her and do the necessities but to hang with her and, I'm pretty sure, to dance with her. I loved the thought of this big sweet guy boogeying around my apt with a ball of deranged kitty love in her arms or on his shoulders. He was so smart and sharp and tough but it was that freedom of his heart that I find I, nervous junior faculty member without tenure or a certain life, was taking sustenance and support from just as much as Rainy did, in our jokey, casual, intellectually engaged but not really bothered about constantly proving it, friendship. I am so so sorry that I will never see him again. Kali Israel, University of Michigan

don

Here are some topics covered in exchanges between Don and me in the last few months: family dynamics, religious iconography and signage, fear of abandonment, guilt, anarchist poetry, radical librarians, Barbara Stanwyck, Robert Mitchum, the formation of political beliefs, (my) continual shock at the political ignorance on a university campus (his response included lyrics from Elvis Costello), political unrest in Egypt, witchcraft, government-sanctioned torture, the general misinterpretation of sarcasm, being one’s own worst enemy, Laurel & Hardy . . . and these are only the few I can follow in e-mail or bring to mind right now. As others have observed here, I could count on Don to have some opinion, or at least some curiosity, about anything I sent his way. I could count on Don to write back, usually with some seemingly off-the-cuff but in fact insightful observation about whatever was the topic of the hour, no matter what else was going on with him. As is made clear by this blog, by the tremendous number of people who have contacted Susan in the past week, by my finally discovering just what the hell he was doing all the time, many, many people counted on him to pay attention to us. His vigorous expressions of dismay at the absurdity of the world were delightful to me. Now I’m forming a deeper appreciation for his willingness to pay attention--to us and to the world.
As I struggled to find a way to honor him and express my gratitude for knowing him for a short time, I came across these words from André Breton: “There is no solution outside love.” Thanks, Don, for loving us. We love you, too.
Jett (Heather J.)

"I feel pretty! Oh so pretty!"

"I feel pretty! Oh so pretty!" The sound of Don hard-rocking out those lyrics from the musical Oklahoma as we tread the same Ann Arbor street day in and day out the summer we wrote our dissertations has always been a favorite memory-stone for me. It sums up for me his inimitable embodiment of irony and wit. By which I mean Don was just so fucking funny. He made me laugh like no one else. He saw the world as no one else quite exactly did and he pulled me in to that world view hook line and the rest of it. There's an image in a story I wrote that came exactly from a conversation he and I once had about how to read photographs. In the days before he died I'd been remembering the time he told me he didn't understand how anyone could stay down for long when there was so much yet to be discovered and understood and, since it was Don, obsessed about. His insatiable curiosity and his intellectual passions were contagious. How else to explain the appearance in my dissertation on Barbara Stanwyck quotations from Andre Breton?? It struck even me as absurd until I remembered, "oh yeah, that came from Don." His complete immersion in surrealism and da-da and French culture bled into our conversations and eventually into my own attempts to understand modernism and film and Stanwyck's configuration within those force fields. Don is a force. Even now, even still, always: loyalty, humor, irony, passion, friendship, unpretentious, true. Love to Don from Beth.

Amateur Surrealizing

For those able to attend the memorial on Sunday...

At the gathering you will be able to contribute to the creation of a DaDa style collage honoring Don, we hope, in both content and spirit. There will be all kinds of collaging materials to work with--paper, pens, glue, tape, scissors, etc. But the best things will be the images and artifacts that occur to you as you remember Don. We invite you to bring along any such thing that you would like to incorporate into the collage.

On second thought...perhaps those unable to come can mail in items to incorporate. I'll volunteer to receive them and see that they get where intended. Digital images can be sent to me by email: lybeck.mart@uwlax.edu. If something is to be mailed: Marti Lybeck, 112 5th Ave S. Apt 2, La Crosse, WI 54601.

We'll be sure to post photos of the collage.

Joan Jett, Jodie Foster, and Cake

I’ve been sitting at my desk for a while, trying to figure out how to put into words memories of a man I (and many others of us) unfairly hardly got to know. I was only really in Don’s presence a handful of times. Normally, I wouldn’t feel comfortable adding my small piece here. But, Don was anything but normal. From what little I knew of him, I think he’d revel in that short description.

The most memorable of my moments with Don was also the first time I met him. Ginny had invited Darci and Peyton and I to dinner with she and Dennis and Don while Susan was out of town. I was nervous – I was new here, and going to meet all these new people, including my Chair’s partner. I didn’t need to be, which I realized as soon as Don started talking, not because he wasn’t brilliant or witty, but because he wasn’t expecting anything from me but what I had to offer. That night, I learned that Don was an artist, and had shook Joan Jett’s hand and sat on a toilet right after Jodie Foster (which clearly impressed us all). We had a mutual hatred for various systems, and discussed how normalcy propels and authorizes us to do some really, well, idiotic shit. I remember less what we talked about, though, and more how I felt. I felt at home, listened to, respected, invested in. I almost immediately loved these wonderfully idiosyncratic people, my new colleagues and friends. I laughed so much my side hurt, ate way too many cookies, and thoroughly enjoyed the comforting boom of Don’s voice, the raise and lower of stories that came billowing from within and moved out into the night.

A few months ago, Don emailed me to thank me for some cake I’d made. It seems stupid to be writing about a thank you for cake, but minuscule as it may seem, it was this interaction that really shaped how I came to think about Don. I had no idea he’d had any of this particular cake -- there was no need take the time to recognize it at all. Instead, one particularly difficult morning I received his kind email of thanks, and a wish to see me soon. It was short and simple, but it made my day; in fact, I talked about it for days after, not only because of the appreciation, but because of what he reminded me. Don understood, I think, that (as Maya Angelou eloquently said) people will never forget how you made them feel. Even in our small interactions, much as it seems he did with everyone, Don made me feel I mattered and was appreciated, and in doing so reminded me how such little signals can be the things that keep us afloat. I kept the email. For a self-proclaimed guy who hated people, he also seemed to love them, deeply, a favor clearly and easily returned again and again.

The world is certainly dimmer without Don, that’s about the only other thing I can say for certain. I’m devastated for us all, for those of us who barely got to know him, and especially those for whom in the great pleasure of knowing him, also fully understand the magnitude of his loss.

With love,
Marie

Don and Carolyn, Don's Bad Haircut by Elisa

Don and "Shallot," King and Queen of the 5th Arrondissement

Don and Caroyln as King and Queen for the day -- crowned after eating the Galette du Roi on the Epiphany. I believe Carolyn's scepter is a kitchen tool for creating milk foam.

Paris, 1995: Don, Jesse, Elisa

This is Don's room in Paris, as described in Carolyn's post. Here he is with Jesse the Dalmatian. Don loved the second photo because it looked like Jesse was attacking him.

What's Up Doc?

Here are some of Don’s very own brilliant words on a subject close to his heart: Bugs Bunny. He wrote the following memorial for his mentor, Franklin Rosemont, who died in April, 2009. Don passed it on to me after we chatted once about the virtues of Looney Tunes.

In an email introducing it, Don says:

"…as his memorial at the newberry library in chicago last july, we were asked to write something about one of his [Rosemont’s] passions, and i did a rant about the revolutionary unconscious of bugs bunny cartoons)...it had been a pet project of his for the better part of ten years, so it pleases me to think that he's working his gris-gris from beyond the grave."

Here's Don's lovely rant:

Franklin Rosemont Commemoration
Newberry Library, Chicago, 11 July 09

The last time I spoke with Franklin was on the telephone a few days before he died. It was a typical conversation for us that ranged widely over a broad spectrum of topics: new ideas, new projects, new discoveries, old favorites… I was especially anxious to tell him about a half-hour documentary film I had just seen about the artist and filmmaker Chuck Jones called Memories of Childhood—you may not know the name “Chuck Jones,” but I’m sure that you’ve all seen his artwork. From 1935 to 1959, Jones was the animation film director at Warner Brothers’ studios and the creative force behind the Golden Age “Looney Tunes” and “Merrie Melodies” animated short films featuring Daffy Duck, Porky Pig, Sylvester and Tweety, the Roadrunner and the Coyote, and, of course, Bugs Bunny.

I was one of those kids whose mind was forever shaped, twisted, and warped by the art and craft of Chuck Jones, and I admit I was a little embarrassed by how fascinated I was by these films. It was only long after the damage was done that I read some of Franklin’s essays in radical defense of Bugs Bunny. Franklin saw revolutionary poetry in Bugs Bunny’s anarchic humor and disdain for the conventions of reality, even though the Grey Hare was a commodity produced by the entertainment-industrial complex. But, as Franklin argued over the years, Bugs Bunny’s guerrilla war on the miseries of daily life is so subversive and so poetic that it spills over the corporate cage that keeps him a prisoner of capitalism.

Franklin insisted that Bugs Bunny’s genealogical heritage stretched back to Cherokee legends of the trickster rabbit, to African-American folklore about Br’er Rabbit, and to both the White Rabbit and the March Hare of the Alice in Wonderland myths. With such a powerful history, Bugs Bunny is well outside of the confines of intellectual property laws—Bugs can be sampled, pirated, and hijacked out of his “authorized” texts and liberated by popular culture. Both hip and hopping, Bugs Bunny has been activated and energized by the imaginations of children for decades—Bugs is a laughing rebel whose thought and actions are infinitely more instructive, interesting, and relevant than his corporate overlords had ever intended. With an insight keener than a roomful of psychologists, Chuck Jones once explained the appeal simply when he said “Bugs is who we want to be. Daffy is who we are.”

Franklin said that Bugs Bunny—like Buster Keaton, Groucho Marx, Pigmeat Markham, and Eve Arden—was a lightning rod for creative rambunctiousness and celebrations of wildly expressive play. Bugs Bunny was important to Franklin because he conceived of humor as both a tool and a weapon against tyranny of all kinds. Franklin wrote: “Against all forms of oppression and horror, humor wreaks havoc—humor deflects horrors full force by means of a powerful shield of poetic intuition. When oppression and horror become total, nothing less than total humor can do the trick. Humor alone can effect a revolution of consciousness.”
Reading Franklin’s writings on the subject taught me to think about Bugs Bunny dialectically: “It is impossible to appreciate the genius of the world’s greatest rabbit without understanding Elmer Fudd,” Franklin wrote in the catalog of the 1976 World Surrealist Exhibition. Fudd is the anti-Bugs, the vivid example of petty authoritarian mediocrity whose existence is dominated by his consuming obsession to destroy wild animals and wilderness and to viciously protect his private property. The Hegelian tango between Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd is an intriguing cathartic parable of class warfare for our time, but it is also funny as hell.

In our last telephone conversation, Franklin listened with interest to my report on what insights I had gleaned from the documentary on Chuck Jones about our old pal Bugs Bunny. He occasionally asked some clarifying questions about my observations, but mostly he just chuckled (in that way he that did) as I mentioned some of the new things I had learned about Bugs since starting to watch those old cartoons with my five year-old son. The boy was viewing these Chuck Jones classics for the first time with a fresh set of eyes, howling with laughter and wonder at this “screwy rabbit”—my son’s observations seem to have confirmed Franklin’s theories.

In 1935, the poet André Breton wrote this simple dialectical formula about surrealism: “Marx said, ‘Transform the world’; Rimbaud said, 'Change life'; these two mottoes are for us one and the same.” Fifty-five years later, Franklin told a story about a surrealist publication he had received from abroad that carried the bold-face declaration: “‘Bugs Bunny world! Bugs Bunny life! These two commands are for us but one!’” Inspired by this Franklin concluded that 1989 essay with some words that I want to leave you all with this afternoon: “Until further notice, the watchword of the next revolution remains: ‘What’s up, Doc?’”
________________________________________________________________________

Matt C.

I remember Don

Like many people posting here, I knew Don at Michigan. I remember well his sense of humor, his kindness, his vital intelligence, and his wonderful ability to have an animated, engaged conversation on any topic. If you were going to be attending an obscure lecture somewhere on campus and wondered if anybody else you knew was going to be there, the odds were very high that the one person you knew would be Don, who would always manage to ask a smart, thoughtful question. If you found yourself, say, at a party on North Campus with a bunch of engineers, it would more than likely turn out that the one person they knew on the "other campus" was Don.

He was one of those people you'd imagine running into unexpectedly at the airport. But, it wouldn't be just any airport. It would be an obscure, tiny airport where your plane had been diverted for mechanical reasons, and you would enter the sparsely populated waiting area expecting to be bored for the next several hours, and instead, run into Don, who would, with his conversation, make the time pass in a flash.

I thought of him when I was getting ready to go out today--how he always wore the layers of t-shirts, and how, it seemed, you could judge the weather by the number/type of t-shirts he wore. If I'd had the opportunity to see that this morning, I would have know exactly what jacket to wear. -- Margaret Foley

Remembering a great Professor, a great Man

Im going to apologize in advance for my rambling. There's so much to say about Dr. LaCoss, so I'll do my best to make sense of everything in my brain.

I'll never forget my first experience with Dr. LaCoss. It was my very first class during my first semester at UW-L. As a freshman, I had no idea what to expect from classes and professors. It was HIS 101 in Wimberly Hall. All the students were waiting for class to start when in walks this big guy wearing shorts that looked like they used to be sweatpants, a very tattered black sweatshirt, a winter stocking cap (in September), thick, black rimmed glasses, and, best of all, combat boots! He sits down at the desk in the front of the room! This guy is our professor?! He passes out the syllabus and says, "See you Thursday." I could just tell that this guy was going to be an experience, and he was!

Dr. LaCoss was such a great teacher of history. His ability to bring relevant issues to the discussion through historical events was awesome! I always made Dr. LaCoss' classes my #1 priority during course selections because I knew he would make the semester worth my tuition. I was so lucky to have had four courses with Dr. LaCoss. He was without a doubt the best professor I had at UW-L, and I had some really good professors.

What I think I'll miss most about Dr. LaCoss is something that I rarely got to experience but really wish I had had the opportunity to experience with him. Dr. LaCoss was an easy person to talk to about anything, and what was so awesome was that he would always listen, even if he disagreed. I believe that Dr. LaCoss and I wouldn't have had a whole lot in common, but I know that he never would have disregarded or devalued my opinions. If there is one thing I learned from Dr. LaCoss, its that differing opinions are good! Discussion and respectful debate is good! Man, what an awesome dude!

Dr. LaCoss, you will be missed. Your impact lives on, and I hope you can feel the love and appreciation that so many people have for you.

R.I.P.
Nick Larson

one of my favorite professors and mentors at UWL

[I'm posting this for Kelly, who first put it as a comment to another post. --Susan]

As I cannot for the life of me figure out how to log in from here in France, I find it necessary to leech off of this comment. Normally I would have just given up and not said anything but Dr. LaCoss was too important to me. I had a very hard time believing the headline of my e-mail as I read it Wednesday - I had said good-bye to him as I left last semester and promised to send e-mails with pictures from my time abroad. It seems as though it was just yesterday I was crying over my frustrations of dealing with "the system" trying to get into grad school; something with which Don was quick to sympathize and criticize. As my adviser, he was the person who suggested I take the history of medicine track instead of medical school and forever changed my life's path. As my professor, he was the quickwitted man who introduced me to all of the bureaucracy and bullshit in the professional history field. As an awesome person in general, he made me a tougher, more concise and more sarcastic historian, showing me you don't have to sell out to play the game. He was truly a shining light among academics and will forever remain one of my favorite professors and mentors at UWL. I sorrowfully regret that I will never be able to send him my thesis one day but his touch will be on every page. I have shed many tears in the past few days shocked that such a good man could pass so suddenly but I feel as though Don would want me to find humor in the fact that he is probably arguing intellectual issues with the Devil (or, Lord help him, God) right now. He was a shining academic light who has left an indelible mark on both me and my field. I will never forget the professor in the t-shirt and cotton shorts. Because I will not be there to say it in person, Good-Bye Dr. LaCoss – I miss you already

Kelly Nussbaum

No Tacos for Cuddles

Susan posted this story that Don and Benjamin wrote on Facebook a while back.  Since then, it's become a favorite with my kids and I.  When I heard of Don's passing, I wanted to do something to help.  All profits of this book will go towards Benjamin's college fund. 
With love I present "No Tacos For Cuddles" by Don La Coss and Benjamin Franklin LaCoss Crutchfield

No Tacos for Cuddles by Story and illustrations by Don LaCoss and Benjamin Franklin LaCoss Crutchfield | Make Your Own Book

Random Recollections of my friend

When we first were starting to really get to know Don and Susan, they came over for one of those late-into-the-evening porch suppers, and I remember the thrill of interacting with like minds; it was like falling in love – they were both so cool and smart and funny.  Over the years, I’ve always felt proud when I could make Don laugh – like, if this incredibly hip guy thought what I was saying was interesting, then maybe I was a little bit hip, too.  I’ll bet many of you reading this have had the same feeling.

When Dennis and I were in Scotland for the fall 2006 semester, we planned an 8-day trip to Paris, so I quizzed Don about what we should see and where we should go. His lengthy, detailed message is a kind of Don’s tour of Paris, and when we walked the routes he suggested, we imagined him all over that city. Here’s part of that note:

“the 3ème & 4ème make up the "marais" ("swamp"), the oldest and most lovely
part of paris, i think. the national archives were over there, so when i
went there to work every day. another walking tour that you might like is
to start at the musée pompidou (a great modern & contemporary art museum
if you're interested in going inside) in the 4eme and head towards the
3eme: go from pompidou to rambuteau, right at rue vieille du temple until
you hit rue des rosiers ("street of rosebushes"-- amazing jewish delis
where i had falafel lunch while in the archives). go down rosiers to rue
pavée and finish up in places des vosges. i think you'll pass by the
mariage frères on the rue du bourg-tibourg on this route, but i don't have
a map here in front of me to be sure. anyhow, under the right weather
conditions and at the right time of the day, this is a seductively
beautiful stroll through quintessential paris-- you will get laid
afterwards, believe you me.”

He signed the e-mail, “I hate you both for enjoying Paris.” J We were also calling each other and ourselves by the names of strange (to me) foods I’d been seeing in the UK: “Dear Nut Loaf,” “With love, Lemon Swish,” “Dearest Seed Meat,” “Your Pal, Scrumpy Jack,” etc. 

I’m remembering all the warm-weather gatherings on our screened-in porch; I’m remembering sitting in the kitchen and seeing Don’s head go past the porch window. Sometimes, when he and Benjamin were out and about, they’d pop in to see if I had anything good for snack-time.  

I loved cooking for and feeding Don; he was a great audience, and I was always working to see if I could get the curry hot enough to make him swear (never really could – too timid!). He could tell a good from a bad pie crust, and he agreed with me that the best were made with butter.  When he liked something, he’d say, “This shit is the bomb!”

It was always such a pleasant surprise to run in to Don. Someone else has already mentioned that delightful happenstance of being out about some business and seeing Don; suddenly, nothing seemed so urgent anymore and you’d find yourself standing in the grocery aisle or pulling up a chair at the coffee shop to get lost in great conversation. 

Susan, Don, and Benjamin lived with us for about three months the summer their house was being redone, and every morning, Don would say to Benjamin, “Eat up, Bug; let’s go.” They went out every morning, coming back some time after 12 for lunch and nap. I asked him, “Where do you guys go every day?” “Oh, here and there,” he said. They were working on visiting every park in La Crosse (they’re the ones who told me about the interesting little park behind Quillin’s, Seminary Park); they’d go play on the train in Copeland Park, go look for wildlife at Goose Island, hike around on the bluffs.

Don always had great stories about “Dada” moments in the car, times when they’d be driving around and B would get quiet and then ask, “Dada, why did that guy fight the law?” or something else about a song playing on the radio or a law of nature or the supernatural or some metaphysical inquiry. 

When the principal at Benjamin’s school died very suddenly in October, I remember talking to Don about the way the Waldorf school commemorated her life and helped the children understand her death. Don was touched by the meaningfulness of these rituals, in a world where so many rituals have lost meaning and/or been abandoned. We talked about finding some way to ritualize those we’d lost, and we swore that next year, we’d celebrate the Day of the Dead. 

I’m going to miss Don a lot, for a long, long time. It’s hard to believe he won’t be popping in with some weird sci-fi movie or e-mailing some anecdote about an especially annoying student.  I love when he had to explain to his online HIS 101 class how to tell time:

“HIS 101> how to tell time

quite a few of you wrote to say that you couldn't take the quiz because
you didn't understand that "disappears on Sunday July 27th at 1am" didn't
mean "disappears on monday july 28th at 1am."

see, this is how it works: at midnight, days change. so it's saturday all
day until midnight.

and then at 1 second after midnight, saturday magically changes into
sunday.

so, it's saturday july 26th until midnight, and then it turns into sunday
july 27th. "sunday july 27th at 1am" means "one hour after midnight
saturday july 26th" & not "25 hours after midnight saturday july 26th" or
"one hour after midnight sunday july 27th". because that would be monday
july 28th at 1am.

are we all clear about how to tell time now? if not, then maybe you could
ask a grown-up for help.”

I suppose I’ve written enough. I’ve been so happy to hear all the other stories and tributes and to know that Don has always been Don.  I'll sign off as he often did:

miss you; kiss you

Virg

In Emily Dickinson's Garden, 2010

To Catch Them

Joan Didion wrote in one of her best essays that "writing has not yet helped me see what it means" ("The White Album").  This, from such a consummate writer, makes me feel a little better.  I love reading all the blog narratives about Don, but I'm afraid I just can't create an expressive statement yet, you know, the kind that will help the tears flow warmly and sweetly?.  To risk offending with a transparent confession:  I feel hot, staticky, dry; hot, staticky, depressed; I don't want to bathe or wash my hair.  Bah


I can say this:  I'll always love Don's range, in the intellectual and humane senses.  With whom else could I enjoy both The Creeping Terror AND Hans Jonas' The Gnostic Religion: The Message of the Alien God & the Beginnings of Christianity?


Don will be credited in the Toni Morrison book for his amazing suggestions.  He gave me two really fundamental ones: the Jonas book for my work on Paradise and  African Diaspora musics.  The project is now grounded in ethnomusicology as much as it is in lit.theory and crit.   Thanks, Don.


Some of you know I have a continual dance with depression.  Don't worry, I'm managing it.  But I just won't hide it, not now.  I've got a mean blues, and it's not going to fly to the other side of the rainbow anytime soon.  


In Beloved, Toni Morrison has her main character, Sethe, think something about a man who walked across 5 states to sit on her front porch that I think best indicates how I feel about Don LaCoss; that this man (Paul D in Beloved ) was the kind of man in front of whom the women could cry.  Because he would be there, in all the figurative senses that that phrase can command, to catch them if they fall.  


sharon j  (I forgot to add this; maybe I can edit it still?)

Brothers

To most people looking in from the outside, my brother and I would be complete polar opposites.  My brother had 8+ years of college, myself, 2 years at tech school.  He was a decorated college professor and I a plumber. I have never posted a “blog” on face book, texted anyone, watched a single episode of survivor, listened to an “usher” song or read a people magazine, or played a video game.  See, we are not so opposite after all.

I guess my fondest memories of Don were when we were both young adults.  We both lived at home at my parent’s house in CT.  My father finished half of the basement off and my brother used, as a bedroom/office.  He was going to college full time and spent the rest of the time in the basement.  Every so often he would emerge and partake in what ever I was doing above ground.  We would play wiffle ball games with my friends, set back games that usually sent him back to the basement tired and broke,  an occasional Red Sox game, or a concert. 

I will never forget when Don decided to ride my snowmobile for the first time. There was a big snowstorm and I could not resist starting up the snowmobile.  So Don came outside and put on my helmet but it was too small for his head, but I insisted he wear it. After a few tense moments, Don was riding circles in the open field with a smile ear to ear.  Imagine Don ripping around the field with a shield that would not close with the word “Wildcat” across the snowmobile’s hood. 

I really enjoyed when Don entered my world.  When Don left for Michigan I was heartbroken.  Now, I ‘d have to watch the reruns of Miami Vice and Crime Story in the middle of the night by myself.

Don came home one early summer to clear his remaining stuff from the house. I suggested the two of us go away to climb Mt. Washington for a couple of days.  He quickly agreed, he wanted to escape the tension of our parents impending divorce.  My brother’s scars ran longer and deeper than mine.  I learned this at an early age.  The hike to the top of Mt. Washington is about 5 hours.  The last 1 mile of it is above the tree line.   We had to climb up boulders the size of cars. At about the 4 hour mark, Don was getting noticeably fatigued and tired.  Of course his Vietnam era combat boots with broken laces and his cut off sweat pants did not help.  He agreed to stop and rest while I continued the climb.  Some 200 yards later I looked back to see Don resting below me on a rock watching me.  I had a horrible feeling I was abandoning my brother, I decided to turn back, and we both descended, satisfied.

I enjoyed seeing Don as a father and was very proud of him in every way.  When he came home this summer with his family, 3 years had elapsed since we’d see each other.  After are handshake/hug greeting, I could sense Don looking at me inconspicuously, it wasn’t until he said, “I’m kind of disappointed I thought you’d have more white hair by now”. Then I knew he was back.  And as we watched our children playing together I knew some where along the line we both became men and now I’m a man with a long deep scar.

Your brother, Davey

i hate myself

was the title of one of the last e-mail exchanges I had with don. of course, it was in reference to joan jett, who we both agreed is incredibly hot and we would both love to, well, <insert unspeakables> with her. one of the things i so love(d) (it's so hard to be in the past tense) about don was that he told the most incredible stories and i remember that he had one about jj. although i can't remember the specifics, i do know don had me and peyton rolling, i know the conversation pleasurably ebbed into the bizarre, and I know we loved every moment of it.

selfishly, i always wanted to station myself near don at parties--or really anywhere i saw him, including the bus stop. don had the most incredible way of making me feel special and smart and clever. clearly he had this affect on many people. and, when i say that i will miss him, i feel pathetic because i will miss him for susan and benjamin, but i will also, selfishly, miss him for myself. 

i think don would get a kick out of this blog, although i know he would prefer to sit quietly in a corner with each of us and have an intense conversation about art, history, riot grrls, decadence, and the latest and most ridiculous (embarrassing) event of each of our lives. on blogging, this is a recent conversation i had with don:

me: Hey Don,

Thought you might get a kick out of this blog (in reference to our fin de siecle convo the other night). Don’t ask me what I was looking for when I found it...

http://theflaneurblog.com/about/

Don:  i dunno... to me, blogging seems like the antithesis of the flaneur, the dandy & the decadent. but maybe i'm just hopelessly stuck in the c.19th... i have to read it more and think about it more.

******* 

the world is less fun without you, don. 

much love,

darci

Everlasting/Snow Angel Impression

 

It was my pleasure to be acquainted to Don LaCoss as his son's kindergarten teacher. In my long experience, it is rare to meet such a radical, intelligent, sensitive, intellectual, humerus, serious, dedicated, compassionate, accepting, knowledgeable, creative, witty, gentle, intimidating big man!

I quickly learned to be very mindful of my words so as to not to seriously hurt this man, when I spoke to him about his son, Benjamin. He took my words in deeply. That experience for me as a kindergarten teacher delivering a progress report about a kindergartner, albeit Don's son, Benjamin, held such reverberation that it will remain an indelible mark on me as a teacher, perhaps the result is more of me legitimately becoming the student of Don LaCoss. There is an everlasting impression!

As a small tribute to this man, we will try to make as many snow angel impressions in the ball field in Copeland Park as we can possibly create in this week of remembering Don. Please come and join us whenever you have some time.

Ms MaryEllyn, Three Rivers Waldorf School, Kindergarten Teacher

Love

I have wanted to post something for days that would capture what Don meant to me in the years that we spent time together, and I have found it impossible.  Too many feelings getting in the way of the words.  So I have turned to the historical sources of that friendship (my archive, if you will) to help me.  In re-reading the letters we wrote back and forth to each other while he was in Ann Arbor and I was in Paris doing doctoral research, I found a quote that I had mailed to him on the nature of love:  "Love is not a chemical reaction (though it is that), but also an emotional accomplishment, a moral choice, the sublime felt experience that accompanies the providing of comfort, the making of kindness, the willingness to forgive, and the granting of dignity."  

To me, this is how Don loved.   Those of us who felt that love were given a great gift.  I will always be grateful to have been among them.


In loving testimony to a wonderful man,
Maud

 

Don was such a great person...

Don was one of my first friends in Ann Arbor. When he and Carolyn and I met, he used to pretend that Carolyn was this really competitive, mean person, and would joke that when no one else was around (since they were both studying French history), Carolyn would come up to him and poke her finger in his chest and be like "you listen to me...you better watch out Lacoss and stay the f... out of my way, or there will be hell to pay!" When I visited Don and Carolyn in Paris, Don and I went to the Buttes Chaumont together, and I have such fond memories of spending time with him there. Although we lost touch once we left Ann Arbor and started our jobs,  I have always had a special place in my heart for him as one of the people with whom I shared the huge ups and downs of graduate school. I felt like even if we didn't see each other much towards the end of our PhDs, we always completely understood one another. I am so sad knowing he is no longer with us, and I send my condolences to his family, who I know will mourn his loss deeply. My thoughts are with you...Liz Horodowich

good guy, great dad

To many my age, Don is remembered as an amazing  & thought-provoking history professor, however I had the opportunity to get to know him as a father to Benjamin. I watched B for a few years during my undergrad and grad school days. “Benjaminizing or Benjamifaction” (as Don called it) was always an adventure. Don often had ideas for what the two of us should do -- go to the giant slide pool, play disc golf, build cucumber boats with Fran and the gang at the park -- he always wanted B to have the opportunity to try fun new things.

He was a great dad. B really looked up to him, both as a dad, and history professor. You’ll never meet a kid who knows more about the revolutionary war (or any war, really) than B. And Don was so proud of how smart he is. As a nanny- I also appreciated Don as a father. He cared, but he wasn’t the “over-protective parent” type. One time, I was trying to teach B how to ride a bike, and we didn’t have any accidents all day. Then, when the big moment came to show Don the progress, he ran right into a brick retaining wall and fell over.

After my time with B, I would drop him off and stay to chat with Don for 5, 10, 15 minutes.  I would pick his brain on his opinions of things and he would challenge my thoughts on various topics….We would talk about the progress (or lack there of) of his book and problems with publishers, he would give me his unique advice about my education, career decisions, relationship, and up-coming wedding, and of course we would exchange “you won’t believe what B did/said today” stories. I also got a lot of good-natured banter from Don… mostly about my wedding. He didn’t believe I could make my wedding dress, and would always point out how little time I had left to finish it (which I did, with the help of Susan!) Also, he tried to convince me to let him be the Officiant, insisting that he was a skilled professional and he would behave. He didn’t officiate, but he did come to the wedding. Afterward he sent a simple email saying how the whole day was a fun-loving event that really reflected our personalities and how he and his family really enjoyed it -- coming from Don, this meant a lot to me.

Don- I will miss you. I will miss learning new “hippie” slag, getting your ridiculous recommendations for Halloween costumes, your harassment about Paul, and your non-traditional life advice…. But most of all I will miss just sitting in the kitchen, having fun with “a couple of wild and crazy guys.”

With love to Susan and Benjamin, 

Sarah Zdroik 

learning

A week ago today I was sitting with Don at Family Resources.  We were watching our kids play and discussing learning.  My daughter Rachel and Don's Benjamin are in kindergarten together.  Don told me how Miss Mary Ellen said Benjamin "is sooo ready" for first grade.  At that time Rachel found my name tag on the floor and brought it to me.  Don mentioned how great that was that she's starting to recognize words.  We talked about learning to read and recognizing symbols.  He talked about the research we was doing at the university studying Arabic.  He was fascinated that he and his son were at the same reading level - how they both were recognizing words.  It was a great conversation.  Talking with Don always made me feel smart.  I rarely have the chance to have a real grown up conversation that makes me feel so smart.  I went home and talked to my husband about it.  It is a memory that will stay with me. 

Sara L Adams
Chuck, Rachel and Julia too

don lacoss i remember you

ann arbor grad school days. my poor mind can't trade in stories, only impressions are left, wherever it is in the brain that memory lays its seeds. and don was the kind of guy who left an impression. so strange to summon it up now after so long. seeing his picture here in this digital space - a greying beard has been added. a child has been added. susan.

the memory of him arises to the surface again:  his voice with its veritable drawl of cool. big all the way around, big glasses, big humor, big mind. paris.

i'm still here in ann arbor. i go by don's old apartment all the time, now across from the YMCA and think always vaguely "don lived there" and remember hanging out in his funky one-bedroom space filled with books and art, so close to the kiwanis sale and,  was not Don LaCoss a very hip dude and don't i feel hipper for knowing him? i was always loving his brand of spikey conversation and sparring, funny & smart in a harper's type of way.

and never quite keeping in touch either, so that now there's this large gap between knowing Don in grad school, and knowing Susan too in grad school and all the life (and children!) that has happened between then and now, when Don's part of the story has abruptly ended and there will be no catching up that we we will ever  do. how strange.

yet how i am still able to send another heartfelt toast for you, Don, with fondness, from your ann arbor lifetime and a toast to you my dear Susan, from that same era but also from now, in this moment. thank you for including me in the weaving you are doing, of stories and celebrations, of all the lifetimes of our man. There's a lot of love here in these words. a big life and a well done one at that.

peace, Kath

Comrades in Grad School

I met Don on the first day of graduate school, on the steps of the Clements Library, at a reception for new graduate students.  I knew from the list the department sent out that "Donald LaCoss" was the only other person listed as studying modern French history in our cohort.  So I met Don, and he was not who I imagined this "Donald LaCoss" would be, but then who could ever imagine someone like Don?  We immediately became comrades in grad school, with many of the same classes.  I remember making cookies in the shape of France for our grad seminar snack during the first semester of grad school, with a dot put on the cookie where "Limoges, The Red City" was located.  I had a dream a few months ago of being back in grad school classes with Don, and it was a happy dream.

Don and I became friends, and Don would often tell people the story about meeting on the first day of grad school, but he put a completely twisted, hilarious spin on the story.  In his version, I walked up to him, poked him in the chest with my finger, and said something like, "Hey, Pal, you studying French history?  Well, you better watch out...you're swimming with the sharks now and I'm going to kick your ass."  Something like that, but longer and more elaborate, but it was pretty funny.  

The first summer, Don and I drove back to Connecticut together.  We each lived at our parents' houses and took Reading German at Yale.  Sometimes Don would pick me up at the New Haven train station in that 80s Buick his high school friend discussed.  The car was enormous, and Don was, indeed, still starting it with a spoon each time, which never ceased to amuse me.  

We remained comrades and close friends in the early years of grad school and then were roommates in Paris.  Don very sweetly took the room with a tiny single bed, which sagged hugely in the middle, since I was captivated by the larger room with yellow wallpaper.  His room did have a little balcony that he liked to sit at, and I remember sitting there with him, drinking tea and coffee.  Marveling at, analyzing, and making fun of the French always made for good conversation.  I don't have a great memory so I have trouble remembering specifics.  I seem to remember that although Don was such a brilliant guy, he wasn't that good at math, and always had strange, unusual ways of figuring out dollar/franc currency conversions....

Sometimes, when I do something stupid, I hear Don's voice say a Homer Simpsonesque "D'oh!" in my head.  When I say something fairly obvious and realize it, I hear Don's voice say, "D'ya think?"  I don't know if I'll ever stop hearing that voice saying those things, since I haven't seen Don in about a decade, and I still hear him.  I've missed him in the last decade and always thought I'd get in contact with him and reestablish our friendship at some point, and now I'm heartbroken that I can't.  I'm grateful to be able to read the blog to hear about his time in LaCrosse and as a father and with Susan -- it sounds like a very happy time.  My thoughts are with you, Susan and Benjamin.

Carolyn

From another one of Don's students:

I was on my way to meet him for the first time when I decided to first stop by Susan’s office for some reason (I was a student of hers at the time).  On my way out, I mentioned to her that I was now going to ask a history professor if he would sign a slip allowing me into his already-full class.  She asked who it was, and I read the name “LaCoss” from my notebook.  “Oh,” Susan said, in a way that made me ask, “You know him?”  And she responded with, “He’s my boyfriend,” which I certainly wasn’t expecting.  I don’t remember what else was said between me and Susan.  But I do remember Don waiting for me in his office, already well-aware of my intentions.  His apparent ESP, combined with his striking physical presence in a dimly lit office made me eager to get the form signed and get the hell out of there before my nervousness got the best of me and I said something stupid.  (Don later explained to me that Susan had called him after I left her office and warned him I was coming.)  That was the start of my embarrassing admiration for the guy—ESP or no.

I remember he assigned the most dry, theory-logged book on “pre-history” to kick off the semester in his gen-ed required “history of western civilization” class—packed with roughly 60 apathetic freshmen.  When he caught wind that no one was reading, he gave us a pop-quiz (ungraded) to survey how many were sticking it out.  I just remember writing an apology on my quiz for not reading, instead of guessing at the answers like most of the other students.  The next class he shared the dismal results of his survey, including that one student wrote an apology.  I sank in my chair, hoping that he couldn’t put the name to the face, as he sounded annoyed, but I still hope that it amused him.  He ended up rewriting the syllabus and getting us new books, which is a testament to his patience as a teacher.  Before long I was sharing stories of his lectures with my friends: his rendition of the Children’s Crusades (with an eye for irony) is more side-splitting than any Monty Python skit.  I just wish I had a recording of it.  

I remember one class he was talking about these ancient statues from fertility cults… mostly what looked like unpainted garden gnomes, each sporting an erect penis.  He was trying to explain the significance of the penis being erect and not flaccid when he interrupted himself and explained to the class, “For those of you who have only seen a penis when it is erect, they’re not always like that.”

I exchanged Don stories like this with other history students.  One story that I heard took place when a woman (in retrospect, most likely it was Patty) asked Don’s class to sign a petition.  Don told the class that he’d much rather the students throw rocks than sign petitions.  A student then asked, “where would you have us throw these rocks?”  Don responded in a playful tone: “indiscriminately.”

If Don had only made me laugh and learn, I would still owe him an incredible debt, because he did it so much and so well.  But Don was also there for me as a mentor… I’ll never forget the affirmation I felt when he told me that I was ready for “the brain-fuck” and should apply to grad school, or when he scoffed when I mentioned that moving away would be hard because of a romantic attachment: “you’re way too young [to be tied down].”   I remember in my later years on campus I had been reading a lot of Chomsky and was becoming very enchanted by his ideas.  The next time I saw Don I was excited to impress him with my new thoughts and anarchist sympathies, when he calmly shrugged at the mention of Chomsky, complaining of how dry and boring the man’s writing is, and how we can do better.

When I heard that Don died my stomach dropped and I was filled with a sense of injustice, like we all just got cheated.  He was something that this world needed, and it all seems a little darker knowing that he isn’t back in Wisconsin raising a son and teaching sheltered college kids how ridiculous the world is that we’ve inherited.

Thank you so much to those of you who have shared your stories of Don.  I have laughed out loud many times while reading, and I just happened to be in the middle of “The Hobbit” when I read on here that it was one of Don’s favorites as a child… I can see why, as Tolken injects so much wonder and untold history into the world that he describes.

My condolences to you all, especially Susan and Benjamin.

Sincerely,

Tyler Schuenemann

Remembering Don

Don was a unique presence on this planet.  I have never known anyone quite like him.  On the day I learned he was gone, his booming voice reverberated in my head for a long time.  I thought of all the funny and wise things he has said in the time I’ve known him.  I thought of his unending curiosity, the vast range of his intellect, his passionate attachment to his beloved Susan and Benjamin, his loyalty to his friends, and his devotion to justice.  I thought of his compelling teaching, to students, to area teachers, to the campus community, on all kinds of critical topics.  Don was an accomplished person, an influential person, but he never conveyed self-importance.  He was fundamentally egalitarian, humble, and a humanist through and through.  He modeled for me and so many others a constant search for truth and justice, leavened by a fabulous ironic sense of humor.  Sometimes edgy and always pitch perfect, Don’s humor was rooted in the tender-hearted idealism that went along with his brilliance.

The last time I saw Don was a few weeks ago, when I sat at his table for a Faculty Research roundtable.  The group had a discussion prompt about the good of one’s research to society, or its commercial implications.  Somehow I knew it would be interesting sitting with Don and Susan during this discussion.  And sure enough, Don had the answer:  he said he was considering inventing a surrealist breakfast cereal.

Though this is one of the few ideas that probably would never have gotten to the top of his to do list, there are so many gifts Don had left to give.  My heart aches for the family that will miss him.  And I am deeply saddened to contemplate what we all could yet have learned from Don, as his friends, colleagues, students, and fellow travelers.  Still, it was a privilege to know him, and to know that he lived his 46 years so fully.  His memory will be treasured.

Jodi Vandenberg-Daves