“You can love someone so much...
But you can never love people as much
as you can miss them.” ~John Green
Newton
Ulysses Crawford, Jr. was born on March 1, 1948 in Port Hueneme, California. An
only child and navy brat, Newton was an international traveler, growing up in exotic
locations around the world such as Malta, Japan, Florida, Virginia, and Rhode
Island. He was a creative, talented, and intelligent man who could play anything
on the piano after hearing it just once. 
A
round of layoffs at TWA airline in the 70s warranted a move back to Newton’s
roots in Cabool, Missouri where he moved his growing family to a white house on
a hill of the family farm next to his parent’s white house, both houses built
by former generations of Crawfords. For over 150 years, Crawfords have owned,
lived, and worked that land. 
After
a series of jobs as a laborer and a brush with death due to a misdiagnosed case
of Rocky Mountain spotted fever, he returned to college and pursued
a degree in history at University of Missouri in Rolla. He earned a Master’s
degree at Missouri State University and even completed all classes towards a
doctorate at University of Missouri in Columbia. With ‘all but dissertation’
credentials, he was able to teach history at various colleges in the vicinity
of his home, including Central Texas College, East Central College, Missouri
State University in West Plains, and Columbia College. During his 20 plus years
of teaching college students, he won Teacher of the Year Award five times.
He
also took up running and walking. Tracking his miles daily, he often went a
thousand miles a year. After years of running, he realized that he had run
enough miles to circumnavigate the equator, and he threw a party to celebrate
running Around the World.
Newton
had the large family that he always wanted with ten children and twenty
grandchildren. He often passed out sweet treats to his grandkids; he recently gave
them each a silver dollar from his childhood collection.
With
a smile, he recently announced, “I know I have arrived because I have three
things: a country club membership, a Cadillac, and a lava lamp.” He was also
proud of owning a bulldog that he named Winston after Churchhill, the leader of
Great Britain during World War II.
I
remember made-up stories of little girls in the woods with bears, dogpiles on
daddy, quizzes on literature and art
at the dinner table every evening at six o’clock sharp, lists of vocabulary
words, detective or road movies, discussions on history and philosophy, fishing
at the river or pond, hot summer days of bailing hay on the farm, readings of
Eliot’s poetry—“the Rum Tug Tugger is a Curious Cat”— an eclectic array of
songs floating through the house, daily pushups, the family singing “Do You
Hear What I Hear” as Dad played the piano, and games of Bridge, Pitch, and
Cribbage. 
Newton
was both brilliant and eccentric. His traditional garb as a professor was a sports
coat over a buttoned down dress shirt, pants, and cowboy boots. When home, he routinely
wore shorts, t-shirts, and flip-flops with socks. Newton had an extensive
collection of hats, including a fedora, Derby, The Panama, baseball cap, cowboy
hat, and tweed or leather driving cap. 
As
Peter Gabriel sings in “Biko,” “You can blow out a candle, but you can't blow out a fire.
Once the flame begins to catch, the wind will blow it higher.” Newton Ulysses
Crawford, Jr. has inspired two generations who will always love him and
remember him and who will hand down the lessons and love to future generations. 
Letters written by Dad:
January 2001
Dear Children,
I simply must describe the view outside my window.
Last night the ice storm brought peril and discomfort, but today’s visual
delight actually overcompensates for any storm-related discomfiture…and fills
me with a sense of ineffable wonder. Outside…like a barely-recalled print by
Currier and Ives…a remarkably transcendent vision. The gray and overcast sky
provides a stark contrast to the glistening and translucent wintry landscape. No
cows; they are off seeking more basic pleasure in the river bottom…just birds
foraging, near the feeder…jays, cardinals, and a pileated woodpecker…skipping
about and eating their fill, full of natural gaiety…perhaps not knowing that
God provides for the fowls of the air. But what transforms the vignette from an
idyllic pastoral scene to an aesthetic marvel is the ice…the crystalline
perfection of a bejeweled lattice hanging in front of my window…refracting the
faint crepuscular light, and refining it into a landscape that would have
defied Michelangelo. Tree branches, heavy laden with a thick coating of ice,
bent unnaturally into different shapes, as if they were praying…the Chinese Elm
outside my window lowering her branches for me…so I might see the vision of
resplendent loveliness, the ground covered with a white carpet that on close
inspection proves to be granular sleet…but from my perspective looks like an
even field of snow rising in the distance and terminated by a line of trees,
which provide a barren backdrop…but in the foreground, the trees around the
house look like nature’s necklace, like diamond-coated skeletons frozen in
mid-frame while they waltz. Just now, as twilight approaches, a single ray of
sunlight penetrates the clouds and illuminates the scene, permeating it with a
roseate glow…enlightening the primal wonder of nature, and sending a tendril of
joy to my soul. As that last shaft of light descends from heaven, the ice
explodes in dizzying resplendence, a cascade of colors beyond the spectrum.
Words usually serve me well, but they are inadequate to describe this
unutterably lovely tableau…absolutely beyond description and incomprehensibly
beautiful…Truly Awesome…But I am reminded that there is one thing that rivals
the staggering beauty of nature…only one thing…And that is the solitary human
heart…pulsing out its rhythmic tattoo…beating steadily…for the ones it loves.
Dad
March 1, 2001
Dear Children
I think all of us tend to look back on our lives on
our birthdays, and solitary reflection is good for the soul…summoning tendrils
of sadness and regret…but bringing also joy and the quiet contentment that
comes with remembrance of things past. On this day I feel doubly blessed to
have lived and loved, and I wanted to share an epiphany that intruded
forcibly…bringing the greatest birthday gift imaginable...an ineffable sense of
wondrous awe. Hovering always at the periphery of conscious thought is the
blessed awareness of the people I love, my fellow traveler through this vale of
tears. But this morning, in pensive solitude…I felt you all as a powerful
presence…as a celestial choir singing the Happy Birthday song…I truly felt you
all as if physically present…our hearts thrumming a delicate refrain of
indescribable loveliness. And I thought that there is great beauty in this
imperfect world…the indescribably sublime wonders of nature…the unutterable
beauty of song…Willie Nelson singing “Always on my Mind”…the baroque
counterpoint of Bach…The Winged Victory of Samothrace standing in Majestic
grace after 23 centuries…fragments of thought from other fellow travelers we
have never met, snatches of incredible poetic utterance…”And the women come and
go, Talking of Michelangelo”… fictional characters we feel we know, like
Yossarion and stately, plump Buck Mulligan. But shining above all of this with
effulgent brightness is the blessed assurance that Love is the one thing that
makes life worthwhile. I think there is a certain amount of wisdom that comes
naturally as we age and mature, and I think walking for a year in the shadow of
darkness has helped me see a great light…like Saul on the road to Damascus…I
see how we are transported by love to any earthly paradise beyond
description…that love for intimates, affection for friends, and good will
towards everybody…redeems our tenuous lives and makes our transient pilgrimage
significant. For above all else, I am assured that our love is a pearl of great
price, a solitary Rose blooming in a wasteland. I love you, Honey.
Dad
