David W. Deerfield II

What to say about David? The man had no mercy about ragging me for being liberal to stir me up and get me to argue with him, which could then go on until the last cow came through the barn door even though he didn’t know what he was talking about, and he’d say the same about me.

After getting to stalemate a few times, we more or less got over that, and I came to find that David — though I’d never get him to say it — had social instincts compatible with what most of us would call liberal, even if he parroted Reagonomics and, like the ideologues of that “compassionate conservative” party, had a deep distaste for government being involved in anything a corporation could do for profit. There was little middle ground between us on such topics. The fun part of these discussions/arguments was that I’d quickly be in over my head, and knew it, but somehow — inspired by David’s bluster — I’d surprise myself with verbal creativity I didn’t know I had. Maybe that was the point.

We went head-to-head when I wanted to arrange photos of the first MARC workshop for the PSC “science book” and he just plain said NO. After a time, I sort of understood his point of view on this, though I didn’t agree. He felt there were too many pseudo-seminars & workshops for minorities in the sciences, because funding was available and, too often, when it came to the substance of the training, minorities were given short shrift. He insisted that the PSC MARC program would not be like that, and to demonstrate it he insisted there would be no taint of “PR” exploitation. He drew this line in the sand, and that was that.

I pushed against him on this as hard as I’ve pushed for anything at PSC, and found absolutely no budge. The harder I pushed, the harder he became. He could be a very stubborn dude.

This interaction cooled things between us for awhile, but thankfully it didn’t last.

I wish I’d have taken more time to talk with David after he became ill. I respected and think well of him because I always felt that, somehow, underneath our disagreements, which were not minor and not devoid of passion by any means, he liked me, or at least respected me, and that no bridges would be burnt between two people as human beings, no matter how much heat we generated with our talk. I’m sad he’s no longer with us, and hold a place for him in my thoughts.

I’m especially sad, being at an out-of-town conference, to miss the Thursday night wake, where these two verses from an old song would probably go well:

	And when I die please bury me
	in a high-top stetson hat.
	I want a 20 dollar gold piece for my watch chain
	so the Lord will know I died standing pat.
	
	I want six crap shooters for my pall bearers
	and a chorus girl to sing me a song.
	And a jazz band for my hearse wagon
	to raise some hell as we roll along.
	
				- from “St. James Infirmary,” anonymous