Julian Daniel Clarke III died peacefully at his home in Carmel Highlands on Monday, June 22 at 1:09 p.m. He was 72 years old. He was surrounded by the loving support of his family, who had the privilege of accompanying this extraordinary man to the end of his journey in this life. Of the many gifts Dan gave his friends and family over the years, a clear directive about how he wished to be remembered was not among them. “I’ll think about it,” was his consistent reply. 

Among the lesser experiences of being the children of the smartest guy in the room is the acute awareness of being, at most, not better than second.  Having not yet outgrown the chronic doubt thusly instilled, we have feared falling into error in the momentous and delicate task of penning his obituary; therefore, rather than mournfully reiterate the contours of a beloved man’s titanic struggle for personal dignity as a rare disease inexorably diminished his physical capacities, we dug out an old Ouji board and asked dad to join us. 

“Hey, Dad - can you hear us?” 

“Yes,” came a voice in Dad’s distinctive basso profundo.  So far, so good.

“Wow, is this for real?” we wondered aloud. 

“Well, it depends.”  That’s either good philosophy, good lawyering, or good pretending. Not yet confident in the board’s efficacy, and guarded against its reputation for summoning imposters, we sought some verification.  A good imposter would know he was a lawyer with a deep voice. So we baited him:

“Hey, Dad, remember that one time you were wrong?” For Dad, this query amounted to a sort of metaphysical two-factor authentication.  The response was immediate:

“You mean the time I thought I was wrong, but I wasn’t?” Yep,  definitely Dad.

“Right!  So, we’re writing your obituary and we’re hoping you’ve given some thought to how you’d like to be remembered.”

“Actually, I have.”

 This seemingly casual response marked new territory - historically, “I’ll think about it” meant “almost certainly not.”

“I want to start with Anna - my dearest wife, Anna Boles Clarke - how I love you! I can now see what a saint you really are.  You have loved and honored me through thick and thin, for over 41 years. I can now say ‘you were right.’  I am filled with gratitude for your tenderness, your compassion, your endless patience, your forgiveness, and your true love - you have always seen me as no one else could.  I so deeply hope you will remember me as always holding you dearly.”

“And to you, my children, Adam and Krista, I love you so;  without bounds or conditions.  For me, your births opened up a new horizon - opened my heart in such a way as I had not even known was possible. With you, there awakened in me a keen sense of a child’s exquisite sensitivity. Your perfect openness!  Your easy, honest gazes!  Your belly laughs!  Your innocent questions… I am so thankful for you, and so proud of you in every way.”

We happily allowed him the pleasure of this flattery without interruption until one of us recalled something. “That bit about questions reminds me...remember the time I asked you, when I was three or four years old, ‘Dad, do you know everything?’”

“Yes, I remember...” he said, mirthfully.

“Do you remember what you answered?”

“Yes,” he replied. “I said ‘Yes,’ and you said ‘Woooow.’ That felt great!”

“I must have been fourteen by the time I doubted it.”

“You doubt it?” A brief but eloquent silence ensued. “I hope you will both remember me as loving, protective, attentive, and worthy of your admiration.”  

“Yes, yes, and… well, okay... yes.  And most assuredly yes.” 

“And to your children, my indisputably perfect grandchildren, Adelaide, Wyatt, Iris, and Silas: thank you for coming into this world in time for me to have the privilege of knowing and loving you. I adore you. And I hope you, too, will one day know a love so deep and pure that you might cheerfully endure countless episodes of Paw Patrol on its account.”  (We resisted here the opportunity of revealing with what feeling we endured his countless episodes of television programs when we were children, not to mention his endless searching for something, anything, among the twelve channels available in the 1980’s)

“Thank you, Dad,” we said in unison.. 

“You’re welcome.  I meant every word of it. And there’s something more,” he said, clearing his throat. 

“To my siblings…be at peace. All is well.”

And then, silence again.

“That’s it?”

“Let me finish…”

“Oh, sorry.”

“To my sister Patricia Clarke Bennassi, you have inspired me, modelled fairness and confidence, and taught me how to shine a light in the darkness.  I would not have done much of what I have without your good example and good counsel.  Thank you.  To my sister Barbara Josserand, you have always embodied that rare and enviable combination of warmth and wit that we Clarkes so enjoy. Without your companionship and support in my early years of fatherhood, I would not have become the man I am. Thank you. To my brother Christopher Clarke, you have honored me with a true and abiding brotherly affection and, in so doing, inspired me to be sure to be worthy of it. Thank you.”  

“Well said, Dad - we couldn’t have said it nearly as well.  Is there anything else you’d like to share? Something about your interests, or accomplishments? Business ventures... Law practice... Real estate projects...?”

“Not especially.”

“You sure?  This is your chance.  How about an abbreviated overview?”

“I suppose a few facts won’t hurt. Not too badly, anyway... I was born in Fort Sheridan, Illinois on August 29, 1947. My father was in the Army, and we moved a dizzying thirteen times before arriving in the Monterey area in 1962. I graduated from Junipero Serra as valedictorian, and received a full scholarship to Santa Clara University before joining the Navy. I married Nancy Lewis, with whom I had my wonderful son.  I later returned to SCU to complete a law degree, during which time Nancy and I divorced. After some years practicing law I met the love of my life, Anna Boles, and we married three months later. Our delightful daughter Krista was born the following year. I tried my hand, and my luck, at building a house (I had long wanted to build my own home). The experience was fraught with risk instead of profit.  I later learned the joke: ‘You know how to make a small fortune in real estate?  Start with a large one.’ In the end it worked out alright - I went on to build five more houses.  Along the way an unexpected opportunity to get into the hair cutting business presented itself, so Anna and I bought into tru-cuts. I think of all the things I did, though, the thing I enjoyed most was sailing..” Here he paused for what seemed like a long time, and we could imagine him closing his eyes and leaning into the memory of his favorite pastime. “I suppose,” he continued, “it was my desire for escape and adventure that finally compelled me to buy a boat. I soon became familiar with the painfully true quip that ‘a boat is a hole in the water lined with money.’ Thankfully, it also worked for sailing at times. Having dreamed of blue water cruising for years, once I’d been bitten by the bug, I knew there was no turning back. Anna had done some sailing prior to our having met in 1978.  Equally electrified by the vision of cruising, we bought a bare hull Westsail 43 in 1980 and had the interior built out by a master craftsman in Alameda. We named this beautifully finished vessel Akamuana, and she carried us safely to and from Hawaii on three occasions, where we formed some of my most cherished memories” 

“Yeah, those are some of our favorite memories, too. Is there anything else you’d like to share, Dad?” 

“I’d only say… everything is in its place, everything is… as it should be.  I see clearly now that all the events of my life fit together, and far more perfectly than I could have planned. There were things that went well, things that went badly, but even the things I thought of as regrets - none of it was wrong.  All of it was needed.”

“That’s really good to hear.  So… guess that’s it then, guess we’re all done.”

““No, no - turkeys are done. What we are is finished.”

Thus were we left to find our own words to finish our task of describing this remarkable man. 

Dan was, in many ways, the proverbial Renaissance Man, wielding a set of impressively diverse skills and knowledge that this modest  summary cannot possibly hope to contain. His extraordinary mind was among his most well-known attributes. He would perhaps smile  knowing that his absence has created a considerable quandary among friends and family, as no one is quite sure as to whom to address their questions about anything. Also among his well-known attributes was his voice, which, according to one observer fairly approximated the voice of God.  According to legend, and much to the continuing disbelief of his children, he more than once performed what we are told was a stirring rendition of “Amazing Grace” to audiences of not fewer than fifty people. The recent discovery of this fact appears to belie his consistent assertion that he could not carry a tune in a basket. Perhaps it was only that he liked a good turn of phrase, and couldn’t resist using one, even if it were not strictly true (one favorite involving a bodily fluid and fire comes to mind).  He was meticulous, thorough, and applied a laser focus to any subject. He liked to ensure that all details had been properly attended to, and, aside from professions of love for his family,  some of his final utterances included reminders to check the fuel level on the generator, to ensure the dog did not venture past the living room onto the white rug, and to lock the doors before going to bed.  

He was deeply devoted to his family, for whom he had tenderness and admiration beyond words. He graced all who knew him with his kindness, equanimity, wisdom, and love, and so many lives are richer for having known him. He was endlessly generous with and supportive of the many people fortunate enough to know him. He encouraged and inspired family and friends to cultivate their talents, continue striving, and become their best selves. His warmth, kind counsel, and depth of knowledge were universally valued and appreciated. He will be deeply missed. 

In the best interest of everyone’s health and safety in the current pandemic, we will not be holding a service at this time. Dan died of a rare brain disease called corticobasal degeneration (CBD). In lieu of flowers, the family requests charitable contributions in memory of Dan to be made to Brain Support Network, www.brainsupportnetwork.org, PO Box 7264, Menlo Park, CA 94026.