Sunday night a dear friend passed away. Malcolm was related to
Lorenzo Dow Baker, famous as the Wellfleet resident who made a fortune in bananas. Malcolm also happened to be married to my cousin Natasha. I remember their wedding at Tanglewood. My mom was so proud of how Natasha had managed to catch herself such a fine husband, tall, tan from Wellfleet's summer sun, and a doctor to boot.
Their girls were the same ages as mine and came here every summer, an event recorded for posterity in a hilarious series of line-up photos. Sven and I went down to the sea this afternoon with Malcolm in mind. The waves were crashing on the shore, foam spraying up in our faces. Malcolm loved the sea. I remember how at least one day of each annual vacation was set aside for a fishing trip. He would take off from Duck Harbor in a rubber raft with one or two of his boys.
I don’t think it really mattered whether they caught any fish or not. Being out on Cape Cod Bay made him happy. Malcolm was one of those people who could have fit in anywhere, at any time in history. I could imagine him on the trail from Africa to Europe, dressed in animal skins, or on the frontier, meeting Davy Crocket, or with Thomas Jefferson, standing in the background, clad in a frock coat and white wig. You could be sure he had played some important role in whatever had just transpired but had decided to let others take the credit. It must have been hard for such a handsome fellow to be so self-effacing, but he pulled it off with dignity and grace. Malcolm was generous of spirit, a model husband and dad to his five children, highly admired in his field – psychology. We live, we die, the world turns. Our walk today reminded me of how we all fit into this thing called life ...
Their girls were the same ages as mine and came here every summer, an event recorded for posterity in a hilarious series of line-up photos. Sven and I went down to the sea this afternoon with Malcolm in mind. The waves were crashing on the shore, foam spraying up in our faces. Malcolm loved the sea. I remember how at least one day of each annual vacation was set aside for a fishing trip. He would take off from Duck Harbor in a rubber raft with one or two of his boys. 
I don’t think it really mattered whether they caught any fish or not. Being out on Cape Cod Bay made him happy. Malcolm was one of those people who could have fit in anywhere, at any time in history. I could imagine him on the trail from Africa to Europe, dressed in animal skins, or on the frontier, meeting Davy Crocket, or with Thomas Jefferson, standing in the background, clad in a frock coat and white wig. You could be sure he had played some important role in whatever had just transpired but had decided to let others take the credit. It must have been hard for such a handsome fellow to be so self-effacing, but he pulled it off with dignity and grace. Malcolm was generous of spirit, a model husband and dad to his five children, highly admired in his field – psychology. We live, we die, the world turns. Our walk today reminded me of how we all fit into this thing called life ... 
