Daily life and regular plans were set aside recently and a full-house church of people came together in Denver to honor a man I was honored to call my step-dad. That he was so widely and deeply loved and respected is testament to a life well-lived. We should all be so lucky.

But it isn’t luck, actually, that builds a quality life. Tim Tyler modeled for us that, more, it’s done by showing up every day, by being consistently polite and honorable and decent. By being the sort of person other people want to spend time with.

Tim relished the activities of life that nurtured his body and soul. He was a skier (and carried his own equipment!) until age 92. One of the longest-lasting members of the “Greatest Generation,” he was a soldier in the 10th Mountain Division, serving in post-WWII Japan. His toughness was also certainly built by four years (from age 8-12) living among people of the Arapahoe nation in Ethete, Wyoming where his father was an Episcopal minister. He and his brother were honored with adoption by the tribe and were given Indian names. Translated, his was Blue Eagle.

Until late December 2019, Tim lived independently. He still drove (!) to his nearby office Monday through Friday, still worked out several days a week, still played bridge. He always greeted cocktail hour with enthusiasm. He met Marcia (is “girlfriend” the right term for our eldest elders?!) after burying three wives. He loved to proclaim that he had assisted living: “my children assist me.” Indeed, his four biological kids and their families, all of whom I am pleased to view as friends, lived nearby and were always ready to help as Tim grew, inevitably, more frail.

We all knew it was coming, that this giant of a small-statured man wouldn’t last forever despite our wishful thinking. We all knew how incredibly fortunate we were, to be under his tutelage and attention, to learn from the example of his life. We all carry fond memories of the things Tim did with those he loved: skiing, camping and hiking, sailing, traveling, enjoying good food and drink, having a laugh together. Several times, we drove to Montana to help brand and innoculate calves at his brother’s ranch. Tim was clear: Manners matter, including prompt thank-you notes. Getting outdoors matters. Cocktails and good food matter. Being decent and kind matters.

Tim was a soul-mate for my own mom until cancer took her in 1988. The love they found in each other was inspirational in an age when devotion can sometimes seem thin. How very special that our birthdays were just a day apart, on December 21 and 22. This led to nearly 50 years of shared celebrations, after which Christmas could then begin.

Once, after both my parents had died, I mentioned my new status as an orphan. Oh, did Tim bristle! His response was somewhat shocking. Raised with gentlemanly sensibilities, Tim rarely showed such emotion. “You’ll never be an orphan as long as I’m alive,” he snapped. It felt like I was being gathered under his wing, protected, loved. It was unforgettable.

Now, this man, this giant, has left. Tim was the last of his generation to leave ours. Gone now is the final buffer for my generation against the upper reaches of old-age. Our extended family will, of course, muddle on. That’s how it works in this short life, with lessons passing from elders to youngers in hopes that who we are and the values we share carry onward. It’s the least we can do to honor the man. RIP, Tim Tyler. You are dear to our hearts. I will always treasure having known you.