I didn’t even know his name until I read the obituary.
To me, he was the quiet guy with the moppish, sandy hair that I saw regularly at Lynnwood Golf Course. We’d hit golf balls at the driving range, not so much together as at the same time. We’d nod in acknowledgement, the way guys do, sometimes with a hint of a smile and a, “How’s it goin’,” or just “Hey,” but mostly just a quick nod.
How we did with clubs wasn’t the point, that we were doing it was good enough. Just two men, doing something they liked, a shared experience if not exactly sharing.
Of course, I wondered.
He always wore golf attire and the look of probably being retired, maybe because he just looked so comfy in his clothes. I try to take golf casual to the office so that I’m comfy when I can sneak away at lunch to hit a bucket.
I like golf, but rarely get away for actual time on the course, so I’m relegated to the range, not really golfing, just hitting. He was there, too, so I figured there must be something that kept him where our paths crossed.
I thought he was older, but then, doesn’t everyone look older? I mean, there’s how old you are and then how old you feel. My 82-year-old mother regularly talks about looking in the mirror and asking, “What happened?” I assumed he thought I was the older one.
Adding to my speculation about a young spirit was the car.
At first, I wasn’t sure the nicely kept 280Z was his. We would never really finish hitting at the same, always one starting, one ending, with a bit of overlap. I’d walk out to the parking lot and see mine, a sporty little Subaru hand-me down from my big sister, and there would be the Z along with a couple of minivans and other cars.
Sometimes, ours were the only two cars and then one day, I saw him in the driver’s seat. It fit him.
It wasn’t too long after that I saw the obituary.
There was his picture and a name: David Walter Newquist. I was stunned that he was gone, but in wonderment at reading about the depth and breadth of his life.
David was the older one, born during the buildup toward World War II on Cyprus in the middle of the Mediterranean, sailing out of harm’s way just in time with his family. He was a veteran, serving in the Army of his adopted country.
He was intelligent, turning down an appointment to West Point, graduating from college to immerse himself in the intricacies of actuarial mathematics and a career in the insurance business.
But that was business and David’s legacy seemed to family and living.
Yes, a golfer who played Pebble Beach and St. Andrew’s, but also a fly fisherman who wondered if maybe the fish weren’t the smarter of the pairing.
What can you say about a man and woman who meet on April Fool’s Day while she is dressed like a bunny and passing out Easter candy, and still decide on taking life’s journey together? That’s got to be couple with a keen sense of perspective, not to mention humor.
He actively supported his son and daughter through what was then called Indian Guides then Boy Scouts and piano and dance recitals. Later, he volunteered his professional skills to help keep the Edmonds Museum on an even financial keel.
His wife, Darlene, told me it was a combination of cancers, diagnosed last summer, that began the process that ended in March.
But clearly, David Newquist was a man whose life’s thread was woven into the fabric of many lives, and I was fortunate to have some of it in mine.
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