So Long Dr Whoopie

At the 3 Forks of the Missouri

Roughly 3 years ago, a year or so after a nearly fatal aneurysm put him in intensive care for months, my brother in law Scott Pelton expressed an interest in spending an afternoon fly fishing with me. This would be one of his first attempts at some outdoor recreation beyond short hikes since the incident. Accordingly, a date was arranged. Prior to the selected date I got an email from my sister that I think I still have saved somewhere. My sister is a formidable person. I love her beyond all measure, but no one with the brains they were born with would ever cross her. The email was highly proscriptive regarding the activities Scott was permitted to engage in. There were five bulleted items that were forbidden (no driving on the interstate, no wading, no beer, no weed, and something else I don’t remember). The email made it abundantly clear that his compliance was my responsibility.

When the day arrived, Scott appeared at my door at the appointed time. I shared the contents of the email with him, and he cheerfully informed me that he had already engaged in three of the forbidden activities, and planned to enjoy the other two very shortly. When I asked what would happen to me, he said “Well, looks like you’re fucked!”

So there’s that.

We went fishing, the trout were looking up and Scott’s beautiful compact casting stroke returned instantly. We did well. He never told my sister, and I didn’t either.

Scott and Nancy married about four months after my Dad died. They were maybe 21, I was 13. I grew up with three models for what constituted the behavior of a grown man; my kindly octogenarian grandfather, my crazy and driven brother in law Wally, married to my oldest sister, and Scott. Scott was just a kid himself when he became kin to me, and probably not prepared to be a mentor to a badly wounded teen age boy, but he did it. There was a well of grace and decency to the man that simply had no bottom.

He was always quiet and understated, which belied his rich sense of humor and his many passions and strong feelings. His laid-back demeanor earned him the nickname “Dr Whoopie” after the overwrought Doonesbury character who delivered condoms door-to-door on a motor scooter. He was endlessly patient and tolerant, and he became the sort of father, grandfather, husband and friend that everyone should have. We bonded over our mutual love of the outdoors, and I introduced him to backpacking and fly fishing, activities he grew to love and to master.


He was one of the men that raised me, and I learned from him. The lesson of quiet and introspection was never my strength (ask anybody) but what I know of it came from Scott. The greatest gift he gave me was the understanding that the quality of life mattered more than its quantity. Good food and drink was more important than lots of food and drink. Good music mattered more than what was popular. Good writing and a few well-chosen words were better than a lengthy rant full of drivel. The love of family and friends was better than anything else. In the end, his choice to forgo extraordinary measures to extend life in favor of living and dying on his own terms was a final, lovely, and overwhelming lesson that I will take with me to my own end.

He deserved to live longer, but no one lived better.

I miss Scott, and I always will. Tomorrow, the day before his wake in Baltimore, I think I’ll go trout fishing for a couple hours. It seems like the least I can do.

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