In Memoriam: Harold T. Lomb; 1933 – 2012

Yesterday afternoon, July 24th, my father, Harold T. Lomb, passed away. He was 78 years old. He would have been 79 on August 2nd.

For the past few years, my father had been suffering from a health complication called primary progressive aphasia. It was a difficult condition for him, but we really didn’t expect him to pass so suddenly. Although the aphasia had made things tough for my father (he hadn’t been able to talk, and his mobility had become a challenge) with my mother’s help he still went places, and had just attended my son’s first birthday party, a week ago. Because we were still able to share a meal with him, and visit, his passing seemed sudden and unexpected.

Harold Lomb is the husband of Dorothy Lomb, married for over 55 years. They have seven children; from oldest to youngest: Donald Lomb, Jeffrey Lomb, Gregory Lomb, Cindy Wise, Linda Werner, Michael Lomb, and David Lomb.

I will miss him.

My father was a unique man, and he was anything but typical. Anyone who knew him would agree there was no one quite like him. Harold was a smart man who had a voracious appetite for knowledge, and the truth. Talking with him was always enlightening, exciting, and at times loud. He made you think. As a young man, in my teens, I recall telling my father something I’d heard on the news. But, while telling my story, I had made the mistake of using the words, “They said … ” His response, was to challenge me tell him who “They” were – and not to use generalizations in the process. In endless conversations with my father (most often over libations) he challenged every convention – religion, politics, culture … yet he never posed himself as person tied to any generation’s ideas. His thoughts and ideas seemed free of predispositions, and pure in critique. Most important to me, is that he listened intently to every idea that I expressed to him. I never walked away from a conversation with my father feeling as though I hadn’t been genuinely heard.

The way I see it, there is no better gift a parent can give their child than teaching them the ability to see the world, and all things in it, for what they really are. I know that he gave me that. And I know that – as my father – that was what he wanted for all his children. Although it’s been a few years since I have been able to easily converse with him (because of his inability to speak, due to the aphasia) this is what I will remember about my father the most.

I came from a BIG family – seven kids, spanning nineteen years. Last night, my wife Sue and I talked about how hard it must have been for my father (and my mother) to carry the burden of financially supporting so many children. Today, it seems nearly impossible to imagine the expense, and the worry, a parent would endure knowing that all that responsibility fell on them – to provide enough. Still, growing up, I never saw my father worry, or express concern for those matters. In his mind, that was “his” problem … and not something I should concern myself with.

Harold passed that ethic down to all his children. Although patient with our ideas, my father held the bar ridiculously high – for each and every one of us, for everything we did. Every task given to us was to be performed to perfection … and he always looked. If you know a Lomb, you are aware of the “Lomb standard” … this came from Harold.

My father also liked to enjoy life.

Thinking about how philosophical he was, how politically charged he could be, and how rigid he was about perfection … and you could accidentally miss that he was a really good guy with a great sense of humor. Growing up, my father took immense pleasure in purchasing & hiding (for the sake of scaring us – in particular my mom) rubber snakes, fake rats, plastic spiders … you name it. A couple years ago, for Christmas, I bought my father a mechanical talking parrot – it swore and said things that made my mother embarrassed. He loved it. It sat behind his bar, where he sat during parties – graciously serving drinks – and (when the grand kids weren’t around) you could hear it telling dirty jokes.

Until his last day, he never lost that sense of humor, that was uniquely his own.

In 1996, my father came to the front door of my agency – a day or so after I first opened. He said; “I want to buy something – I’ll be your first customer.” As he wouldn’t take no for an answer, I accepted a single dollar bill from him. That dollar is framed and hangs on the wall behind my desk.

I owe so much of who I am to him, and I am grateful and honored to be his son. I will miss you Dad.

Michael