Thursday, May 21, 2009
Phil Walker was a family man. He had his first family, of course, with his wife, Cynthia, and including his brothers, his step-daughter Melissa and her children, and his nephew Peter and his children. He had additional families. One of those was his Goleta neighborhood, where he shared his love of his dog, Trixy; his appreciation for the Ellwood Mesa; and his interests in cooking and gardening. In his lab at UCSB, Phil had generations of students who formed another family and were profoundly changed by his mentorship. With the Chumash, he shared a respect for their heritage and was a trusted caretaker of bones of ancestors. In Iceland, where Phil and I spent most of our time together, working on a project that included excavation of a Viking Age longhouse and graveyard, we created an international family team in the Mosfell Valley year after year.
Phil was a fun and genuine person. He studied death and loved life. In Iceland, the two of us had an uproarious time in a small kitchen, cooking up spaghetti dinners for 25, after spending the day scraping the earth for Viking Age bones. Phil joked about skulls and bones but also approached them like the detective he was. He would listen patiently to students and colleagues from around the world discuss serious matters at the dinner table, and then he would suddenly throw in a non-sequitur such as, “Did you know I once studied monkey penises?”
He loved new experiences and had students tasting local delicacies such as singed sheep’s head and baked puffin. He and I headed to the hot pots every day after working in the field. With thermal water up to our noses, Phil would expound on the day’s work and its possible implications. Then he would joke around about how he always had to take care of me — brush the dirt off my coat — while I would work to find ways to show that I took care of him. We were colleagues but also best friends.
Phil enjoyed learning about the societies where he was excavating. In Iceland, he read the sagas and became involved in the culture of those around him, living and dead. He and I enjoyed our Friday nights at the local bar. Even though he didn’t understand the Icelandic language, he contributed to the overall jovial feeling of the evenings. He was always respectful of all cultures, and that respect was illustrated in his treatment of their unearthed treasures, and the way he included and valued their contributions toward archaeological discovery. Phil had a profound effect on the local elected officials, who supported our work, as well as the farmer who allowed us to work on his land.
He was a brilliant writer and academic stylist, able to explain the most difficult concept in simple terms. This is something I understand that he did in other areas of his work, such as forensic investigations involving human remains, and in his work on Native American repatriation issues.
He had serious dyslexia, which often meant that his speech came slowly. Frequently, I would finish the ends of his sentences and, in true Phil style, he would say, “That’s not what I was going to say but that sounds pretty good!” In early life, this dyslexia caused him problems, but he was always resilient. In elementary school, he could not pass the song flute course so he was denied access to early music lessons in school, but eventually became a fine musician and builder of stringed instruments. His speech problems caused him to be placed in classes for what then were called the mentally retarded, but he pursued an academic life and became a leading scholar in his field. With determination and creativity, he found ways to bypass these roadblocks. Phil had a lifelong appreciation and empathy for other people’s challenges, and was often far more forgiving than anyone else of other people’s shortcomings. He assumed that everyone could achieve what they wanted, and treated students, friends, and colleagues with the same respect.
Every spring, Phil and I had a contest to see whose tomatoes would ripen first, and most years he won. I wish he could win this year, too. It was a comfort to us to know that the Chumash lit fires to guide his spirit’s journey. For my part, I know Phil would smile to think of himself on the great Viking ship heading to Valhalla. Life was always an adventure for Phil. We have lost a great friend.