Craig Jurney, 56, died unexpectedly on November 20, 2019 at Stanford Hospital surrounded by his family. He was a resident of Palo Alto, CA.
Craig graduated from Stanford University in 1986, having majored in public policy with a focus on economics. He was a scholar, an art lover, a follower of politics and culture, and a world traveller. He loved museums of all kinds, and discovered new ones wherever his wide-ranging travels for work and vacation took him.
A devoted husband, he relished date nights with his wife Erika, and together they loved carefully planning their annual family vacations. He regularly shopped for the family groceries and often cooked the family meals. When he shopped at the farmers market on Saturdays, he came home with flowers. He was a loving father who devoted many of his after work and weekend hours to coaching the boys’ soccer and baseball teams, attending every play, and every band performance. He was a fan of the San Francisco Giants and enjoyed watching games with his boys. Simply put…he was the smartest and kindest person his wife ever met.
Craig worked for 16 years at HighWire Press in Los Gatos, CA as Chief Solutions Architect and Principal Developer. In a recent interview, he described his job as: “I design many of the systems that we run at HighWire from the ground up and for those that I don’t design, I figure out how to integrate them into our overall offering or change/enhance them to support our clients’ ever-changing requirements. I also travel to visit our strategic customers and meet with their technical staff.”
He was married for almost 23 years to the love of his life, Erika. Together they parented their wonderful children, travelled, read, and thoroughly enjoyed each other’s company. Theirs was a true, close partnership cut short.
Craig is survived by his wife, Erika, their boys Henry, Ed, and Charlie; his father Peter Jurney and his wife Gloria; his sister Anne-Marie Jurney; his brother Steve Jurney and his wife Marilyn Replogle; his parents-in-law Brigitte and Bliss Carnochan and Ken Fields and Nora Cain; and his sisters-in-law Sam and Jess Fields. His mother, Patricia, predeceased him. His laugh, curiosity, and far-ranging intelligence will be greatly missed by his family, friends, and colleagues.
Craig’s family would like to extend their thanks to the doctors and nurses at Stanford Hospital for their compassionate care.
Remembering Craig Jurney at the Oshman Family JCC on January 11, 2020 at 4:00
November 15, 1963 – November 20, 2019
Craig was born in November of 1963, in what is now the “old” Stanford Hospital but was new then. I was teaching Social Studies at a high school in Sunnyvale while working on my master’s degree in education. His mother had just completed 15 months as the receptionist at Stanford Law School.
I remember so clearly the day he was born. In those dark ages, husbands were not allowed to be in the delivery room; so I waited in the room set aside for that purpose. The hospital had a tradition: Once the baby had been cleaned up, mother and child were wheeled out in a hospital bed and presented to the waiting family—in this case, just me. I remember how elated I was. After a short visit I left the hospital, but myself a cigar, and sent a couple of telegrams (remember those?) to our parents. Patti’s boss, the Dean of the Stanford Law School, presented me with a nice bottle of Scotch and a small, red-and-white Stanford football.
Craig was always an active kid. Patti baby-sat another boy the same age, and the contrast between the two was amazing. Jimmy just sat in the play pen, moving his arms but never his legs, while Craig crawled all around the play pen and the front yard! He had a high metabolic rate and was a tough kid to put to sleep—most nights, we had to rub his back for 15 minutes or so before he drifted off. His brother Steve, three years later, needed no such encouragement. Craig always led an athletic and adventurous life.
As a four and five-year old, he had trouble pronouncing some words. In the second grade, an audiologist determined that he had been born with a hearing loss. A hearing aid helped a lot, and he never had any trouble in school. In fact, he was always at the top of his class, intellectually curious and a voracious reader. His collection of books, which has taken over much of the family house, puts mine to shame.
Craig was a dapper 15-year-old, wearing a plaid Scottish cap and a velvet coat while sporting a silver tipped walking stick. Later it was a Qiana shirt, flared double-knit trousers and stacked heels—we called it his “John Revolta” look. He liked dancing, was popular with the girls and had a steady stream of girlfriends. He was a good athlete; a family friend who was two years ahead of Craig in school told me that as a sophomore, Craig challenged the seniors who were also running the 400 meters and pushed them to run faster. He also played varsity basketball—he had a 27-inch vertical leap and was a great shot blocker.
From about age 16 on, Craig talked about wanting to have a family of his own. Fortunately, he met Erika, and they have three boys—Henry, Ed, and Charlie—who are all in high school at this point. He finally got the family he had wanted for so long, and he didn’t waste his chance—coaching each of his boys in sports, taking them on trips, helping with homework and just being Dad and being around his boys a lot of the time. My observation is that he’s also been a great husband to Erika, as well as a great son and son-in-law.
Here’s a story that will tell you something about Craig’s character. He worked in Oregon for about a year, and then was offered a job at Stanford. He asked me if he could borrow my Chevron credit card for his trip down to California. I said sure, and handed him the card. He said he would only need it for the trip to Palo Alto.
Well, not exactly. Three years pass, and he still had the Chevron card!
At the end of that three years we took a trip to Palo Alto to see Craig and Erika. We were sitting in the Peninsula Creamery, waiting for Craig to show up. He walked in and handed me a packet. In it were:
The Chevron card
Every Chevron charge slip for the past three years
An Excel spread sheet, listing all of the charges and calculating interest owed
A check to me for the full amount—including the interest!
I’m pretty sure many fathers have had a different experience with their kids!
And so you leave us, Craig, leaving us desolate at your absence, missing your laugh, your skill as a cook, your willingness to argue either side of a discussion for the enjoyment you got from engaging in it. I will miss those long phone conversations in which we discussed the books we’d been reading. I will miss the excitement in your voice as you would tell me about your latest discovery. The sun will be a little less bright tomorrow morning. Farewell, my beautiful son.
Remembering Craig Jurney at the Oshman Family JCC on January 11, 2020 at 4:00
November 15, 1963 – November 20, 2019
In Memoriam Peter Craig Jurney
One of my first memories of my brother was at an ice rink. He was about 6 years old which means I must have been about 3. This ice rink was at the Lloyd Center shopping mall in Portland Oregon, one of the first and largest malls in the country. Our mother had taken us there as a treat (for us and her, I imagine).
We didn’t have a lot of money growing up so going somewhere like an official ice rink and using proper skates was a big deal. My mother sent Craig and me on to the ice by ourselves — I imagine she went off shopping leaving me in his 6-year-old care for a while. (Different times…).
We spent our time unsteadily hugging the wall and circling slowly but happily around the rink. Craig, who was, of course, the better skater, held my hand and tried to ease me out from the wall when I’m sure he would have rather gone off on his own. Eventually mom returned and informed us it was time to go home. Craig and I, naturally, protested.
“Five more minutes? Please!”
I could see my mom’s resolve yielding to our excitement. As if to sell the idea that we deserved more time my brother had the smashing idea to show her what he had learned that day on the ice.
“Watch this!” he cried. And with the confidence that my brother always seemed to have in abundance he pushed himself hard off the wall. Backwards. And attempted to spin around.
His shear athleticism and belief in himself carried him magnificently — for about half a second. Then he slipped…and he fell. Hard. And his head hit the ice. I can still hear how soundless it was. And I remember there was a bit of blood. And adults came. And somehow we were removed from the rink. And eventually made our way home. And I remember — through all of these 50 years — how I felt when I saw my brother fall to the ice.
I was mad.
I was mad because now we would not get 5 more minutes skating unsteadily around,
gripping each other for support. Because of his antics we had to leave early. My fun had to end because HE had to be a show off.
If I’m being honest, I felt something else for him in that moment as he fell — no, not concern for his well-being. I felt something then I would feel for him many times over the next half a century — utter awe and admiration.
In truth there weren’t many times I was mad at my brother. I’m sure I used to drive him up the wall frequently, although he rarely let it show. The simple truth of the matter is that my brother was my hero.
I know it is a well-worn cliché for a younger brother to look up to an older brother, but I cannot conceive of a human being more naturally suited to that role. Craig was my protector, my advisor, my guide, my confidant and my companion through life.
My siblings and I grew up in a neighborhood full of places to explore. There was the lake that would sometimes freeze and we would test the thickness of the ice together (again, where were the parents?) We used to have sword fights using broken branches in the grove of trees near our house and we used to head down to the wild blackberry bushes at the end of our street and gobble them in the summer till our fingers were stained purple. I liked the fact Craig could reach the berries that were a little higher up than most kids could reach. Those were the ones that were a little riper. (Occasionally he would toss a few of these in my direction).
There was a particular day, however, I wandered away on my own to do a bit of berry-picking myself. Unfortunately, there was this kid, Joey, I think, who lived around the corner from us. Joey was not a nice boy. I imagine Joey would not have been an awesome brother to anyone.
He found me, separated from my herd, and he managed to lure me into their family tool shed as a prank. This shed was a bit off the ground and after I had climbed and entered the door Joey removed the step stool I had used to get in. I was trapped. A good 2 1/2 feet off the ground. It might as well have been a mile.
It is hard for me to overstate the terror I felt at that moment. Hidden from sight. Unable to extricate myself. Being taunted by someone laughing at my misery. I wailed for help.
It seems like I was trapped in there an eternity.
To this day I do not know how my hard-of-hearing-brother found me. It was as if by magic. I just remember the cascading waves of relief and gratitude that washed over me when I saw his red-headed face pop into view and help me down to the ground. Even today I feel the echoes of that moment in my heart.
This was not the last time Craig came to my rescue. It most certainly was not the last time he lent me a helping hand when I needed it.
As a kid, I was not always brave, like my brother. He was confident around adults and other kids his age. He was tall, good looking, and always seemed to know what was going on. He laughed easily and, even more remarkably, had the confidence and heart to laugh at himself. Something I could never master.
He was bigger, faster, stronger, smarter, and braver that I could ever be. My mom once told me — and this is something I never shared with Craig — she thought some of what drove his desire to achieve success in life was a desire to impress his younger brother.
What a crazy thought — if only that were true!
What is true is that he was a wonderful childhood companion who allowed me to be his little brother unconditionally. He allowed me the luxury of leaning on him for support even as he navigated his own way through life.
It was as if, when I was born, I was launched in to the unsteady sea of life in a boat I didn’t quite know how to use. Then I spy my brother up ahead of me — cutting effortlessly through the water, laying the course. But he keeps checking over his shoulder. When he sees a rough patch of water coming up he makes his way back to me. To lash his boat to mine — to steady it — until the trouble has passed. Then he continues on, just up ahead. Setting the course again.
I ask your forgiveness for being so indulgent. You see, I want to share with you stories of the brother I knew growing up. I want to somehow share with you the person I knew so that you can love him as much as I did.
I want to talk about the things I know he loved when we were small together:
— Smashing up lego buildings as soon as we had made them because he enjoyed the chaos.
— Building forts in the backyard — and sometimes stuffing our sister inside the tiniest ones — much to her delight.
— Sliding down the stairs in cardboard boxes decorated to look like rocket ships.
— Throwing my sister down into the entryway to land on a pile of cushions. (It’s a miracle she’s still with us, to be honest.)
— Playing ball in the house on a rainy day and taping the (slightly damaged) lamp back together afterwords. (Sorry, Dad).
— Playing ball in the house and breaking the crystal vase on the sideboard and craftily blaming my 2-year-old sister. (Sorry, again, Dad. And sorry, Anne, I guess…)
— Watching the Rockford Files, Perry Mason, and Star Trek and Monty Python.
— Watching Saturday morning cartoons.
— Disco dancing in the living room to the BeeGees and spending his allowance money at the mall on 45 singles by ELO, Samantha Sang and Dan Hill and other one-hit wonders of the late 70’s.
— Learning to cook in Jr. High and wanting to show what he could do in the kitchen to impress our mother.
I want to tell you about time we were having our after-school snack at the dining room table when he tried — as a 12 year old child — to call our mom by her first name. “How was your day, Patricia?” And he got away with it.
Once.
And then my mom explained to her eldest son that the boundary between being a child and being an adult — a boundary that he thought he could willfully step over — was a bit higher than that. I stared at him in awe and admiration then too.
I want talk about how he loved to read constantly from the moment he could hold a book. From comic books to murder mysteries to literature and everything in between.
There was a time he was reading on the couch in the living room just before dinner and read a word (“intriguing”) he, apparently, had not seen spelled out before — but decided, in a very Craig-like fashion, to use it out loud in a sentence anyway.
“This is a very ‘intruging’ dinner you’ve made for us, Mother.” He never lived it down, even 40 years later.
I want to talk about the time he almost jumped into a roiling ocean to rescue our family dog from being thrown into the rocks…
…to talk about the time he launched himself through our car to free his stupid brother who had shut his fingers in the back hatch (I still remember the muddy foot print he left on the back seat that was there for weeks)…
…to tell you about the time I caught him making out in the living room with Lisa Brumfield when he was supposed to be looking after me (I was incredibly impressed).
I could also mention the time he started a fire under the hood of his VW bug because he crossed some wires while replacing the fuel gauge sending unit. (I was not so impressed by that.)
I want to tell you about the time we shared a 4:30 AM paper route together until he had trained me well enough to take it over…
…about the time he consoled me after I broke my favorite lunch box when we were walking to grade school together. And didn’t laugh at me about how upset I was.
I want to share when he told me he had seen and heard Santa Claus on the roof because he knew I wanted to believe, even though he absolutely did not. (And he never spoilt it for me.)
I could also tell about how he offered to be my locker partner in high school because I didn’t have one. And I could tell you about the multiple times he took me in — to give me a place to stay for a while.
Allowing me to steady my boat alongside his.
But, standing here today, I realize I am incredibly lucky. I realize that I don’t have to share all of these stories with you to honor my brother.
All I really had to do was share my brother with all of you (for as much as he was mine TO share.) All of you are here because you all know what an incandescent spirit Craig was.
You all have your own stories of Craig.
Stories of a fantastic colleague and mentor.
Stories of a wonderful husband and companion.
Stories of the world’s greatest father to 3 wonderful sons that he had boundless love for.
I have run into people in my life with siblings whom they say they are not very close with; they don’t stay in touch with. I was quite well into adulthood before I realized how lucky I was to know and be close to my brother, Craig. That it was not just a matter-of-course that everyone had such an amazing person in their lives.
He was the smartest person I knew. A couple of years ago I was working on a computer problem and I couldn’t figure it out, so I texted him to see if he had a few minutes to chat about it. Within 2 minutes he gave me the insight I needed to solve the problem. Again, it seemed as if by magic.
Craig and I used to share an apartment in the City for a while right after college. We both worked at Stanford so we would carpool together. Those of you who knew my brother know there was no subject he was not interested in and few that he did not have some expertise in. (And, of course, those subjects he was not an expert in, he might bluff anyway because he still probably knew more than you.) Needless to say, those evenings driving home to the setting sun along highway 280, chattering away about the world and life, seem like halcyon days now.
Well, I want to tell you something remarkable. My brother and I both have had young families for a while as well as busy careers. Discretionary time is almost non-existent. So for the last 15 years or so we haven’t been able to talk as often as we’d like. So much so that we would schedule appointments with each other to chat by phone.
So we’d talk, maybe once every few months. And I would mark the upcoming appointment on my calendar. And I would look forward to it. For days. So here I am — a 50 year old man with a pretty decent idea about how the world works — looking forward to calling my brother because I want to hear what he has to say.
So we would typically chat for a couple of hours that would go by all too quickly.
During which he might explain something to me about an economic theory that I asked him about.
Or talk about a new technique he’d employed to keep the water out of his cellar. Or about how proud he was of his kids. And his wife.
How rare is that convivial an experience to have with anyone, let alone someone who you’ve known your whole life?
I know that I was blessed. Even as I always wished we still shared that commute time together from years ago.
Along with my parents, Craig was the most warm-hearted and kind person I knew. I’ve given some examples of this, but I want to give one less obvious example.
Those of you who knew my brother know that he was never shy about sharing his opinion with you. Sometimes aggressively so. Some of you might also be aware that Craig liked to find out what your opinion was just so that he could argue the opposite viewpoint — usually with a zeal that would suggest a lifelong conviction to this view — even if only acquired on the spot!
This is something my wife found quite disconcerting when she first met him. She wanted to know why my brother and I always seemed so mad each other — because we were constantly arguing.
But to me, this posture was the sign of utmost respect. It is no easy feat to quickly muster cogent arguments to support a side you might not agree with — as Craig sometimes did. But it forced you to sharpen your own thoughts. Indeed, plumb the depths of your own convictions. Define what you really care about and why.
I remember one conversation I had with him where at then end of it he looked over at me and said “you really know your stuff”. What higher sign of respect, of kindness, than to care enough to take you seriously as a person, take your viewpoint seriously and acknowledge the endeavor as mutually satisfying.
Which brings me to the last thing I want to praise about my brother today — perhaps the trait I admired above all else although I did not have cause to reflect on it until recently: his integrity. I save this quality for last because this is not something you’re born with, like height, amazing red hair, good looks, or intelligence.
Integrity is a reflection of the decisions you have to make every day. Integrity is what you do when no one is looking. Integrity is admitting you were wrong even when you don’t have to. It is a big part of what made Craig a great son, a great husband and a great father.
One of the last conversations I had with my brother was about a trip to Rome he had taken with his family. He talked about how much he had enjoyed sharing it with his wife and especially with his sons. He was surprised that it was his favorite destination of the trip since it was the city he knew least well. He also mentioned some of the ruins in the Roman forum and we had a small debate about who had built a particular house they had visited. Shortly after the phone call he texted me that I had been right about the house. He didn’t have to do that. Admit he was wrong. (I already knew I was right :-). But it was important for him to not only research and discover the truth, but to acknowledge what he’d learned. That was part of his DNA.
I never had occasion to doubt Craig always acted in good faith; always acted in good conscience — whether it be a professional project, personal interaction or community service.
You could trust my brother. I would have trusted him with my life. I would have have trusted him with my kids’ lives. I know that all of you who knew Craig had a similar faith in his character. I cannot tell you how proud I am to be able to stand up here and say that.
Michelangelo said once: “The greater danger for most of us lies not in setting our aim too high and falling short; but in setting our aim too low, and achieving our mark.”
My brother lived his life to the fullest. He set his aim perfectly too high. All of us who knew Craig have suffered an impossible loss. None more so that Erika, Henry, Ed and Charlie. They say that no one is truly gone as long as they are remembered. But I want all of us here today to do more than keep my brother in their memories. I would wish for all of us to try and be more like my big brother in our own lives. I want all of us laugh easily and often, especially at ourselves. I want all of us to find curiosity and wonder in the world. I want all of us to have the integrity to act correctly based on what we believe — but also to look for opportunities to learn.
And I want all of us to look behind us, as we are making our way through the unsteady currents of life, and see when there are others who need might need us to lash our boat to theirs for a time.
I know will be striving mightily to catch up to my brother, forever just ahead — still laying the course he charted for us to follow.
Remembering Craig Jurney at the Oshman Family JCC on January 11, 2020 at 4:00
November 15, 1963 – November 20, 2019
I met Craig over 20 years ago when he came to work for me. He was already known to be a talented programmer, described as a real hotshot as I recall. Indeed, he was a smart, energetic and curious young man, a hard worker who quickly became integral to our team. For me he became a vital partner in design, development, architecture, engineering, who brought insights and perspectives that were key to our successes. We would spend many hours in front of a white board modeling data, planning, sometimes arguing, but always respectfully, because we shared an appreciation of the importance of details. Over time our friendship grew, and I found he approached life with the same care and zeal as his work. We skied together, rafted together, and for several years we participated in bi-weekly volleyball games with our Stanford colleagues. He was quite good, and though competitive, he was as much a gentleman on the court as off.
Anyone who knew Craig knows he was a bit of a renaissance man, a prolific reader and a sponge for knowledge. One of the great pleasures of our friendship, one that lasted well after we worked together, was simple conversation. We would occasionally meet over breakfast or for drinks at the faculty club, where topics might range from photography to history, art to politics, to obscure points of finance, to medieval French agrarian economy (true) — you never knew, and it was fun to just try to keep up.
A small story … one time we got onto the topic of artificial intelligence. This was in its early days, so we were wondering how you would program something that learned on its own, or test something whose output would evolve. This was shortly before Craig was to become a father, so naturally I asked if he was ready for fatherhood, since, like AI, he’d be dealing with new organic subroutines with minds of their own — hard to predict and harder to manage. He said something like, “yeah, maybe it is like AI. You learn what you can, you do your best, and you know you are doing something right when you get more out of it than you put in.” … a nice line … I confess I remember it because I have used it since. But I think Craig spoke a truth. He knew the power of knowledge, the value of hard work, and that investment yields rewards. But at heart he was a true optimist. Life was an adventure worthy of one’s best … and he was all in.
Add to this a wonderful hearty laugh, and that is the Craig I will remember.
Remembering Craig Jurney at the Oshman Family JCC on January 11, 2020 at 4:00
November 15, 1963 – November 20, 2019
Hi, I’m Henry, as you probably knew me in relation to him, Craig’s son. I knew him as my father, Dad. It’s simply amazing to see all the people who have to come to celebrate and honor the life of such a wonderful person. And it doesn’t surprise me at all how many people are here today, because he was that kind of person, the kind that you would meet and think, “Wow, that was one of those people right? The ones that are just great and you know it just from seeing the smile in their eyes or hear the warmth in their voice”. My father was one of those special few, and it is self-evident by all the people present here today who he touched, whose lives he has changed, and I just wish he could be here to see all the good he did in the world and that he had so many that loved him.
When I think of Dad, I think of his persistent use of dad jokes, his intense passion for learning and creating, his interest in music that inspired me on my musical journey, his immense knowledge of history and his fascination with museums (and plaques), his stereotypically loud dad sneezes, and his loving aura and approach towards his family, his friends, and everyone he encountered.
I remember how he always enjoyed hearing me practicing in the other room, even when it was 8:30 pm and the whole house had no choice but to hear my endless scales, he always commented on how I was getting better and that I was sounding good. I remember after every concert, we’d talk about the songs I played in the car on the way home and he would often make a playlist to listen to the next day of the same songs. I remember how we enjoyed watching movies and TV shows together every weekend. We would always watch Its a Wonderful Life on Christmas eve, usually just the two of us, staying up late in the night. Our current show was Game of Thrones that we would watch a few episodes of every weekend, moving very slowly through the seasons, but always giving me something to look forward too. I remember hearing the characteristic roar of the crowd coming from the TV in the other room and joining my Dad on the couch to watch the Giants play or keep up with the world series. I remember his seemingly unstoppable ability to strike up friendly conversations with just about anyone in public, as he was always eager to learn from and connect with other people and cultures. I remember for an assignment in my 10th grade English class, I had to record an hour-long conversation contemplating some philosophical question and he gave me almost two hours as we just talked, albeit he was the one talking most of the time. I remember how he was the one I turned too before google. Whenever I had questions about any subject, math, history, or just why things are the way things are, I’d ask him, and when I’d ask Mom she’d say you should ask Dad because he seemed to have a such a deep understanding and interpretation of the world that I always thought was so admirable about him that made me want to be just like him in that way.
He was my hero, someone I always looked up too. The one that when prompted by a questionnaire “Who is your role model”, I always put down my father. He was the most intelligent, compassionate, loving, funny, and understanding person I knew. And every time I thought and still think about him I feel so lucky to have him as my father and I’m honored to be his son.
Among others, it has always been my Dad that I have strived to be like as I grew up. I was inspired by his unparalleled quest for knowledge and excellence in all aspects of life. He was and is my role model. I learned from him not just how to throw a baseball or understand why cars function, but by leading by example, he taught me how to care for others, how to pursue my dreams, and how to use the time I have here on Earth to the fullest capacity.
Although I haven’t quite come to terms with the fact that I will never have a conversation with him again, I know that his legacy and his impact on the world will persist. Something that I can confidently say, and I think you all would agree with is that the world was a better place with my father in it. And as we say goodbye to my father today, I’d like for everyone to think of all the great things we loved about him and cherish those memories. To honor his life and his memory, I think we should all aim to accomplish what he did, and try to make the world around us a better place. To do so is not just the right thing to do, but is what he would have wanted to do, to not let his memory take on the silhouette of sorrow, but of the generativity of life and happiness that we can bring about by remembering him this way.
Thank you, Dad, for being the most amazing father anyone could have ever asked for. Thank you for showing me how to live life to the fullest and make the world around me a better place. Thank you for making me feel loved every day of my life. I love you Dad and I’ll miss you more than words can express. Thank you.
Remembering Craig Jurney at the Oshman Family JCC on January 11, 2020 at 4:00
November 15, 1963 – November 20, 2019
Dad and I had a special kind of relationship. One where instead of watching sports on the couch, we enjoyed discussing various topics. I always loved talking to dad about theater, because whenever I did, I would always get a new insight into my hobby. He very clearly loved teaching me and my brothers about topics he felt passionate about, such as history, art, tech, and pretty much anything else that we wanted to.
When I was younger, Dad had always seemed like this sort of fountain of endless knowledge. Whenever anyone in the family didn’t know something, the first thought that came to our heads was “ask Dad”. He was our very own private search engine.
And even though he was such an astute scholar, he always made it clear that he loved us more than anything in the world. When we were on vacation, he would always make an effort to join in on the complex board games that my brothers and I play. And even though he didn’t fully understand the rules, he just loved being able to connect with us in any way possible.
Dad is the person who I strive to be. I have looked up to him for my whole life, and I always admired everything about him. He is still my mentor, and his death has not changed that fact. I had always sought his approval in everything that I did, for he was the person who I had respected and loved the most. He was smart, caring, and the best father I could have ever had, and I am determined to live out his legacy.
Not a day has gone by since his death where I do not think about him and who he was, and I don’t feel like that will change for many years. His death has not made me want to give up, but rather it has made me more resolute than ever before to keep on pushing through, because whenever I feel horrible about his death, I know for a fact that he would not have wanted me or anyone else to feel hopeless due to his death. Peter Craig Jurney was a great man, and an even better father. I hope that wherever he is now, he can be happy knowing that we all still adore and care about him.
Remembering Craig Jurney at the Oshman Family JCC on January 11, 2020 at 4:00
November 15, 1963 – November 20, 2019
I remember watching the Rockford Files with Dad. We’d sit next to each other on the big couch mostly in silence. He always thought it was a little bit cheesy, but he liked it because it reminded him of Los Angeles. I always liked looking over to the other side of the couch and seeing his genuine happiness, both for reliving his childhood memories and seeing me do the same. He took joy from seeing the happiness of others in every aspect of life.
We used to go to Giants games, and I remember one time he lifted me up when they scored. I thought it was super-weird, but I was happy for him. He did everything he could to help me enjoy the games. He’d always know the best food stand, and he’d always buy me my favorite garlic fries. When we were in that stadium, no matter what had happened before that day, even if he’d had a bad day at work or something, he’d be all game talk.
I remember he’d come into our playroom to grab the mini step stool to go out and fill the bird feeders. He loved those birds. It was his passion and he’d stare out the windows at them like one might stare at a fish tank. I’d sometimes tell him about some of the funny things the birds would do on the bird feeders, and he’d enjoy that.
When we’d be watching the archaeology TV show Time Team, he’d sometimes go to his bookshelf and find a book and tell me all about the place that they were digging up. He made it feel like we were both discovering this knowledge for the first time even though he had read the book multiple times. He had a book for everything.
Dad always had his nose in some kind of book or manuscript collection. All the time he’d tell me about what he was reading. He was always reading as if he were going to take a test the next week on the entire encyclopedia.
Dad had lots of hats – from fedoras to baseball caps. Now when I see them on the coat rack it makes me think of him. When we’d be travelling, he’d see a hat and he’d just have to have it.
Dad took us to London, Paris, and Rome last summer. We could feel his excitement because he wanted to show us the London he loved. We went to Hampton Court where Henry the 8th lived and died. He ran us around the whole thing pointing and explaining like a guide because he knew so much about everything. He never dwelled on himself or his own experiences; instead he always put making our trip as good as possible over himself.
When we were in Rome, Dad knew that I was interested in Rome so he would always challenge me and ask me questions. If I didn’t know the answer, he’d help me. He originally wasn’t going to have us stay in Rome for very long, but he knew I was really interested in it so we stayed longer. In Rome, we always stopped at every gelato place. Dad made sure we’d have all the water and food we needed on our path.
I don’t know if I did enough for Dad, but I know certainly he did enough for me. His selflessness, although tested, would never fail. And I couldn’t imagine a better dad. He was the smartest person I knew, and he challenged me on everything we would do.
I love you, Dad. The things you did for me will stick with me until my death. The knowledge you gave will carry me through life. The knowledge you had yet to give will haunt me. I cannot lie by saying that I’m satisfied, but I have to carry on with what I have. I will never forget you.
Remembering Craig Jurney at the Oshman Family JCC on January 11, 2020 at 4:00
November 15, 1963 – November 20, 2019
Good afternoon. I am Louise Page and I was one of the lucky people who worked alongside Erika and Craig for more than a dozen years at HighWire Press. We bonded quickly and fiercely, first over our love of dogs and soon thereafter our journey into parenthood. There are few people I regard with as much respect and admiration as these two. The naked joy they have raising you three boys is so apparent to all of us. Craig never stopped talking about his family but he did it in a way that wasn’t boastful about skills or accomplishments. He talked about how you made him feel, how you made him laugh. What always came across is not how much he loved you — which he did — but how much he liked you all. How he would choose this life over and over and over again.
I learned a lot from Craig about parenting. I remember when he told me that you were all doing your own laundry, I think Henry was only 12 years old. I was amazed and he shrugged saying, “it’s never too early”. That was his mantra. Never too early to teach them responsibility, to take them to their first museum, to stop for a refreshing drink. Never too early.
Craig and I were the yin and yang of building and extending the HighWire business for many years. We spent countless hours in enviable locations like the Washington DC Marriott Metro Center lobby furiously working on slides, demos, and talking points and trying to convince the janitorial staff to serve us French fries at 2 in the morning (me) or open another bottle of wine (him). Craig was a dazzling work partner, his enthusiasm was infectious, his ideas were brilliant, and his ability to change course as needed was dizzying. His was a big personality, one that won’t be forgotten soon by his friends at Stanford and HighWire — many of whom are here today — or the extensive global network of publishers and professional societies he worked with through the years. I have yet to find another yin to my yang and don’t think I ever will.
In the last handful of years when I was at HighWire, we spent a LOT of time on the road together, largely in London. Craig was the perfect travel companion. No stress, all troubles rolled off his back, positivity and optimism oozing out of him as I wrung my hands, and the only concern I ever detected was whether he was going to make it to the [insert name] museum before it closed. His consummate curiosity and wanderlust was fed by Britain — its traditions, its history, its literature — and of course its pubs.
When the St. Pancras station reopened in London, we discovered the Booking Office together and quickly it became our favorite way to close the day. Every trip to London ended there to imbibe, relax, and generally bask in that glorious space with the Eurostar rumbling nearby and the brick glowing red in the streaming natural light.
The Booking Office is famous for its punches and when we first discovered it, we wasted no time in tasting them all. But now it’s a drink to be shared with a dozen friends and somehow I knew when I walked in I would find Craig at the long expansive bar, his hat at his elbow, sipping a flight of punches that he had wheedled out of the bartender. After Craig passed, the Booking Office was kind enough to share the recipe for one of Craig’s favorite punches, and I’ve brought enough (I hope) for everyone to have a taste during the reception as we collectively remember Craig and toast our fortune in having been in his orbit.
This was one of Craig’s last posts on Facebook in November. I wish we had had more time, that there was one more nugget of wisdom, one more adventure, one more cocktail. This is the one time when it really was “too early.”
Billy Dawson’s Punch Recipe Makes 8 to 10 servings
Amount
Ingredient
100ml or 3.5oz
Arrak or Cachaca
200ml or 6.8oz
Hennessey Fine de Cognac
150ml or 5oz
Myers Dark Rum
100ml or 3.5 oz
Wray and Nephews Overproof Rum
0.5 pint or 8 oz
Harviestoun Old Engine Oil
100ml or 3.5 oz
Lemon juice
4 lemons
Peel
200g or 7 oz
Demerara sugar
500ml or 17 oz
Hot water
pinch
Nutmeg
Notes:
I wasn’t able to find Wray and Nephews Overproof Rum, so I added more Myers to meet the rum amounts.
Harviestoun Old Engine oil is a rich, chocolatey porter that is hard to find in the States. I substituted a Porter from Deschutes.
Instructions:
Premix the alcohol.
Boil the water.
Muddle the peel of lemons and sugar.
Add ½ the boiling water and stir to dissolve the
sugar.
Remembering Craig Jurney at the Oshman Family JCC on January 11, 2020 at 4:00
November 15, 1963 – November 20, 2019
Craig, I miss you so much. I miss the love you had for me and the boys. I miss knowing we loved each other absolutely and without doubts.
I miss the smile you’d flash when you saw me across the room. I miss hearing your infectious laugh. I even miss your irritated sigh when things weren’t going your way.
You were always playing music in the house, and sometimes on weekend mornings you would surprise me by playing my favorite albums, because you knew just which ones they were. You were thoughtful like that.
We’d watch TV every night and talk while you insisted on rubbing my feet. I haven’t been able to sit on that sofa and watch TV by myself since you died. The boys and I sat there and watched Elf on Christmas Eve, and we missed you intensely.
You’d always give me a big hug when you’d come home from work. Your arms would wrap all the way around me, and you’d squeeze me until I felt supremely loved.
You could always answer any question. Just about anything anyone could think of, you had at least some knowledge of. And most of all, you never made anyone feel stupid for not knowing the answer. You were the kindest and most intelligent person I knew.
Most of the packages you received contained books. In addition to working your crossword puzzles and acrostics, at all times you had 5 things you were reading: fiction, non-fiction, magazines, newspapers, and programming books. I would tease you about how they were taking over our bookshelves. You had a seemingly infinite hunger and capacity for knowledge. Your curiosity knew no boundaries.
You were always finding new recipes for me to try. I was the cook, but you were the recipe-finder. You’d go to store after store to source unique ingredients to make dinner come out just as you imagined. And every Friday after a long week of work you’d go shopping for ice cream and other special treats to surprise the boys with.
We would have great nights out at restaurants where we’d sit across the table from each other and talk all night – usually about how great our kids were. Or sometimes we’d just sit in silence knowing we could be comfortably quiet together. You were always up on what restaurants were opening and would make spontaneous reservations for us on random Saturday nights.
We missed you this year at Thanksgiving. We went to our favorite place in Boonville like we do every year, except this time you weren’t there with us. Ed took over your job of building the fire every morning, and I made your signature green beans. I thought of you all day every day, especially when I’d see your empty chair by the fire.
I miss being part of a team, always knowing you were completely on my side and that we had each other’s backs. My first act as a single parent was to wake up our kids at midnight to tell them that you died.
I even miss your snoring. Our dog, Clara, sleeps on your side of the bed now, and when she snores I sometimes think it’s you. I used to get so mad at you for being able to fall asleep in 30 seconds. Sleeping without you next to me just feels wrong. I keep waking up in the middle of the night looking for you.
There were so many more things you wanted to do with your life, and you were ready to get going with your projects.
Now you’ll never teach yourself Latin or learn to restore old manuscripts in our garage. You’ll never be able to choose where to spend your last working years. You’ll never retire or start a second career.
We’ll never return to Rome for a romantic trip like we planned, or go back to London for the umpteenth time to revisit our old haunts.
You’ll never teach your boys how to drive or see them grow into men. You’ll never watch your children become parents or teach your grandchildren to love archaeology and reading.
You’ll never be a part of this new decade we’re in. 2020 is the year that your first child will go to college, and you’re going to miss it.
I’m utterly gutted that I had to write these words in the past tense, because it means you are really gone. You died far too young while we still needed you here.
Craig, you were the absolute love of my life, and I will adore you forever.
