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Henry Isaacs Obituary
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July 23, 2021
Henry N Isaacs 12/12/54 – 8/17/18 New Boston, New Hampshire
The profoundly remarkable Henry Isaacs, foodie and cooker extraordinaire (often simultaneously), intrepid traveler, fearless enthusiast of gravity- and muscle-powered sports, and wearer of more hats than Barthol-omew Cubbins, died on Friday, August 17, 2018.
Henry may actually have invented food. Or at least the idea that it should be grown, raised, and prepared without benefit of recipes, but instead with the whims in his head and measured with his generous eyes and enthusiastic hand gestures. He farmed seafood in Scotland and Portugal, and it’s rumored that oysters spoke aloud to him in reverence. He grew produce in a giant box, with dirt in it, outside his front door, providing periodic water by looking skyward and alternately willing rain and sun. Using nothing more than gentlemanly persuasion delivered in his deeply irresistible brogue, he occasionally convinced a deer or moose to cheerfully volunteer to be part of one of his festive dinners. He often cooked over a hardwood fire, which he would start by staring intently at a mound of kindling.
He and everyone adored his mother Joan, and all who had the privilege of knowing her truly saw that the apple hadn’t rolled very far. Well into his fifties and her eighties, she would travel to New Boston from Scotland to throw open the doors of Henry’s home and usher in the new year, and you could see her kick the old one out on the rump as it left Henry’s home with a tear in its eye. It was always awfully cold in New Boston on New Year’s Eve, yet the two couldn’t be broken of this habit.
Henry loved adventure, and he married it when he wed his beloved Carol Boire. The two were expert skiers, their speed and turns melting slopes all over the US, Canada, and Europe. The trick when skiing with them was to go first so you had a keener chance of making it to the après-scotch before Henry. On mountain bikes, no trail was off-limits, and the two taught each other to appreciate nature, select proper mud tires, put chains back on sprockets, and whistle without getting bugs in their teeth.
Henry couldn’t bear uninspired food, and besides Carol, the loves of his life were capers, fine single-malts, the very best craft beers, and smoked meats in many glorious forms. Henry didn’t have biological children, so the eleven young people who called him Uncle were like children to him. This was confusing for them, since they are quite happy with their parents, but they loved Henry back ardently.
This was a man who kept his considerable intellect well hidden by modesty. There were many expres-sions that were uniquely Henry’s, among them “Ah work, I could watch it all day” yet he was proficient in the many professions he collected over his lifetime. From accomplished chef to landscape architect, from slope-side creperie entrepreneur to portable metallurgic equipment consultant, from mussel farmer to wastewater evaporator agent, (none of these are made up) about the only things Henry didn’t do were install muffler bearings and perform weddings. No wait, he actually did perform weddings.
As those who knew him were aware, Henry was a very serious man. Of course not. But he did seriously despise the idea that there would be any sadness at his passing. He forbade his friends from planning any sort of somber sob-fest, and so passionately wanted a big party that he punctuated his wishes with a tremen-dous, goose-pimply thunderstorm during his final departure. None of us wants to risk being struck by lightning, so instead of a memorial service there will be a celebration replete with all of Henry’s favorite legal things. Keep in touch with his friends, who are countless in number, for details about this. In the meantime, since Henry valued flowers nearly as much as watery beer, make your donations instead to the Friends of the Manchester Animal Shelter.
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