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It all started with a hot air balloon

4:30 PM (Today)clarksbotanicals
 
 
there,
 
My grandfather started out as a pharmacist, and he understood early that the work had made him quietly unhappy. So he did the thing that frightened everyone around him. He went back to school and became a doctor. He studied from notebooks he made himself, page after page of nerves and muscles and the skeleton, drawn by hand so precisely they looked like the work of an engraver.

And only when he finished did he understand what the years had cost him. He had spent his entire youth indoors, bent over counters and books, and had never once seen the world he was now meant to heal.

So he went to see it, all of it. He traveled the entire world, more than half of it by hot air balloon, which sounds like something I invented for the sake of a good story and happens to be the truth. From every country he carried something home, a carved figure, a length of cloth, an object that meant nothing to a stranger and everything to him. He kept a travel diary in that same exact hand, filled with drawings of all of it, the cities, the coastlines, the faces. None of that penmanship reached my father, whose handwriting was hopeless. The curiosity did.

My grandfather died when my father was still a teenager, which means I never knew him. And still I have rarely seen a son love a father the way my father loved his. He became the kind of doctor who went to people's homes long after his colleagues had decided such visits were beneath them. His patients were never names on a list. Over the years they became something close to family, and he never stopped going to them. He and I did not agree about everything. But we always found our way back to the same table, because the thing he was proudest of was never a degree or a diagnosis. It was the family he had built, and he made sure we knew it.

I understand all of this differently now that I am a father myself. My twins are three. Until they arrived I had not felt the way a child reaches backward through you, quietly tying you to everyone who came before, the long line of people who carried something forward without ever knowing who would be here to receive it.

When I measure how much has changed across these generations, I find it almost unbearable and also full of hope. A spinal cord injury in my grandfather's day meant something close to the end of a life as it had been lived. In mine it has meant something harder, and fuller, and still unfinished. The progress is real, and it was made by people who refused to accept that the way things were was the way they had to stay. I will always argue for more.

I think of Clark's Botanicals in exactly that way. Nothing we have made is perfect. Everything can be made better. The work is to improve it without complicating it, to keep refining until what is left is simpler and stronger than what came before. It is what my grandfather did when he gave up pharmacy for medicine. It is what my father did each time he knocked on a door no one else would. It is what we do every time we take a formula that already works and ask, honestly, whether it could work better.

That is the whole inheritance. Passed down, still unfinished, still being carried by hand.


With love,


Francesco Clark



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