Aug. 6, 1935 — Feb. 10, 2011
Henry Studer died on Feb. 10, 2011. The son of Roy and Mabel Studer, he was born on Aug. 6, 1935, in Lyons, N.Y.
He grew up on the family farm, attended Lyons Central School and Cornell University. He came to Davis in 1961, joining the Department of Agricultural Engineering at UC Davis to work on agricultural mechanization projects. He retired from the university in 1994.
He leaves his wife of 48 years, Marjorie Ann Harley Studer, and his daughter Amy Studer and her husband Douglas Moore of Davis, his daughter Emily Studer and her husband Jason Steed in Novato, and his daughter Natalie Studer and her husband Paul Randall in Berkeley. His grandchildren are Henry and Isabella Moore, Roy and Gus Henry Steed, and Gabriel Studer-Randall. He leaves his sister Joella O’Brien in Lyons, N.Y., and her children (Debbera, Nancy, Jeff, and Heidi Blackwell, and Diane Greco), his sister Alta Conklin and brother-in-law Gerald Conklin in Pleasant Valley, N.Y., and their children (Pamela Owens, Melissa Gilroy, and John Roy Conklin), and his aunt Elsie Franklin of Macedon NY. He also leaves family friend, Joan Pope Randall of Davis.
No services are planned per request of the deceased.
“After Apple-Picking” by Robert Frost (1914)
My long two-pointed ladder’s sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still,
And there’s a barrel that I didn’t fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn’t pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
But I was well
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and disappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing clear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.
And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say whether it’s like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep.