Remembering James Howard Langager

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Jim Langager

February 18, 2025.

The last conversation I had with my dad took place yesterday on the phone. He told me he was deteriorating. He was in at-home hospice in Duluth, Minnesota, and I was in Ankeny, Iowa, at work.

I had a feeling I might not be able to make it up in time to say goodbye in person. 

I felt like I had already said goodbye, though. Three weeks earlier, all the immediate family, 16 of us including dad, had been there when he first was admitted to hospice at Solvay House. 

With family coming from both sides of the country, California and Washington D.C., we had an amazing few final days together that I will never forget: telling stories, having dinner together, and listening to my brother play piano.

During our phone call, I told him that I knew he didn’t always have the happiest family life growing up, but I was thankful that he and mom were able to provide that to us.

As I start writing this, James Howard Langager passed away about half an hour ago, at 5:50 p.m., on February 18, 2025. He was born to Doug and Rachel Langager of Willmar, Minnesota, on March 28, 1951.

He was a loving husband to Dorothy Langager and father to Andrew (Aimee), Benjamin (Erin Hart), Jonathan (Ali Scher), and Martha Klopp (Dan). His grandchildren, who he adored, are Josephine, Madeline, Sofia, William, Penelope, and Eleanor.

He died peacefully, surrounded by family. He succumbed to complications from infection and pancreatic cancer, the latter of which was originally diagnosed in the fall of 2019. After surgery and radiation treatment, it looked like he might have beat it. Around this past Christmastime, 2024, he was knocked down by an infection, a liver abscess. During his hospital stay, it was discovered that the cancer had returned.

He was the smartest and wisest person I ever knew. He was kind, generous, empathic, patient, pragmatic, observant, grounded, and loved life. He disliked commercialism, ego, and hype. He adored being in nature and could find beauty anywhere. A piece of advice he shared with us: “Be present.”

His values? “Being steady. Being honest. What you see is what you get. [I had a] pretty straightforward life.”

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Dad was a remarkable guy. Let me tell you about him.

His top passions in life were his family, the family cabin just outside of Ely, Minnesota, working in the garden, reading, travel, and especially his daily walks with my mom, which easily reached 15,000 steps before noon.

He had an amazing memory. His institutional knowledge of all things relating to our family history will never be replaced. He knew every type of bird, plant, tree, and flower. He had a green thumb. He knew how to grow anything and maintain it year after year. This was exemplified by the vegetable garden at the cabin, which was no easy task up north. I can still picture him going up to pick spinach for our sandwiches at lunch, rinsing it off, and leaving it on the counter for anyone to enjoy.

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Dad was a cardiologist at St. Mary’s Hospital in Duluth from 1983 until he retired around 2010. 

For a guy growing up in the small town of Willmar, MN, going off to college (Macalester), and medical school (University of Minnesota) to become a doctor was a big deal. He did a residency and fellowship at Dartmouth Hitchcock Medical Center in New Hampshire, where I spent most of my pre-kindergarten years before we moved to Duluth. 

In New Hampshire, we lived in Etna, just outside of Hanover, where the Medical Center was. Dad said he made good friends there and enjoyed gardening and cross-country skiing.

He didn’t get into medical school on the first try. He said he feared there was a chance he might not ever get in and his backup plan was to apply to graduate school to study biology. But when he did get into the U of M, he described it as a “huge landmark,” more fun than college, and he felt honored to be there, like it was a “holy realm.”

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Older brother Steve, mother Rachel, and Jim.

He said he always wanted to be a doctor. He might have had a desire to help people because growing up, his own family needed help. His older brother Steve struggled with alcohol which caused home life to be often unhappy and chaotic. He told a story about his mother crying while preparing a Christmas meal, not knowing where Steve was or if he would show up at all. 

Our mom had said she always wanted four kids, and dad was more than fine with that because he said he felt like an only child growing up. “Not much of a family feeling.”

Steve eventually turned his life around and was very caring for Rachel, especially when the end of her life was near. 

But the rocky family life must have been difficult for dad. I think he wanted to make sure we had a happy family life growing up. And we did. I couldn’t have asked for anything better. 

Serendipity brought us to Duluth. His cousin Karen was working as a nurse there and happened to mention to a cardiologist that dad was finishing up his training. The hospital happened to be hiring, so they recruited him.

As a doctor, he enjoyed his work and made good friends with his colleagues. He said the staff liked him because he worked fast and didn’t complain. However, he did not enjoy being “on call” and having to go to work in the middle of the night. But, he did it. And his patients must have appreciated him — he would often receive gifts from those who were grateful for his care. How many lives did he save? I don’t know.

He said his favorite part of the job was when he was able to help someone suffering from a heart attack. “They would come in, in total misery, writhing on a gurney.” He said he worked quickly to open up their colluded coronary artery and “in a matter of minutes they would be laughing and joking with you.”

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“The Rubber Band” with my dad on drums.

Dad said one of his fondest memories growing up was playing in a band in high school. They were called “The Rubber Band,” which I think is pretty great. He said they knew about 20-30 songs, mostly early hits from The Byrds, The Beatles, and The Rolling Stones. They practiced in the basement of Mike Olson’s house, bandmate and best friend. I don’t know how many shows they played, but photos from those days show them giving it their all in a poorly lit old building in Willmar. I’ve been told dad’s singing was filled with emotion and passion.

I think if I could go back in time, this is one of the moments I would have liked to have experienced. I don’t think I or anyone else in my family actually got to hear him play the drums, but when I was little I remember him sometimes tapping his hands to a beat when a great song came on.

He played Beatles music for us often, but one of my best memories of my dad and music was when he put on some classical music right before supper. As we gathered around the table (we always ate together as a family), he would quiz us who the composer was. Mozart was always a good guess, as was Handel. In Hospice he noted that Telemann’s Double and Triple Concertos was one of his favorites. If I ever want to travel back to that time, all I have to do is put that album on during supper.

Dad also talked about one of his favorite moments when it came to music: at the beginning of the Christmas Eve service at Pilgrim Congregational Church, the churchgoers would stand up and sing O Come, All Ye Faithful. Dad’s favorite part was when the huge pipe organ would start in, seemingly extra loud and enthusiastic for this particular hymn. You could practically feel the music resonate in your bones. When the hymn was over, there was a brief silence throughout the congregation, and you could tell it was one of his deepest, most transcendent experiences.

Growing up, he said another fond memory was playing golf with his dad. I never played a round with him, but for a few years, we would go to the driving range at Lester Park Golf Course. He had a natural talent for the game. I had no idea what I was doing, but he always gave me tips to improve my swing. He also had a natural talent for tennis and would play against my mom regularly, although I think she usually won. (This is no slight to my dad, my mom could beat all of us at tennis and ping pong.)

My dad met my mom at Macalester College during their first semester in 1969. Their first “date” was to the movie “Alice’s Restaurant” with a group of friends.

“She struck me right away. I was in love pretty quickly. Head over heels,” he said. He liked that she was strong, athletic, smart, and from a stable family.

They were married 52 years, tying the knot their junior year of college in my mom’s backyard in Worcester, Massachusetts.

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Craig Carey, Mike Olson, and my dad during their legendary Europe trip at 17 years old.

One of the things my dad was most proud of was his adventurous trip to Europe at 17 years old with his friends Mike and Craig. He sold his drum kit and worked at a turkey processing center to raise money for the trip — $600 in all. 

They went over in a boat, which took two weeks. The first sign they were getting close to shore? Seagulls. In Brussels, he had eggs for the first time and realized he liked them. 

The trip must have sparked a love of travel because he never stopped. He took an extended Europe tour with my mom before I was born, repeated trips to the U.K., France, and Italy, and traveled all over the U.S. Hawaii, Arizona, Kiawah Island in South Carolina, New England, New Mexico, New York, Florida, He still reminisced about the family on a road trip to Yellowstone National Park where we stayed at Old Faithful Inn. 

One of his all-time favorite spots was walking down Klewenalp mountain in Switzerland, enjoying the breathtaking views of the Alps and Lake Lucerne. He even shared this experience with my sister and me when we did a trip there in the early 2000s. I didn’t quite know how much the spot meant to him until he mentioned it again during a discussion about our favorite travel locations while he was in hospice.

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Dad loved to read. He read every history book; you should see the bookshelves. From Alexander the Great to Winston Churchill and Martin Luther King, Jr., he read about every notable person and historical event. I’m pretty sure he could have been a history professor just based on all the books he read. He also loved mystery novels, and books about plants, birds, and nature.

He had a great laugh. He didn’t joke around too much but had a great sense of humor. After the operation on his pancreas, depending on the size of the meal he had to take a pill or two before to help with digestion. When he was in the hospital, a nurse brought in a tray full of food. He looked at it and joked it was a two-pill meal.

One of the shows that got him laughing the most was Fawlty Towers. In college, I bought the series on DVD just so we could watch it together and I could hear that great laugh.

Even though he was pretty introverted, he was surprisingly social. Somehow he was always up to date with the latest news with random people, whether it was a neighbor in Duluth or up at the cabin, a former colleague, or a relative. He knew what was going on.

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Although he was a creature of habit and enjoyed his daily walk, reading, working in the garden, and relaxing after dinner, he also actively sought life experiences. Whether it was going to a play, concert, museum, or random sporting event, he wasn’t content to just do nothing. I’m grateful for all the experiences he gave us growing up, from downhill skiing to venturing off to random historical museums — even if we rolled our eyes and didn’t want to do it at the time.

One of his main “duties” (or maybe hobbies?) at home was keeping the floors clean. The floors were always spotless. We would joke about it and he admitted he was “obsessed.” When he was in hospice, I took up the task for a day — and it was not an easy one! He always stayed on top of chores, whether it was cleaning the floors and windows, or mowing the lawn. If something was broken or malfunctioning, he had a drive to fix the problem right away.

He had a knack for directions. Wherever we were, whether it was Minneapolis or New York City, he could seemingly get us where we needed to go with barely a glance at a map.

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He was amazing with grandkids. He always was available to read, play games, take them to the playground, or just tell stories about his adventures.

His advice for parenthood? “Let the kid be their own kid. Don’t be overly protective, [or] directive. Give them the means to succeed but don’t point which direction it should be.”

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The cabin.

The family cabin, purchased in 1988, was his pride. I could write pages about his devotion to improving and maintaining it. It’s a special place. Memories of dad will always be associated with the cabin. Long walks, picking raspberries, canoeing, swimming, games of Euchre after dinner, talking in the screen house during “wine hour” when the bugs were too bad to be on the picnic table. He poured a tremendous amount of work into the cabin and loved to share it with kids and grandkids.

Speaking to my brother while in hospice, he said, “It’s funny, I feel like all these places, [that] you’re not going to see again. I feel like they’re a part of me, so I’m not really leaving them. I can conjure up every little nook and cranny at the cabin, at home, the garden. So I can be there. I think that’s an advantage of sticking with something for a long time. It grows into you and you’re a part of it.”

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Long walks. This was one of his great joys. While bedridden in hospice he said, “If I could do anything right now… it would be to go for a walk.” He and my mom took great big long walks every day. I don’t know what he thought about on these walks. I’m sure he had many amazing insights and ideas. 

But one of my lasting memories will be when I showed him a “new” walk in Duluth. We ventured from their home to a scenic peak in Hartley Park. He had been to Hartley many, many times and knew the trails like the back of his hand. But I don’t think he had ever walked there or ventured up for this particular view of the city and lake. 

It was over Thanksgiving break and it was the last long walk he ever had. 

Sometimes, when he had trouble falling asleep, he said he would take walks in his mind to help settle down. 

I think I might take that walk in my mind right now.

Rest in peace, dad. 

Link to my brother Jon’s remembrance on Facebook.