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Eulogy
Here's the eulogy I delivered today for Dad…
**************
When Sharon told me I was the oldest and besides, I was a writer, and therefore I had to do the eulogy, I knew that I only had one chance to get through this -- and that was to keep it light. Which, luckily, is easy, since Dad was someone with a hugely positive outlook on life. He loved to laugh, and that’s what he’d want us to do here -- to celebrate him, not to mourn him. His Irish side loves a good wake, after all.
Dad was also a man of contradictions, which only shows that he had depth and layers. For instance, he firmly believed -- as many of his generation did -- that to encourage good behavior in children, you were also obliged to punish them when they did wrong. When Mom said “Wait until your father gets home…” we knew that we were in for it. When Dad arrived home from work, there’d be a brief conference between him and Mom, then he’d open the drawer in the hallway and get out the paddle (actually an old paddle ball toy on which the rubber band had broken), and administer a firm swat or two -- never too hard, and without heat or anger -- at which point everything was forgotten and forgiven.
Mind you, this is the same man who, when their dog Holly grabbed something she shouldn’t and ran off with it, would bribe the dog to give it up by rewarding her with a treat -- or two or three treats if she’d grabbed something particularly valuable, thus ‘training’ Holly that bad behavior would always be rewarded, and the worse the behavior, the bigger the reward. Contradictory…
Dad loved music and loved to sing. He and three of his four brothers sang at mass and for church weddings; they had lovely four-part harmony. Dad, like his brother Dewey, also learned to play a ukelele -- Sharon, Pam, and I all remember him sitting at the dining room table playing and singing “Show me the way to go home…” I managed to inherit a little bit of his musical talent, and he encouraged me when I wanted to take guitar lessons early in grade school. Which leads me to this story:
Dad had also been quite an athlete in his youth. He ran track and played baseball and basketball in high school, but he excelled at football, playing running back through high school and also at UC. His coach suggested he try out for the Cleveland Browns, but ultimately Dad decided against it. “Those guys were too big,” he told us years later. “I was so skinny they’d have snapped me in half.” In eighth grade, I decided I wanted to try out for football; I wanted to be an athlete just like Dad, only he refused to allow me to sign up for the team. “Oh, you could probably be okay at football, but you’re already good at music,” he told me. “If you play football, you’ll end up breaking your fingers or arms and you won’t be able to play.” I was mad, but he was adamant that I shouldn’t play. I realized years later that Dad had assessed my athletic prowess for what it was -- largely absent -- and was directing me along a path where I at least had some chance for success, but he never said so at the time.
I remember one day when my sister Sharon had done something or other and was being sent to her room. Sharon gave Dad and Mom a sobbing “Nobody loves me!” and went stomping up the stairs as loudly as she could. Dad made her come back down. “Now, you go up those stairs nicely, young lady, or I’ll bring you back down again,” he said, calmly and without anger. I was in the front room, and I saw the laughter in Dad’s eyes as Sharon headed back up the stairs -- somewhat more quietly -- and I heard the chuckle he and Mom shared. “Nobody loves me” would become a catchphrase for Sharon in the family.
Pam was the youngest of the three of us, and she inherited Dad’s Irish stubbornness. She claims that she had to go up and down the stairs 20 times once. But my own fondest memory of Pam was on a vacation trip to Florida. We’d stopped for gas, and of course everyone headed for the bathrooms. Pam was the last to go in, and by that time all the rest of us were back in the car, the car was gassed up, and so Dad decided to move it away from the pumps… at which point Pam came out of the bathroom, saw the car pulling away, and went running frantically after us, screaming “Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me!” (I think Sharon and I were saying “Go ahead! Go ahead!”)
We rarely ate in restaurants when we were growing up, so when we did, it was always a treat. Dinners were nearly always eaten at home, where Mom had a special place in her heart reserved for Chef Boyardee. However, especially on vacations, we’d go out to eat. Dad wanted such dinners to be special occasions but he had certain requirements that had to be met. First, he wasn’t going to wait for a table for more than ten minutes, no matter how popular or how crowded the restaurant was. And if the host or hostess dared to attempt to seat us anywhere near the kitchen entrance or the bathrooms, Dad would frown, shake his head, and demand another table. If they didn’t have one, well, he’d walk us all out of there, often with the staff trailing behind trying to placate him. I seem to recall that on one trip to Miami Beach we drove to three restaurants in succession and walked out of each one, despite the fact that we were all famished at the time.
But there was nothing contradictory about Dad and his grandkids. He might have been willing to give Sharon, Pam, and me the occasional swat or make us walk up and down stairs, but the grandkids all received the Holly treatment. He loved his grandkids unconditionally. He and Mom traveled down to Florida to see Tyler play football. He helped Chris set up his photography business. He could often be found at Kyle’s hockey games, or at Sarah’s performances at school. He enjoying hearing Devon drumming when he could make it out one of his shows or when Devon sat in with my band. My daughter Megen made a habit of stealing his hats -- if he was wearing one she liked, she’d grab it and put it on, and his reaction to that was always the same: “Oh, you like it? -- then keep it.”
Laughter and love -- those were the two qualities that we all found in him. That was fundamental to Dad; that was his core. Both life and family were meant to be enjoyed.
I believe that a person only truly dies when no one remembers them. As long as we hold Dad in our memories, he’ll always be with us. He’s given us a thousand memories and more with which to remember him, and we’ll tell and re-tell the stories about him. He will never leave our hearts.
**************
When Sharon told me I was the oldest and besides, I was a writer, and therefore I had to do the eulogy, I knew that I only had one chance to get through this -- and that was to keep it light. Which, luckily, is easy, since Dad was someone with a hugely positive outlook on life. He loved to laugh, and that’s what he’d want us to do here -- to celebrate him, not to mourn him. His Irish side loves a good wake, after all.
Dad was also a man of contradictions, which only shows that he had depth and layers. For instance, he firmly believed -- as many of his generation did -- that to encourage good behavior in children, you were also obliged to punish them when they did wrong. When Mom said “Wait until your father gets home…” we knew that we were in for it. When Dad arrived home from work, there’d be a brief conference between him and Mom, then he’d open the drawer in the hallway and get out the paddle (actually an old paddle ball toy on which the rubber band had broken), and administer a firm swat or two -- never too hard, and without heat or anger -- at which point everything was forgotten and forgiven.
Mind you, this is the same man who, when their dog Holly grabbed something she shouldn’t and ran off with it, would bribe the dog to give it up by rewarding her with a treat -- or two or three treats if she’d grabbed something particularly valuable, thus ‘training’ Holly that bad behavior would always be rewarded, and the worse the behavior, the bigger the reward. Contradictory…
Dad loved music and loved to sing. He and three of his four brothers sang at mass and for church weddings; they had lovely four-part harmony. Dad, like his brother Dewey, also learned to play a ukelele -- Sharon, Pam, and I all remember him sitting at the dining room table playing and singing “Show me the way to go home…” I managed to inherit a little bit of his musical talent, and he encouraged me when I wanted to take guitar lessons early in grade school. Which leads me to this story:
Dad had also been quite an athlete in his youth. He ran track and played baseball and basketball in high school, but he excelled at football, playing running back through high school and also at UC. His coach suggested he try out for the Cleveland Browns, but ultimately Dad decided against it. “Those guys were too big,” he told us years later. “I was so skinny they’d have snapped me in half.” In eighth grade, I decided I wanted to try out for football; I wanted to be an athlete just like Dad, only he refused to allow me to sign up for the team. “Oh, you could probably be okay at football, but you’re already good at music,” he told me. “If you play football, you’ll end up breaking your fingers or arms and you won’t be able to play.” I was mad, but he was adamant that I shouldn’t play. I realized years later that Dad had assessed my athletic prowess for what it was -- largely absent -- and was directing me along a path where I at least had some chance for success, but he never said so at the time.
I remember one day when my sister Sharon had done something or other and was being sent to her room. Sharon gave Dad and Mom a sobbing “Nobody loves me!” and went stomping up the stairs as loudly as she could. Dad made her come back down. “Now, you go up those stairs nicely, young lady, or I’ll bring you back down again,” he said, calmly and without anger. I was in the front room, and I saw the laughter in Dad’s eyes as Sharon headed back up the stairs -- somewhat more quietly -- and I heard the chuckle he and Mom shared. “Nobody loves me” would become a catchphrase for Sharon in the family.
Pam was the youngest of the three of us, and she inherited Dad’s Irish stubbornness. She claims that she had to go up and down the stairs 20 times once. But my own fondest memory of Pam was on a vacation trip to Florida. We’d stopped for gas, and of course everyone headed for the bathrooms. Pam was the last to go in, and by that time all the rest of us were back in the car, the car was gassed up, and so Dad decided to move it away from the pumps… at which point Pam came out of the bathroom, saw the car pulling away, and went running frantically after us, screaming “Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me!” (I think Sharon and I were saying “Go ahead! Go ahead!”)
We rarely ate in restaurants when we were growing up, so when we did, it was always a treat. Dinners were nearly always eaten at home, where Mom had a special place in her heart reserved for Chef Boyardee. However, especially on vacations, we’d go out to eat. Dad wanted such dinners to be special occasions but he had certain requirements that had to be met. First, he wasn’t going to wait for a table for more than ten minutes, no matter how popular or how crowded the restaurant was. And if the host or hostess dared to attempt to seat us anywhere near the kitchen entrance or the bathrooms, Dad would frown, shake his head, and demand another table. If they didn’t have one, well, he’d walk us all out of there, often with the staff trailing behind trying to placate him. I seem to recall that on one trip to Miami Beach we drove to three restaurants in succession and walked out of each one, despite the fact that we were all famished at the time.
But there was nothing contradictory about Dad and his grandkids. He might have been willing to give Sharon, Pam, and me the occasional swat or make us walk up and down stairs, but the grandkids all received the Holly treatment. He loved his grandkids unconditionally. He and Mom traveled down to Florida to see Tyler play football. He helped Chris set up his photography business. He could often be found at Kyle’s hockey games, or at Sarah’s performances at school. He enjoying hearing Devon drumming when he could make it out one of his shows or when Devon sat in with my band. My daughter Megen made a habit of stealing his hats -- if he was wearing one she liked, she’d grab it and put it on, and his reaction to that was always the same: “Oh, you like it? -- then keep it.”
Laughter and love -- those were the two qualities that we all found in him. That was fundamental to Dad; that was his core. Both life and family were meant to be enjoyed.
I believe that a person only truly dies when no one remembers them. As long as we hold Dad in our memories, he’ll always be with us. He’s given us a thousand memories and more with which to remember him, and we’ll tell and re-tell the stories about him. He will never leave our hearts.
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Hugs,
K. & B