I know, I know – it’s been a long time. I took this past year to mourn the loss of my father. He was an important force in my life. I really needed the year to grieve. In his honor, I am posting the eulogy I gave at his funeral a year ago:
My father was a mensch. Mensch is a Yiddish term meaning “a person of integrity and honor, someone to admire and emulate, someone of noble character. The key to being “a real mensch” is nothing less than character, strong moral integrity, dignity, a sense of what is right, responsible, correct. My father was the very embodiment of mensch-hood.
Underneath a sometimes gruff exterior, Dad was a gentleman. Beloved by every group of people he had ever encountered, it was sometimes hard to understand as his child how so many people could adore him. What they could see was his authenticity, his desire to give of himself, to help those who were in need, without expectation of anything in return or for unnecessary accolades. He was genuine, the real deal. He walked his talk and held himself to the same high standards he expected of others.
As a salesman in the schmata trade, he was the go-to guy. If a colleague found himself suddenly unemployed, Dad would work tirelessly to help him find a new job. He didn’t just do that once or twice, but numerous times over his 50 year career, endearing himself to countless garment center workers. He did this because he could and because it seemed right.
Dad also helped to found a small Jewish congregation in Yonkers, meeting at first in the basement of the historic St. John’s Church on Underhill Street, and later becoming the Midchester Jewish Center. But as the formation of the synagogue progressed, Dad became disenchanted with several of the board members whose motives he questioned. And true to his convictions, he upped and left rather than compromise his position. He was not one to play politics in order to fit in.
The highlight of his life was the 64 years of marriage to his wife, my mother, Irene. They met as teenagers in the Bronx, and married young. He was a skinny kid with a big nose and I’m sure he felt he had hit the jackpot marrying this beautiful strawberry blonde with big green eyes and freckles. He was devoted to her in a way few men can muster, caring for her in her own illness with love and dedication.
He was also a devoted father and family man. An expert at pressing clothing, learned from his father, a tailor, he admonished us not to share the family secret that he was doing all of our ironing. Men didn’t do such things in the 1950’s, nor change dirty diapers, do the laundry, or cook the best eggs for breakfast. But he did. He was a FATHER in every sense of the word, directly involved in our lives and offering the kind of love, affection and involvement that most men of his generation did not. This kind of love extended to his grandchildren. My daughter, Lily, became a friend and companion to her grandpa. I’m sure Lily was not supposed to tell on him when he made endless root beer floats for her. They would share these root beer floats while watching back-to-back reruns of Law and Order and CSI.
And Dad was a friend to many. But no one more importantly than his dearest friend, Sam Graff. Friends for 65 years, they shared countless pranks, laughter, and Dewar’s Scotch. After Sam moved to Texas to live with his daughter, Dad and Sam could no longer see one another. They worried about each other’s health and they spoke to each other by phone pretty much every week. When Sam could not reach Dad, he’d call me to make sure everything was okay. And Dad would do the same, calling Sam’s daughter, Shelly, or his son, Arnold, if he could not reach Sam directly. This past year proved to be a difficult one for both Sam and Dad. Sam passed away in September leaving Dad the last man standing. Dad went into the voting booth on November 4th and pulled the lever for Barack Obama. He and Sam shared a passion for getting Obama elected, progressive for men of their age. And Dad felt proud and happy to do this simple act on behalf of his beloved friend. But without Sam, Dad was never quite the same again.
Dad had gotten frail in the last few months. I quipped with him in the hospital the other day that he was looking remarkably like Mahatma Gandhi. On Wednesday afternoon, I closed the door to his hospital room and played a Tibetan singing bowl for him for over an hour – a Buddhist tradition – while chanting to him in Hindu. He had come to love these healing sounds, introduced to him by his favorite doctor. In the last several years, Dad willingly tried some new things – meditation, Hindu prayer services, extreme nutritional support, and traveling on his own. He crafted a new life out of one that had broken and left him feeling sad and less physiologically sound. And he kept on going, with purpose, with conviction, with grace. Later on Wednesday evening, after all of his children had left for the night, Dad passed ever so calmly and quietly into the void.
For the past five or six years, Dad and I have been almost connected at the hip. I am the child most like him, for better and for worse. So if I’m sometimes direct and in your face, you will recognize that I’m a chip off the old block. But also know that I’m true to my core, that I stand for decency and equality, and that I will defend my convictions with an amount of certitude that might frighten you. And then you might be tempted to say, “Just like Irv.”