A Different Kind of Eulogy - Saying Goodbye to my Dad

I'd never written a eulogy before and I knew, like my dad, it had to be "different." I didn't want to talk about him in a general sense - he loved saying he was "different" - so he got a different kind of eulogy - I think he would have loved every minute. It felt good to gather together in a beautiful setting and celebrate him and also talk honestly about how challenging he could be. At the end of the day he was my dad and much like my mom, I loved him fiercely and will probably miss him forever. 

Hi everyone. I want to start by thanking all of you for coming today, and for our wonderful speakers, and for the decades of friendship that you all shared with our folks. They really thrived on connection and friendship and Sarah, and I have appreciated that so many of you remember them so fondly. 

When our mom first died it was hard for me to hear stories about her – and while the tears still come there’s a sweetness now to the memories and I’m so grateful to hear the stories. 

So I thought I’d share some of my favorite dad memories (in no particular order):

· He loved living on our street – we’d take walks and he’d share a memory at just about every house.

· He could fix anything and delighted in finding new house projects to work on every chance he could. 

· He called me every single year on my birthday at exactly the time I was born. 

· He read everything he could get his hands on, except books, that was mom’s department. One time I found him reading the ingredients on the back of a vegan butter box – “Why?”, I asked him. “Just curious,” he replied with a smile. 

· He loved being perceived as ”different” – sometimes he went out of his way to prove this point.

· When I found my path in life – advocating for animals – he said, “I don’t get it, but I love that you found it.”

· He put Splenda on everything and drank a pot of coffee a day. 

· He’d always start a house project a day or two before company was coming. You can imagine how well that went over with our mom. 

· One night Frank and I had just gone to bed, and I heard the very distinct, “Ahhh, Amy” from the bottom of the stairs. He needed something. As I walked down the stairs I could see him holding his head – there was blood everywhere – it was like that scene from the movie, Carrie, where she’s dripping in blood – it was completely surreal – and as was his way, he downplayed it all – we rushed him to the ER anyway – and Frank held his hand while they put 6 staples in his head and sent him home with an ice pack. 

· He got his minister’s license online and delighted in marrying several of our friends and family. 

· He quantified everything. 

· He loved to name drop. 

· Anyone who came over got a tour of the house, whether you were interested or not. (fun fact: Sarah and I now do this in our homes....) 

·  One summer he and I climbed ladders and took down a hornets nest in the backyard.

· He begrudgingly would dance at weddings but once he was out there he loved it. 

· He didn’t like animals but when my beloved Hopper died suddenly he hugged me for what seemed like hours.

· Every time we went camping he packed the book Gandhi’s Truth – it became a running joke as he always packed it but never finished it.

· He believed in public education, voting, universal healthcare and was about as Left as you could get. 

· He found his career in public health late in life and absolutely thrived.

· He could eat a box or a bar of any kind of chocolate in record time.

· He had the bluest eyes, like his father before him and like Sarah and Tessa do now.

· He put casters on just about anything he could, AND he dated and filed absolutely everything. 

· He loved camping and canoeing with friends. 

· He didn’t believe in competitive sports – “compete against yourself” he’d tell us.

· He ran with Jane Fonda once and never stopped talking about it.

· He loved to wear bowties. 

· He was a staunch pacifist, a proud atheist, and an even prouder Democrat – breaking to support Bernie.

· He’d be horrified at the war in the Ukraine, the end of Roe and the political uncertainty of our country. 

· Through his work with pastors he got us into the prayer breakfast when Nelson Mandela came to Chicago. Dad beamed as he watched me step up and meet Mr. Mandela, still the absolute highlight of my life. 

· When the doctors told him he had lung cancer he said, “Oh, I can’t have lung cancer, I’m a runner.” 

· He loved our neighbors and their kids – he felt so rooted and connected to our home, the block, and the city. 

· He loved to play the piano, especially Boogie-Woogie.

· He lost his front teeth when he was a teenager – crashing a Model T Ford – his first car – into a tree.

· He never wanted to be thanked for his service and he rarely talked with us about his time as a tail gunner in WWII.

· On camping trips, we always stopped at Dairy Queen and dad and I would always get the Peanut Buster Parfait. Seriously the best.

· When I told him years later that Frank didn’t like peanut butter he said, “I don’t understand how that’s possible.”

· He absolutely beamed with pride watching Tessa play the piano. 

· He was a pretty terrible gift giver – the opposite of mom. He’d wait until the last minute to buy something that was pretty ‘out there’ and then wrap it in a paper bag or newspaper – it made mom crazy. 

· Well into his 90’s I’d find him up on a ladder or down on his knees fixing something in the house. 

· Every time we raced to the ER he’d flirt with the nurses.

· He had a very, very hard time saying he was wrong. 

· He loved helping people get started in their careers. 

· He had a great smile and a hearty laugh; a high tolerance for pain and he cried easily and without embarrassment. 

· He loved to watch black preachers and gospel choirs on TV. 

· Like mom he could strike up a conversation with anyone, anywhere about anything. 

· Marathons. He loved running in them, reading about them, traveling to see them, and watching them on TV. 

· He loved repurposing, fixing, doing. During a huge snowstorm one year in the late 70’s, dad jimmied up our sled with our wicker picnic basket and a bunch of string and we walked in snow up past our knees to the grocery store to shop. “You’ll always remember this,” he told me. 

· For my entire life, almost every call ended with, "I love you." 

·  He taught me how to use a hammer and a saw, and how to hang a picture with a level. 

· When the doctors told him he was dying he modeled the best behavior. He thanked people for their friendship, told people he loved them, and shied away from the why me’s. 

·  He came to every job I had and insisted on taking a picture. 

·  He didn’t do “down time” well. We’d hear casters moving across the floor at all hours and come downstairs to find the living room remodeled. 

· And one of my favorites: Dad loved clipping stories from the Tribune and magazines and giving them to us, family and friends with the important parts underlined or highlighted or little notes scribbled in the margins - "Reminded me of you" or "I could see you doing something like this!" or "Do you remember when we visited this place?" 

Thank you again for coming today. I hope you’ll continue to remember him and mom fondly and keep sharing stories about them. Please join us in raising a glass to our dad.