What Possessed Me

Good night and joy be to you all

It's done. We got through it. You gave me courage this weekend - thank you for your generosity of spirit.

This eulogy for my dad was the most difficult writing assignment I've ever had – even harder than my eleventh grade King Lear paper that my dad basically had to ghostwrite because I procrastinated and then panicked the night before it was due. He was always bailing me out of jams.

Not much has changed, it seems. Faced with what seemed an impossible task, I procastinated. I panicked. The morning of the memorial, I got up early, sat next to a homeless person at Starbucks, and banged on my keyboard crying until something came out. You can do that sort of thing in New York - no one even notices when you're being a total freak.

What came out was creaky and imperfect. It wasn't even close to everything that was in my heart. Obit writers say it takes years to do justice to an extraordinary life. I had over three decades – plus 18 months warning while he was sick and 40 days after his death – to think it through and get it right.

But time didn't help. What I really needed was my dad to bail me out. He would have had the right turn of phrase, the perfect anecdote, the thread that tied it all together. He would have made connections I hadn't thought of and spotted the sentiment that didn't ring true. I no longer have the benefit of having his brilliant mind at my disposal, and so everything I do and say from now on will suffer from the want of it.

Whatever I said, it probably didn't matter. There was a lot of love in the room. I hope that the 280+ people in the congregation walked away knowing that my dad's children and his wife adored him. In the end, we gave him a proper send-off, and he deserved that.

Best beloveds, I leave you with "The Parting Glass," a hauntingly beautiful Irish folk song that we played during our final toast to my dad. You can listen to it here - it gives me goosebumps every time I hear it.

 

The Parting Glass

Of all the money that e'er I had
I spent it in good company.
And all the harm I've ever done
Alas it was to none but me. 
And all I've done for want of wit
To mem'ry now I can't recall; 
So fill to me the parting glass
Good night and joy be to you all. 

If I had money enough to spend,
And leisure time to sit awhile.
There is a fair maid in this town,
That surely has my heart beguiled.
Her rosy cheeks and ruby lips,
I own, she has my heart in thrall;
Then fill to me the parting glass,
Good night and joy be to you all. 

Of all the comrades that e'er I had,
They're sorry for my going away.
And all the sweethearts that e'er I had,
They'd wish me one more day to stay. 
But since it fell unto my lot,
That I should rise and you should not, 
I gently rise and softly call,
Good night and joy be to you all. 

 

__

Image: My father, as I like to remember him. 

 

 

Brooklyn Loves Boston

When I was in college, Patriot's Day meant the Boston marathon. It meant joining Scream Tunnel at Wellesley College, in which 2,000 women stood on the sidelines cheering, "I LOVE YOU YOU'RE AMAZING KEEP IT UP YOU CAN DO IT" until they were hoarse and sunburned. The campus was situated after a particularly grueling part of the course and to see those bedraggled, discouraged, exhausted runners light up and hussle on by would move us all to tears. Some stopped to hug us, a few passed out business cards that read, "Joe Smith, Available for Dating," but most just plodded along, waving and smiling, propelled by that incredible focus and mental toughness that set distance runners apart from mere mortals.

It was such a happy day. There is something transformative about watching people transcend the limits of their minds and bodies.

How could someone commit such a horrific act of destruction on a day that encapsulates all that is great about the human spirit?

(And how could Piers Morgan of CNN be such a monumental boob? He somehow manages to turn everything he touches into tawdry tabloid fodder.)

My heart goes out to the city that sheltered me, and to all the poor souls who suffer there.

Images: Words of love and peace projected onto the facade of the Brooklyn Academy of Music last night.

40 days

In the Greek Orthodox tradition, the soul ascends to heaven after wandering the earth for 40 days.

This week marked the 40th day since my dad's death. Even though he wasn't Greek or even a believer, I like to imagine my dad spending the 40 days rattling around his old New York haunts - drinking a beer at the White Horse Tavern, sipping a martini at the King Cole Bar, admiring a Holbein at the Met, picking up bagels at H&H, going for a run in Riverside Park. I like to think he's at the Little House doing the things he liked to do - pruning the cherry trees, erecting the flag on Memorial Day, inspecting the roof, taking a cold dip in the ocean. I've been comforted by the idea that my dad has been puttering around. I've felt his presence around me and I'm reluctant to let his spirit go, even if it means he gets to shoot the breeze with Geoffrey Chaucer, W.B. Yeats and Sam Cooke in front of the pearly gates. 

The 40 day mark is a milestone - it's the end of the official mourning period, the last day we wear black. It signals that his soul is now in repose - and that it's time for the rest of us to stumble blindly through the next phase of our fleeting lives, as impossible as that seems. I've found myself retreating from family this week - I can't breathe when other people's grief takes up all the oxygen. I need to figure out how to grieve on my own.

Saturday is my dad's memorial.  I dread it with all my heart. Despite having three decades to think about it, I haven't written my eulogy. Its weight crushes me. I can't seem to do justice to the father I loved so much. Somehow I have to get through what feels like an insurmountable task - please keep your fingers crossed that I don't disgrace myself. 

xo

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Image: Gibson Claire McGuire Regester