Notes for Maryland Memorial

Here are notes for a speech I decided not to give at the Maryland memorial:

1. When I learned that my father had passed away. I took my beautiful daughter and I said to her, "I'm sorry you didn't get to meet your Zayde. He was a very nice man. He loved babies a lot."
2. Even though it is very sad (and unjust) for me that they didn't meet, I am in fact having trouble feeling sad. My baby's face is imprinted on my mind's eye. So every time I close my eyes to cry about my father I see the face of my baby. Then I have a short conversation with dad where he says something like: "You can't possibly be sad when you have a baby. Babies are so wonderful." I am having trouble fulfilling my emotional duties of feeling absolutely sad, but it is Dad's own fault.

These are secondary things I wanted to discuss with the risk of getting long winded. They can be skipped for brevity's sake.

1. These are two pieces of wisdom I remember from my father. #1: All babies are cute. and #2 You can cheat at Solitaire as long as you do it consistently.
2. I believe Dad was committed to service. His life was a model of commitment to the things he cared about. Family, community, the jewish people, Israel, America.
3. In the same way that he loved babies, he felt it important to join babies on their plane of existence: simplicity, purity, innocence.
3.5. (can be skipped if not respectful) Invite a child onto the stage and shake their hand like dad does.
4. One of his few vices (other than fatty foods and football) was Solitaire. But Solitaire was less of a vice than a holding pattern. He played Solitaire until someone needed him, needed his service. He was always waiting for people to need him.

5. In one of the last conversations I had with him, he offered his best metaphor for what a father is. He said: "A father is like the guidelines on the highway, making sure the child doesn't go off the road." After a few days of thinking about that, I called him back and said I thought a better metaphor was "A rock." That a father can always be counted on. When I think of dad I think of someone who spent his life streamlining his multi-dimensional emotions in order to represent himself as always trustworthy, predictable, good, always count-on-able, always there for his loved ones, concerned for meaningful things.
6. Should talk about Zayde and Bubbe too. But mostly Zayde since I sort of revere Zayde. And there are endless comparisons and distinctions between him and Dad. That monologue is mostly self-serving.

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Extra comments added now by me:

Another piece of wisdom from my father I remembered: "If a person is smart, you can even give them a dictionary and they will find a way to be interested in it."

Bubbe was a small woman who was a force of nature. She was famous for being one of the hardest working people around and putting much of her family through school. She pushed her children to succeed. I believe that was one of the first generations of Jewish children who had professional doors open to them and my Bubbe would not let that opportunity pass. I can only imagine my father was a very special pupil. And unrelated fact: Dad got his Solitaire from her. She also volunteered tirelessly on behalf of Jewish causes. Unfortunately I have very few memories of her before she got sick with Alzheimer's when I was relatively young. I do remember once sleeping over in Coney Island (in that brown fold-out chair) and waking up as early as I could, the crack of dawn. There was Bubbe gargling at the sink and she fed me a bowl of cereal. I got the feeling you couldn't beat her at waking up early.

I did learn a lesson about how my father worked. When he was sick in the hospital, we had to unfortunately bear many challenges to his dignity. It was very upsetting to me personally and I don't see how to reconcile or forgive God. Terminal illness is really a challenge to religion and common sense. Dealing with my father, I learned much about how he dealt with his mother. It changes a person to have severe illness in a close family member. You really can't ever heal from it.

My Zayde was a very special person. He lives in my heart. He was extremely sensitive and quiet, shy shy and repelled by conflict. Very very gentle and peaceful. My strongest and greatest memories of childhood include sitting on his lap and hearing about the adventures of King David (me! even though David is only my middle name). Good Lord, could that man tell a story. Enrapture is the word, even with kids and adults flying every which way in a small apartment. It was all turned off. It's probably why I tried to become a writer. But there's no comparison. You simply can't capture the storytelling power of a loving Zayde with a trendy book. I also distinctly remember my younger siblings discovering his storytelling powers. He only had one lap and they were cuter than me. Very disappointed. Thank goodness his building had lots of elevators to break.

My sister Malki once told me a story: Zayde was visiting our family in Maryland and he started crying. Someone asked him why he was crying and he said: "Why are the children fighting so much?" It is hard to convey this story. As you know, all children really do is fight. We fought constantly, it was half of our familial communication. But even routine and mundane fighting among siblings hurt him deep down.

What did my Zayde eat? egg matzos, puffed rice, tuna fish. Almost nothing. What did he want to do with the money he saved up from his modest income/pension? Buy things for his wife. Give bonds to his grandchildren to help their future. My father never stopped reminding me about the money my Zayde had put away to help me buy my first home. So special for me to have people like that to count on in my life. Selfless people, always thinking of their children and grandchildren, their future. My first memory of him, when I first recognized him as my Zayde, he was asked to lead davening in shul, and I thought for many years he was a rabbi.

My father's gentleness, love of children and family, a quiet and modest way, kindness to others, and above all shalom bayis "peace in the home" these come from my Zayde. They were certainly different, but members of essentially the same type, a special kind of jewish father. The first time I saw my father cry I was very scared, and knew there was something Zayde-ish. It pained them, like a strike to the heart, to see their family in any pain.