final farewell

Today is my dad’s funeral.  He would have loved it.

My mom is nervous.  Not about the funeral so much, but about preparing for it.  She gets us all up at 7:30, to insure that we, and the house, will be ready in time for our 9:45 pick-up.  Poor Jim comes down around 7:45, dressed for a quick run.  He certainly has enough time, but my mother won’t hear of it.  Today is her day so no one argues. 

We drive in two limos to Stanetsky Memorial Chapel, over an hour from my parent’s home.  Once we leave the house, my mom’s nervousness evaporates and she is veiled in uncharacteristic calm.  My mom has no regrets.  She did everything she could for my dad, and unselfishly cared for him through these difficult past three years.  She is emotionally prepared for today.    Her major fear is that only a few people will come. My dad was 90, and many of his colleagues have already passed, and some, though alive, are not mobile.

At the chapel, my family says a last good-bye to my dad.  He doesn’t resemble the man we all loved, but does look peaceful.  Before walking into the main sanctuary my mom says to me, “I just hope it’s not empty.”  We walk in and see that every seat is taken.

Rabbi Werb has known my parents for years.  He was the rabbi at the temple my parents belonged to in Brockton.  He has since retired and was happy to preside over the funeral.  He married Valerie and Abbey 38 years ago, and that turned out pretty well.

Eight people speak. 

The rabbi asks us each to introduce ourselves at the beginning of our speeches.  My son begins, “Hello everyone, my name is Alexander and I am George’s youngest grandson.”  Except he’s not.  My family challenges every arguable point someone makes.  And should someone make a mistake, well, we don’t ignore it.  Not even at a funeral.  Collectively we shout, “You’re not the youngest grandson, Jack is.”  It is a sweet moment and Alexander recovers quickly and continues.

I know I am biased, but every speech is perfect.   There is much humor, just as my dad would have liked.  The anecdotes are different, but the theme is consistent.  My father was a good man.  He was an accomplished businessman.  A good tennis player. A frustrated golfer. A fixer of anything.  And artistic.  I think my nephew Michael says it best when he says of my father,  "He was a builder in everything he did. From birdhouses, to mail boxes, to treehouses. But the best thing he ever built was his family."

Yes.  My dad would have loved today.