My dad died in mid-December 2020, and the funeral was very small. This past week, we finally were able to gather (some virtual, some in-person) to memorialize him more formally.
When my dad was diagnosed with the blood condition that ultimately killed him (more than five years ago), he told me , “I’d like you to speak at my funeral.” I couldn’t live that wish, but I’m glad I could finally speak for him now.
Writing those recollections made me realize how weird the Christmas season usually was for my dad. Shopping for him was next to impossible until he became obsessed with the Washington Nationals baseball team. Before that, any “dad” gift lists were completely off-base for him. He didn’t really grill, watch many sports, use specialty products for his beard, or read the hulking new presidential biography (though he was a political scientist for his career). My dad was practical to a fault, and always bought himself what he needed, when he needed it. He also didn’t need many things, except a garden, a comfy chair, and a chance to share his knowledge with all of us.
Anyway, what follows is the eulogy I gave yesterday. It’s not perfect, and it doesn’t encompass the whole of who he is, but I’m happy to have it given and to have finally lived that promise out. Here’s a shout-out to the quiet Dads, the soft Dads, and the Dads who sang around the house when they thought no one was listening (or even if they knew they were).
If I were to start the following poem, “I eat my peas with honey”, I can guarantee that anyone who has lived with my dad could complete it. “I eat my peas with honey. I’ve done it all my life. It makes it taste quite funny, but it keeps them on my knife.” While this poem is much less beautiful than the poem that we just heard, it hints at the sense of humor that my dad not only had, but also helped imbue in all of us who loved him. He passed on lots of other things, too, like a love of God, and family, and a love of musicals. Growing up, my dad loved to make us listen to musicals like Joseph and the Technicolor Dreamcoat and Music Man in the car. One of my favorites was Pirates of Penzance-- first on tapes, then on CDs. It’s a humorous light opera by Gilbert and Sullivan. We all sang along, some of us more loudly and more skilled, and one that my dad was especially keen at was “I am the Very Model of a Modern Major General.”
The song is full of random things that the general knows: minerals, history, but also is mostly about how dedicated the general is to finding a rhyme even for the hardest words like hypotenuse (he rhymes it with ‘lot of news’.) The song is silly and lively, but the older I got, the more I knew my dad, the more I thought of him like that modern major general. To me, especially when I was a kid, he seemed to know everything. (Even today, I still kind of believe this.) After my dad’s death, I found myself looking back through old emails that he’d sent me and my siblings, and I kept stumbling upon little lessons of the day– family histories that I didn’t know about or factoids.
My dad, who spent so much of his career in the classroom and fostering the careers of junior faculty, led his children in similar educational activities, from childhood on. My sister and I went on a memorable cross-country, month- long road trip with my dad when we were younger, and we learned probably too much about south-western state capitals and state parks. He continued to educate even after his retirement from academia. In the Gilbert and Sullivan song, the modern major general knows everything, but is dedicated to finding fun in learning, inspiring others to do the same. It was a blessing to have a dad who challenged the people he loved, while nurturing them too.
My dad never stopped learning, especially in the things that related to his children. I won’t speak for my siblings, but I found myself always going to my dad for advice, even on things that I knew he didn’t really know much about. My dad considered these problems, always coming back with advice that was somehow exactly just what I needed to hear, even if it wasn’t what I wanted to hear. “You’re right, Dad,” was probably something I didn’t admit to him enough.
My dad, besides being a father, husband, professor, and administrator, was a gardener. While his garden couldn’t sing along with him or enjoy his sense of humor, it was one of the places he showed his wonder and care, and passed on knowledge. He used to grow snapdragons and nip at our fingers with their tender buds. He used to let us help harvest vegetables, salt tomatoes for dinner, or even make apple sauce with him in the fall, an annual tradition. When my husband and I moved into our house, my dad came that first year and planted our garden for us, setting us up for years to come and for the place to be a way to connect with him. I could call him with questions, or with updates on what was growing, and he always stopped by to check out the produce at the same time as visiting his grandkids. My dad was a nurturer.
When I think of my father, it will be as a curious, loving, and prayerful man. He was a thoughtful man, more likely to stay in with a book or go weed his garden than be anywhere. He loved playing hearts and solitaire, and our family card games were the place where he got competitive. My dad had a beautiful singing voice and an excellent memory for poetry. He was, in short, the model that inspired us all. He might not have been a major general, but he was perpetually curious, funny, loving, and above all, he was ours. He was, if I’m allowed to mix my metaphors here, a Modern Major Gardener. It’s those seeds– wonder, curiosity, love of learning, humor, and compassion– that my dad planted in my life and in the lives of those he touched. I hope that in whatever way he was in your life, you took a lesson from him that you can share with those you love.
This is so lovely, Rachel. What a beautiful tribute. -Kathleen