I have 5 sisters, plus a mother and an aunt. I will not likely get a chance to eulogize my father at his funeral. I also don’t believe in the “he was a great man who never made any mistakes” brand of eulogies. For myself and for him, I’d like a Speaker, to Speak the truth of those gathered in mourning; to try to Speak the truth of the deceased.
Here is my truth:
My father was a workaholic and he was rarely at home. When he was, we had little to speak about and less in common. But I loved him and valued his approval above all other accolades. He rarely expressed praise to me, but apparently conveyed praise for me to others (sisters, coworkers, friends). My sisters and I eventually learned to share the praise we heard him express about each other.
The memories of him that I will take with me, that always make me smile will be of my mother & me watching Star Trek: the Next Generation and him kibitzing in the background about how they just violated some fundamental of physics; he did this during James Bond, too. I can’t watch either without hearing his voice, softly reminding us that what we’re watching is fiction. I remember his uncanny love for older Spock (when he finally let go of those pesky human emotions) and for Sarek. To this day, Leonard Nimoy, especially old Leonard Nimoy, reminds me of nothing so much as my father.
I hated to disappoint him. One of the hardest things I’ve ever done was stop taking Physics. I hated the subject but thought he wanted me to take it, so I suffered through it until I couldn’t take it. When I told him that I didn’t like it, that I was going to drop it and take Biology instead, he seemed surprised that I thought he might care. He’ll never know how much courage it took to tell him that. More than I thought I had.
I treasure the one Superbowl that I spent with him, eating bean dip & making model starships (both the Enterprise set & the Adversary set!).
I think of him whenever I take a plane: at the moment, just after the wheels leave the ground, when gravity reaches up to grab the plane back down to earth but it breaks free. I used to love the window seats because I could watch the ailerons move and feel the response in the plane. And that is a word I only know because of my dad. I think of him when the plane lands, no matter how smooth, no matter how rough, saying “Any landing you walk away from was a good one” or “A landing is just a controlled crash”.
My father was a first-class geek (he had a pocket protector, 70s pilots’ glasses, and proclaimed his slide rule the equal or better of any computer on the market) with a type-A personality (when he lost the ability to move himself around, he could still accurately tell me precisely where any object of his was located). And he fostered both in me.
My father was sometimes misogynist, often racist, absolutely homophobic, and always religionist. Yet somehow, he managed to raise me. He took me back to Germany and cultivated in me a love for the people, the language, and the beer. This may be the most we had in common: Germany, or rather, Bavaria.
He enjoyed (real) beer (and turned me into a beer snob) and whiskey. He could be a first-class asshole, especially when it came to my relationship with DH. There were times when I hated him—and I’m sure the feeling was mutual—but I always loved him.
Some people depict the soul as a bird, flapping its way out of the body, off to fly in an open sky for eternity. Or a wildcat, finally freed, off to hunt in the eternal forest. Maybe a tree, steadfast & strong, striving ever upward. My father’s soul is a 707 E3-A soaring up, past that point in take-off where gravity tries to grab him back and flying off to Kloster Andechs for a maß. I hope to make it back there one day, and drink one with him.
16 responses so far ↓
1 Craig // May 22, 2009 at 9:23 am
That was beautiful.
I also dislike fawning eulogies. If more were like this, I think it would be a more meaningful experience for all.
2 EBrown // May 22, 2009 at 10:25 am
I hope you get to say this to your father (if he is still living) and to your family. As a parent, I would find it amazing that a child loved me as much as you love your father, as these words so clearly convey.
3 G // May 22, 2009 at 10:44 am
I hope you do get a chance to share this at his funeral. but even if not, thank you for sharing it here. it is potent.
4 Mike // May 22, 2009 at 4:52 pm
I don’t know you, but this post is part of the reason I love this blog. People are complex, multifaceted, and eulogies should reflect the complicated beings we are.
Thanks for this beautiful remembrance.
5 Jana // May 22, 2009 at 7:01 pm
My father was a geek, too. And Leonard Nimoy has always reminded me of him. Thank you for reminding me of that.
6 Elise // May 23, 2009 at 10:51 am
I like the way you describe some negative things about your relationship with your father while still maintaining and overall positive feel. I guess even the best relationships have some negative aspects, so leaving that stuff out in remembrances doesn’t make sense. The negative feels just as endearing and even more human than the positive.
I hate the though of losing my parents. They are both still young enough that I exist in that naive state of subconsciously beliving they will be around forever.
7 angryyoungwoman // May 23, 2009 at 1:32 pm
This is really beautiful. I’m glad you can see your relationship with your father so well. I am glad that you can love him without always agreeing with him.
8 Lessie // May 23, 2009 at 7:32 pm
xJane, I relate so much to the different emotions you’ve written here. I had similar conflicting memories of my mother. Some of which I’ve outlined on my blog. But anyway, I wish as well that we were free to acknowledge the conflicting aspects of people’s lives.
Anyway, my thoughts are with you. Thank you for sharing with us.
9 xJane // May 24, 2009 at 5:41 pm
Thank you all for your wonderful and supportive comments. You’ve given me the courage to consider reading it for my family…although I’ll get it vetted by people would will tell me how offended my mom and sisters would be if I did, so it may not happen :-p
I like the theme of many of the comments here, that relationships are not all good all the time and that this makes them real. People and their relationships are complex and denying this is the real tragedy.
10 John // May 26, 2009 at 8:50 am
Gah! I need to read our own blog more often…apologies for the late response.
That said, I don’t have much to add. I love that you acknowledge your father’s complexity and that you share your unique and personal connections to him, and I empathize with your loss.
I hope you do get to read it. You’re his daughter; you have every right to grieve in your way, and you might speak for as many people as you might offend.
11 Elaine // May 27, 2009 at 8:05 am
Sorry this comes so late; I’ve been out of the loop (away from the internet) over the weekend, and yesterday was a catch-up day for work.
Be that as it may, that was beautiful. I like the idea of a speaking rather than a fawning eulogy, and it was kind of what I had in mind when I planned my mother’s services.
My father also had flaws; they were different from your father’s, but flaws all the same. But he was a good man, and he loved me and I loved him and I miss him today about as much as I did right after he died in 1977. Even this weekend, while I was attending Baycon, there were so many things I saw and heard there that I wished I could share with him.
Because, yeah, he was a geek too…a pocket protector and a slide-rule were part of his work tools, and he is the one who instilled in me a love of all things science fiction.
I’ve said this before, but I’ll say it again: I’m sorry for your loss, xJane, and I’m thinking of you and your family as you deal with the big stuff and the little stuff.
12 aerin // May 29, 2009 at 7:01 am
My condolences as well xjane. I think by being honest we honor those we have lost. I can understand being respectful (especially to the still living) but not necessarily glossing over reality. I too will send good thoughts your way (and your family’s way).
13 xJane // May 29, 2009 at 4:29 pm
once again, many thanks to everyone. As I listen to the Eulogy (to be read at the funeral) and all the remembrances (that will be read tonight) that paint him as a man with no flaws, a patient, humble man (those are the two adjectives in particular that get used and make me snicker), I wonder who the hell these people met. Because it was not my father.
It also underscores the fact that I will not be able to read this, as I had hoped I might, after reading your responses to it. I am not looking forward to an evening of ego-stroking for a man who needed no encouragement in that direction and isn’t even around anymore to be sucked up to.
14 EBrown // May 29, 2009 at 4:41 pm
Dear xJane, I’m sorry for your loss. Whatever defined your relationship with your father and howevermuch your family is willing to deny the reality of that relationship, your love for your father is so clear and fine. You’re a wonderful testament to him. Be well.
15 chosha // Jun 5, 2009 at 2:14 am
Truth is always better. Your eulogy is real and it’s a better memory than a glossy version that everyone listening knows is bogus.
16 xJane // Jun 6, 2009 at 7:44 am
Many thanks, again, for all the kind and supportive words. There was an “open mic” opportunity and I did consider using it to read this, but I must admit that cowardice won out. By that time, I had read at least two fawning eulogies and decided it would be best if I kept my head down. There were a few people who got up and said, “I learned never to discuss politics with him,” which was the truth, and one man to whom I will be ever grateful who talked about how Dad always knew more than you did and made sure you knew it.
It was a hard, long weekend (and when I came home, I got the flu) filled with reminders of all the things I didn’t like about him—mostly his religious and political views—but there were some good memories, too.
There’s a Reba McEntire song in which she says, “I guess the world ain’t gonna stop for my broken heart,” that came to mind as our funeral train wound its way from one end of Seattle to the other. The world didn’t stop for my grief, but half the city did (which some noted, would have made Dad happy), and that was something.
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