Eulogy
From today's memorial service:
On behalf of our family, I want to thank everyone for being here today to remember my father and celebrate his long and very happy life.
My father was a humble guy and, unlike some of the other Rosens, a man of few words. I know just what he’d say if he could see all of you here: “I feel very good.”
My dad endeared himself to people, and he did it effortlessly. He was the most genuine man in the world—never phony. He probably charmed or befriended everyone in this room—or would have if he’d ever met you.
He was sweet, kind, affable, amiable, big-hearted, generous, and appreciative.
He was an easy companion and a good listener.
He was an indefatigable optimist.
He was understated, unassuming, and very sentimental.
He loved to laugh—at himself especially.
He fell in love with every baby he ever saw.
He was a surrogate father or brother whenever one was needed.
He was a mentor to many and a friend to many more.
He was an everyman, and he was one of a kind.
It is fitting that my dad died over Thanksgiving, the most family-oriented of all holidays, because family was the most important thing to him. He was very attuned to his relatives—including aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, and nephews—and he experienced those relationships acutely. He had an especially soft spot for women who had lost their husbands, perhaps because his own mother was widowed when he was only 26. When she died 45 years later, he was crestfallen. “I’m an orphan,” he said. He was 71 years old.
“Your sister is your best friend,” he used to tell us, back when our six-year age difference made that impossible. He always kept tabs on our relationship, even after we became the close confidantes he’d hoped we’d be. “Did you speak to Jenny today?” he’d ask almost every time I saw or spoke to him. Sometimes I’d call her just so I’d be able to say “yes” when I saw him later the same day.
We had a lot of fun as a family. If you knew my dad, you know that he was a very informal man—but you probably don’t know just how informal he was. When he came home from work, the first thing he’d do was peel off his jacket and tie, then head upstairs to finish undressing. The thing is that he didn’t change into casual clothes—he just stripped down to his boxers and stayed that way until he went to bed. He’d even eat dinner like that—every night. One evening, my mom and Jen and I decided to make a point about appropriate dress at the dinner table. When he came downstairs to eat that night, he found the three of us seated at the table wearing only our bras and panties. I don’t know which of us laughed harder. The three of us still do, every time we think of it.
My dad was a very simple man who wanted very simple things and was lucky enough to get them. I once asked him what he was looking for back in his single days, before he met my mother. “A woman with a big heart who wouldn’t bother me too much,” he said. Few people in the world had a heart as big as my father’s, but he managed to find one in my mom. And he wanted only daughters. He grew up the middle of three boys, and he had no interest in sons. But that didn’t stop him from doting on his nephews.
His only regret in life was that his father didn’t live to meet his children. Me, too, Dad. Me, too.
Like anyone, my father had his foibles. He would only eat perfect pieces of fruit—if an apple had a single blemish, he wouldn’t touch it.
And he was terrible with names. So terrible, in fact, that he once introduced my mother as “my wife, Mrs. Rosen.” This was in their living room.
He could be hapless around the house. My mother gave him just one job, changing the light bulbs, and only because he was tall. One day he broke a bulb, cut his hand, and had to go the hospital for stitches. After that, everything was off limits.
Another time he decided to take over the family finances. I was maybe in middle school, and he conscripted me to help him pay the bills by writing out the checks for him to sign. The only problem was that he’d apparently never signed a check before—he signed on the memo line by mistake.
Television was one of his biggest weaknesses. He’d watch the most awful stuff: “Hee Haw,” “Love Connection,” and, more recently, “Judge Judy.” Long before TiVo, long before remote controls, I used to be his designated channel changer. “CC,” he’d call me. We used to sit together in a big leather chair, and he’d shoo me over to the set every few minutes to flip through the channels. They only went from 2 to 13 at the time, but that didn’t stop him from giving me a good workout.
My father was a great speller and very good with numbers. When he interviewed job candidates, he always tested their math skills with the same two questions: “What’s 12 x 14?” and “How many nickels in $1.35?” (The answers are 168 and 27.)
My dad was a wonderful neighbor, even if he wasn’t the guy to help you out with your home-improvement projects. Instead, he and I would get up on Sunday mornings, orders in hand, and drive to the local deli to buy bagels for everyone on Kilmer Drive. We’d go door to door, delivering plain and pumpernickel and sesame bagels.
For many years we were the only Jewish family on the block. At Christmastime, my dad would dress up as Santa, complete with a sack of gifts over his shoulder. He’d come down the hill behind our houses and deliver presents to all the kids on the block, stopping to partake of the milk and cookies they’d left for him. He was a very convincing Santa—back then, he didn’t even need a pillow to fill out the costume.
My dad was a Depression-era kid who grew up in a tiny one-bedroom apartment with his parents, his two brothers, and whichever other relatives needed a home at any given time. He didn’t have his own bed until he joined the Navy. Despite the privation he experienced, he was exceedingly generous.
A summer as a busboy gave him great empathy for restaurant workers, and he overtipped for the rest of his life. Even if the service was downright awful, he’d always give the waiter or waitress the benefit of the doubt. “Anyone can have a bad day,” he’d say.
My father was proud to serve his country, but he didn’t romanticize his time in the Navy. He got seasick. He got homesick. He missed my grandmother’s cooking, which tells you more about the quality of Navy food than it does about the quality of my grandmother’s. And for the rest of his life, he could tell you exactly how long he had been in the service: 25 months, 27 days, 16 hours, and 1 minute. Back then, you had to give a urine sample before you could be discharged from the Navy, and while my dad didn’t have any trouble, some of his fellow sailors couldn’t perform under pressure. Always a generous fellow, he got two or three other guys out by sharing his specimen.
My father started losing his hair at 21, so I never knew him as anything but bald. Once, when I was a little girl, I saw a framed 8x10 photo of a young man with a full-on pompadour at my grandmother’s house.
“Grandma,” I said, “who is that?”
“That’s your daddy,” she answered.
“No it isn’t,” I said very confidently. “My daddy has no hair.”
What’s really funny is that he’d be insulted if you didn’t notice that he’d had a haircut. Sometimes I’d ask if he’d had one when I wasn’t really sure, just to stay out of trouble.
My dad was master of the quip. The first time he had open-heart surgery, in 1992, the surgeons used a new procedure, which was filmed for a segment on a brand-new news channel called NY1. A couple of days after the surgery, the crew came back to film a short interview with him.
“How do you feel?” the interviewer asked.
He answered right away: “Like I could go 10 rounds with the champ.”
Over the past year, when my dad was in one hospital or another, one of us would often make a joke about something to keep the mood light. Most of the time he’d give us a withering look and say, with mock seriousness, “I do the comedy around here.”
I knew this service might be tearful, but I hoped it would also be joyful. Throughout this last terrible year, my dad somehow managed to remain his sunny self, and that capacity to defy circumstance with the sheer force of his personality is something that will inspire me for the rest of my life. I hope it will inspire you, too.
And if you loved my dad, I hope you will find a way to honor him in your own life:
Treasure your family.
Be a mentor.
Make a lunch date with an old friend.
Be a good listener.
Charm a stranger.
Count your blessings.
Smile at babies.
Stay in touch.
On behalf of our family, I want to thank everyone for being here today to remember my father and celebrate his long and very happy life.
My father was a humble guy and, unlike some of the other Rosens, a man of few words. I know just what he’d say if he could see all of you here: “I feel very good.”
My dad endeared himself to people, and he did it effortlessly. He was the most genuine man in the world—never phony. He probably charmed or befriended everyone in this room—or would have if he’d ever met you.
He was sweet, kind, affable, amiable, big-hearted, generous, and appreciative.
He was an easy companion and a good listener.
He was an indefatigable optimist.
He was understated, unassuming, and very sentimental.
He loved to laugh—at himself especially.
He fell in love with every baby he ever saw.
He was a surrogate father or brother whenever one was needed.
He was a mentor to many and a friend to many more.
He was an everyman, and he was one of a kind.
It is fitting that my dad died over Thanksgiving, the most family-oriented of all holidays, because family was the most important thing to him. He was very attuned to his relatives—including aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, and nephews—and he experienced those relationships acutely. He had an especially soft spot for women who had lost their husbands, perhaps because his own mother was widowed when he was only 26. When she died 45 years later, he was crestfallen. “I’m an orphan,” he said. He was 71 years old.
“Your sister is your best friend,” he used to tell us, back when our six-year age difference made that impossible. He always kept tabs on our relationship, even after we became the close confidantes he’d hoped we’d be. “Did you speak to Jenny today?” he’d ask almost every time I saw or spoke to him. Sometimes I’d call her just so I’d be able to say “yes” when I saw him later the same day.
We had a lot of fun as a family. If you knew my dad, you know that he was a very informal man—but you probably don’t know just how informal he was. When he came home from work, the first thing he’d do was peel off his jacket and tie, then head upstairs to finish undressing. The thing is that he didn’t change into casual clothes—he just stripped down to his boxers and stayed that way until he went to bed. He’d even eat dinner like that—every night. One evening, my mom and Jen and I decided to make a point about appropriate dress at the dinner table. When he came downstairs to eat that night, he found the three of us seated at the table wearing only our bras and panties. I don’t know which of us laughed harder. The three of us still do, every time we think of it.
My dad was a very simple man who wanted very simple things and was lucky enough to get them. I once asked him what he was looking for back in his single days, before he met my mother. “A woman with a big heart who wouldn’t bother me too much,” he said. Few people in the world had a heart as big as my father’s, but he managed to find one in my mom. And he wanted only daughters. He grew up the middle of three boys, and he had no interest in sons. But that didn’t stop him from doting on his nephews.
His only regret in life was that his father didn’t live to meet his children. Me, too, Dad. Me, too.
Like anyone, my father had his foibles. He would only eat perfect pieces of fruit—if an apple had a single blemish, he wouldn’t touch it.
And he was terrible with names. So terrible, in fact, that he once introduced my mother as “my wife, Mrs. Rosen.” This was in their living room.
He could be hapless around the house. My mother gave him just one job, changing the light bulbs, and only because he was tall. One day he broke a bulb, cut his hand, and had to go the hospital for stitches. After that, everything was off limits.
Another time he decided to take over the family finances. I was maybe in middle school, and he conscripted me to help him pay the bills by writing out the checks for him to sign. The only problem was that he’d apparently never signed a check before—he signed on the memo line by mistake.
Television was one of his biggest weaknesses. He’d watch the most awful stuff: “Hee Haw,” “Love Connection,” and, more recently, “Judge Judy.” Long before TiVo, long before remote controls, I used to be his designated channel changer. “CC,” he’d call me. We used to sit together in a big leather chair, and he’d shoo me over to the set every few minutes to flip through the channels. They only went from 2 to 13 at the time, but that didn’t stop him from giving me a good workout.
My father was a great speller and very good with numbers. When he interviewed job candidates, he always tested their math skills with the same two questions: “What’s 12 x 14?” and “How many nickels in $1.35?” (The answers are 168 and 27.)
My dad was a wonderful neighbor, even if he wasn’t the guy to help you out with your home-improvement projects. Instead, he and I would get up on Sunday mornings, orders in hand, and drive to the local deli to buy bagels for everyone on Kilmer Drive. We’d go door to door, delivering plain and pumpernickel and sesame bagels.
For many years we were the only Jewish family on the block. At Christmastime, my dad would dress up as Santa, complete with a sack of gifts over his shoulder. He’d come down the hill behind our houses and deliver presents to all the kids on the block, stopping to partake of the milk and cookies they’d left for him. He was a very convincing Santa—back then, he didn’t even need a pillow to fill out the costume.
My dad was a Depression-era kid who grew up in a tiny one-bedroom apartment with his parents, his two brothers, and whichever other relatives needed a home at any given time. He didn’t have his own bed until he joined the Navy. Despite the privation he experienced, he was exceedingly generous.
A summer as a busboy gave him great empathy for restaurant workers, and he overtipped for the rest of his life. Even if the service was downright awful, he’d always give the waiter or waitress the benefit of the doubt. “Anyone can have a bad day,” he’d say.
My father was proud to serve his country, but he didn’t romanticize his time in the Navy. He got seasick. He got homesick. He missed my grandmother’s cooking, which tells you more about the quality of Navy food than it does about the quality of my grandmother’s. And for the rest of his life, he could tell you exactly how long he had been in the service: 25 months, 27 days, 16 hours, and 1 minute. Back then, you had to give a urine sample before you could be discharged from the Navy, and while my dad didn’t have any trouble, some of his fellow sailors couldn’t perform under pressure. Always a generous fellow, he got two or three other guys out by sharing his specimen.
My father started losing his hair at 21, so I never knew him as anything but bald. Once, when I was a little girl, I saw a framed 8x10 photo of a young man with a full-on pompadour at my grandmother’s house.
“Grandma,” I said, “who is that?”
“That’s your daddy,” she answered.
“No it isn’t,” I said very confidently. “My daddy has no hair.”
What’s really funny is that he’d be insulted if you didn’t notice that he’d had a haircut. Sometimes I’d ask if he’d had one when I wasn’t really sure, just to stay out of trouble.
My dad was master of the quip. The first time he had open-heart surgery, in 1992, the surgeons used a new procedure, which was filmed for a segment on a brand-new news channel called NY1. A couple of days after the surgery, the crew came back to film a short interview with him.
“How do you feel?” the interviewer asked.
He answered right away: “Like I could go 10 rounds with the champ.”
Over the past year, when my dad was in one hospital or another, one of us would often make a joke about something to keep the mood light. Most of the time he’d give us a withering look and say, with mock seriousness, “I do the comedy around here.”
I knew this service might be tearful, but I hoped it would also be joyful. Throughout this last terrible year, my dad somehow managed to remain his sunny self, and that capacity to defy circumstance with the sheer force of his personality is something that will inspire me for the rest of my life. I hope it will inspire you, too.
And if you loved my dad, I hope you will find a way to honor him in your own life:
Treasure your family.
Be a mentor.
Make a lunch date with an old friend.
Be a good listener.
Charm a stranger.
Count your blessings.
Smile at babies.
Stay in touch.
posted by Jody Rosen Knower at 5:56 PM
2 Comments:
Jody, I'm so sorry I couldn't be there to hear you say these words. But thanks for posting them. I feel like I knew your dad.
Jodi
You're a brilliant writer and a fabulous daughter. This was a gorgeous, deep and humbling read. I'm sorry I was unable to be there to hear you speak in person, but I'm very happy to get to read your thoughts here. Thanks for being...like your dad. xo j
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