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Dad's funeral
20 July 2007
To lose a second parent is like stepping next up to the plate. One suddenly becomes more mindful and aware of aliments and budding infirmities hitherto unnoticed. The parent reappears unexpectedly when glancing into a mirror or as one attempts to shuffle across a room in a style of walking that no longer seems to be one's own. A relationship that one was involved with has become completed now as one to be scrutinized and understood when understanding was originally not possible.
There were some who objected that a 'wake' is something only Catholics do, but the wake was a pagan commemoration even before it was adopted by Christians and remains the honouring ceremony to this day among several non-Christian traditions as well. In any event, the 'wake' for my father was certainly more 'pagan' than the memorial service the following day. It was a joy that Drew, Chickie and Judy Harrow among my own friends came to show their respects; also my cousins George and Susan. While we were mourning my father's passing, we had gathered to celebrate his life. My sister and I were surprised by the number of people who were present and the recurring expressions from nearly everyone on how much Dad had touched their own lives. There was certainly much more to the man than what we had known and been able to surmise.
The morning burial the following day was a private family affair. Dad was laid to rest next to my brother in a beautiful cemetery (Restland in East Hanover) and within the shade of an old oak tree.
The memorial service at noon took place in the Morrow Memorial Church of Maplewood, New Jersey – our family church and one to which my father had begun again to attend. For me it was full of memories – loving ones. I was less happy with the Methodist service itself. I remember a progressive Liberal Protestant institution from my youth, even innovative in many respects, and when I read for theology at King's College London, I had been particularly impressed by the intelligent and astute writings of John Wesley, Methodism's founder, but the service on this occasion was too proselytizing and incommensurate for a gathering of many people from different faiths. The recitation of the Apostles Creed struck me as especially inappropriate. One of the ironies of the occasion, however, was expressed by Dana Fenton, who, as an Episcopalian minister, remarked that it took her pagan friend to get her into a church.
Other friends that attended the service and the buffet luncheon that followed included Freeman, Susan Rush, Joe Plante, Fred, my great-uncle Jay Vanderbilt, and my aunt Florence's granddaughter Jennifer and her husband Mark. One highlight of the service was my niece's reading of John Donne's poem No Man Is an Island. This was followed by an address from Fred Profeta, Maplewood's mayor and my best friend from earliest school days. Fred recalled the 'bombs' we used to make as kids and my father's tolerant reaction when this was discovered. He also talked about how appalled my father would be if he encountered the casually dressed mayor in town. "Well," said Fred, "I am wearing a suit and tie for you today."
I talked after Fred. It was nothing particularly organized but more along the line of reflections on Dad, our relationship and the significance and celebration of his life. What I did not remember to say at the time was my deepest of gratitude to my sister Myrth, my brother-in-law David Green, NJIT's Cindy Wos and formerly Carol Mickewitz for all the care and help they provided for Dad on virtually a daily basis and for many years. For the present occasion I was able to recall a happier time for my father with his trophy wife, three trophy children, his good looks and his ascent into success. Dad and I seemed always to be locked into some epic battle with each other – something I never understood but which was seemingly present from whenever I could first remember. Helpful in this connection was an email comment to me from Deborah Light who told that it would take a year before I could begin to understand my relationship with a deceased parent. Dad was a brilliant scientist and an equally brilliant businessman; I, by contrast, play more with words and religious ideologies than with chemicals and tensile strengths. I think each of us tended to see the other's life as radically wrong. But Francoise caught something I had to cite when she mailed me from Paris to say that, "Maybe due to his courage, his cleverness and energy, we could say that [my father] was one of the last heroes of the American dream."
Through the people who attended the service and reception and their memories of my father, I was able to appreciate a different side to the man. With his family, he was almost always a bit austere and removed – concentrating on his work. Through my grandmother, however, I had heard that when my mother was in the hospital about to give birth to my brother, I had fallen into a neighbour's basement window and had to be rushed to the hospital to have glass removed from my head and the wounds to be stitched. My father cradled me in the ambulance that was taking us to the hospital and kept repeating how much he loved me. I have always considered that moment, between the two moments that I can actually remember of the accident, as one of the closest I had with Dad. With my brother's birth, he quickly became my father's favourite. That was ok; I always had my mother's love that more than compensated for what my father was unable to express.
Dad has always been extremely critical of most people. There have been a few exceptions among those with whom he was closest: my sister in an earlier incarnation, Nyssa my niece, Chloe Myrth my daughter and, above all, my brother Peter. He could do no wrong. But my father's heart was broken with my brother's death at the age of 28, and he never recovered from that loss. After I had collected my brother's belongings and driven them across the country from California, I was returning to Europe by ship. As the vessel began to pull away from the dock, Dad looked me in the eyes and wept as I have never seen anyone do. I was transfixed until I could no longer see the desolate, lonely figure standing at the edge of the harbour.
The person who Dad became developed an intense emotional insulation. While he was always kind with children, apparently also to many that he knew from his business, educational and social involvements, and he adored having an audience, he did not seem to need anyone – at least on an emotional level. His independence was undoubtedly defensive in part, but it was also the nature of the man himself. The anger he could express toward many, I have come to realize was directed only toward me as the person who has known me longer than anyone. I was just the most in his firing line. With Dad's passing, I am beginning to feel a sense of freedom I have not previously known. My wish is that maybe Dad is now too.
After I had finished my eulogy, while Barbara Rambach was reciting a prayer, the church lights suddenly dimmed and brightened in a bizarre display of electrical mischief. I took this as a confirmation from my father's energy of his approval and a welcomed expression of the sense of humour I knew him also to have. During the singing of Amazing Grace, I realized where the money was going when I heard Barbara hit the high notes of the hymn. But then the organist, Eric Kramer, now at the piano, launched into a passionately emotional musical interlude during which he literally pounded the keyboard as I have never heard otherwise.
I wish to add that I am most appreciative for the kind words that so many of you have conveyed to me at this time.
All in all, it was a fine send-off for a remarkable person. May Dad now be free and travel in peace!