Eulogy for My Father - 5/22/09

To all my readers...

My dad passed away last Monday, quite peacefully, in his home. He had a good life. To follow is the eulogy I gave for him last Friday afternoon at Temple Beth Zion:

I’ve had a long time to think about what I wanted to say when I got up on this podium. Dad began to prepare me for his imminent demise thirty-five years ago, when I was still a boarding school student at Taft. I remember he took me out to lunch one Father’s Day weekend and reminded me of the 45 year difference in our ages, and that I would likely be called upon to “man-up” and take care of Mom when, as he predicted, he would leave us prematurely. Indeed, throughout the years, my father had his share of formidable health challenges, but he was one tough son of a gun, and he endured for 98 years. Still, we all leave some day.

In the past few months, before Dad passed away on Monday, my sister Jill and I spent a lot of time in Buffalo with him and with Mom. I sensed Dad might be losing perspective on all he had done in his long and productive life, and I made it my challenge to remind him wherever and whenever I could of all that he had done, seen and accomplished over the past nine decades. We watched old family movies together, we went through a lot of our old photo albums, spanning back to his early childhood, and of course, we talked. I found one photo of Dad as a young boy, sitting in one of Buffalo’s first electric cars which, I believe, belonged to his mother. There was one picture of Dad that I particularly like, taken back in 1962. Both Mom and Dad loved horses and horseback riding, and while they rode primarily English saddle, they used to take a trip out to Palm Springs, California every Spring. There they spent a good deal of their time riding quarter horses in the desert. The photo in question has Dad up on his horse, standing on a mountain ridge overlooking what was back then the sleepy little town of Palm Springs. Below him, the empty desert stretched out for miles, and there he sat, tall in his saddle, wearing a cowboy hat – a real one - tanned and handsome; in the prime of his life, confident, in control. As I stared at that photo I realized that this image was an almost perfect representation of the man I knew. I take great comfort in knowing that this man was my dad. I’ll come back to that picture in a little while.

Most of you are here because you knew my dad. Some of you knew him well. Judging from the written correspondences and phone calls I have fielded over the past week, many of you had great affection and respect for the man; some of you even used the word love. I loved him as well, but I lived with the man for a good portion of my life, and the love I have for him is tempered by fifty-three years of my life with him. How lucky I was to have had that experience. And I think I grew to know him pretty well. Dad was a complex, fascinating, intelligent, generous, and really funny man. I am pretty sure most of you have at least one Jim Oppenheimer story that highlights his wonderfully irreverent wit, or his famous generosity, of spirit and deeds. I’m not going to share funny anecdotes about Dad here because, for one thing, he was a much better story teller. Besides, I wouldn’t know where to begin. Let it suffice to say, and I think we will all agree on this, we appreciated the fine man he was.

Mom doesn’t want long speeches, so what I want to say is this. Over my short lifetime, I have spent far too much time pre-occupied with the elusive concept of success, though I have never really understood that concept. What I am finally beginning to understand, largely through my association with this humble and self-deprecating mentor, is that success will elude me, if I seek it. Dad never bothered with a score card, and he never called attention to his achievements, though they were too numerous to mention. Surrounded by a world filled with self-promoters, he simply set about to accomplish every goal he ever put his mind to, with unfailing drive and with flawless organization. He was an amazing and selfless father, husband, brother and son, he was a well-read intellectual, a gifted writer, a confirmed expert in his profession, and he came to be respected by any and all who had the privilege to get to know him. He simply walked through his long life, consistently enriching his friends and family with his generosity, his unstoppable wit and charm, and his intelligent common sense. That, I have finally come to understand, is the definition of a successful man.

So I come back to that photograph of Dad on the ridge. In a world of shifting sands, my father was stability. The man on that horse was real, not some illusion, not some imposter. He was consistent, stable, good, honorable, and dependable, and he made me and every one in my family feel safe. I have relied on his strength most of my life, and I am quite sure it has made me a better person than I would have otherwise been. Dad I salute your long and beautiful life, and I hope that, as I lately imagine, you are back on one of your favorite horses, cantering through the verdant farmlands of heaven.

The Oppenheimer Report 5/10/09

Last weekend I went back for my 35th high school reunion at The Taft School, the boarding school I’d attended in Connecticut for the last three years of my high school career. Driving down to Watertown, Ct. from Toronto last Friday afternoon, I began to have ambivalent feelings, and I wondered if I shouldn’t simply turn around and go home. Without going into great detail, I recently retired from the business I was working in for over twenty-five years, my nest egg has been downgraded from “Robin” to “Quail”, we recently completed construction of a home which took well over two years, nearly driving Shauna and me over the edge, and presently I find myself charged with care giving responsibilities which have grown exponentially over the past 18 months. At 53 years of age, as I take stock of my life so far, I don’t feel particularly proud of my accomplishments to date. There I was, around Binghamton, N.Y., driving down to a reunion, at a school I have not visited in over twenty-five years, to see classmates I have not seen for at least that long. What was I DOING? This was madness! They’re all successful and I’m a loser. At a time when I am particularly vulnerable and confused, why am I throwing myself into a situation which could be a sucker punch to my self esteem, or even worse, to my sanity?! Apprehension gradually developed into anxiety, and by the time the five hundred mile drive was over, I was a quivering mess. At least I didn’t turn around.

After I’d checked in to the hotel, I headed over to the campus for a quick look around, before the school would be crowded with alumni. Much has changed, but as well, much has not. I wandered through the halls, poked my head into the old auditorium, where I remember the whole school assembled before dinner every weeknight, visited the dining room, then walked around out back to see some of the newer additions to the campus. I took a picture of the sun setting over one of the old dorms, and as the shutter clicked, I was momentarily transported back to 1973, when I had taken the same picture. A déjà vu moment. Time passes, but some things remain the same. By now, I was beginning to feel a little better about this imminent reunion. Somehow I belonged here. Though still apprehensive about seeing my classmates, I realized that Taft had played an important part of in my adolescent development, and I very much needed and wanted to revisit this institution and the people who were a part of it. I chugged a beer for courage and joined some of my classmates for the informal dinner our reunion chair had arranged in Woodbury. By the end of that dinner (during which I failed to recognize at least one close friend) I was reminded that this was going to be better than o.k. I had the opportunity to meet and talk to some interesting people, in some cases for the first time. I felt comfortable with almost everyone and really enjoyed myself. The next night was the big dinner, and that turned out to be a lot of fun as well.

Of late, I have been so focused on the present and the future, that I have had little inclination to revisit the past. I needed to remember what it was I got out of Taft, because I’d put that part of my life on the shelf. So much about my life in the past twenty-five years has been a random series of events to which I have reacted, however successfully. Upon reflection, I have not been particularly successful at steering my life towards happiness and growth, and my fear was that seeing all these classmates would shine a spotlight on my failure. The fact is, nobody seemed to care, and I was reminded that nobody escapes the relentless march of time. Given enough time, life eventually kicks us all in the ass. If it’s not health, it’s emotional or financial problems. A long time ago, I stopped seeking karmic retribution, or epiphanies, or any meaning that could explain why I am where I am right now. What I have tried to do in my life is focus on the friends and family who can help me through the journey. Taft was a good school when I attended. Academically, it’s probably an even better school now. But I did not come back to visit the school; I came back to see the people who shared time with me at that school. We were inmates together. Some of us had a better experience than others, but we all shared the experience, for better or for worse. After this reunion, I was reminded how many good friends I’d made at Taft, and that realization came at a critical time for me. I can say without doubt that my association with those people has improved my life, and though I may not see them much anymore, it is a great comfort to be reminded that they know me and I know them.

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 5/4/09

As I begin today’s report on Saturday, the wind is blowing furiously off the grey and churning lake, and I sit in our new kitchen watching this bad weather while enjoying a hot cup of coffee. I am facing the stairwell, with its newly installed glass, and through the glass I can see the mountain mosaic above our fireplace. We christened the fireplace last week. My father-in-law did the honors, because he always used to build the fires. The house is so designed that one can see the blaze in that fireplace from almost any point in the house that faces it, on both floors. I remember how long we waited for the stone mason to complete that fireplace. There were many months wherein the structure was tarped in and we could not really gauge the progress. We’d spent a long time planning and reworking the design, but much of that project was a leap of faith that the stone mason could create what we’d envisioned. There were times when I thought the mason was going to have a nervous breakdown, such was the challenge with which we had charged him. His name is Mark, and we jokingly referred to him as “Markoangelo”. Mark not only succeeded in realizing our vision, but he created a work of art which we grow more fond of every day. Indeed there was great controversy surrounding our design, and when it was finally unveiled, some people working on the house didn’t like it. I suppose they were expecting a realistic depiction of the mountains, but that was not what Shauna and I had in mind. I suppose one could make the argument that Van Gogh’s “Wheatfield with Crows” is not a realistic depiction of that scene, but I still consider it to be a beautiful work of art.

I remember when we first visited the owners of a Neville log home near Dorset, Ontario, and I was immediately taken with the beautiful view afforded by its large picture windows. Today, looking out on that lake, with the forbidding weather and the trees swaying in the wind, I was suddenly aware of the fact that we too now have a spectacular view. I have been so involved in the myriad of expenses and details involved in the construction of this house, that I have been almost completely oblivious to the reasons why we embarked on this journey in the first place. This house is organic, it belongs on this site, and it blends in beautifully with its surroundings. Both from the interior and the exterior it simply belongs in this environment. As I spend more time just hanging out here, I am astounded by the sense of peace it exudes.

Our next door neighbour just bought a new outboard motor for his boat, and this evening, just before dusk, he launched it for a test run. When I saw him out on the lake, I waved to him and he motored in to give me a ride. As we took a power run around the lake at 55 mph, I watched the house from a distance. This is the first time I’ve seen it from the lake since last Fall, and much has changed in that time. This house was built in turbulent times, through an economic crisis, at a time when my parents have rapidly descended towards the ends of their lives. There it stands, a fixture on the ever-changing landscape. Much has transpired in the last two years, but the house, with all its stories, remains a solid, fixed thing in this ever-changing environment. For me this is a consoling thought.
-Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED