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.
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.
3 comments:
My condolences :(
Jamie - I heard about your dad in an email from Doug S. today. He certainly had a great, charmed, and long life. He was someone that I thought of often and I was deeply saddened when I heard the news. I hope your family is well and that the recent sad memories will pass soon and only sweet ones will remain. Mike in Melbourne
What a huge empty spot occurs in our hearts when such a loved one departs. In time, the wounds heals. Give yourself plenty of time, Jamie. The scar that remains is one of the most beautiful things it is our privilege to bear. Enjoy that also.
I am so happy I stumbled back to your blog. Your words will help me in the near future as my 94 year old father prepares to leave me. Thank you for sharing those words in this open forum.
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