A Eulogy to My Father

Good afternoon, it’s wonderful to see you all. If we don’t yet know each other, my name is Jeannette and I am Bob’s older daughter. I am here with my sons, Liam and Eamon, who are Bob’s two oldest grandsons. They called him PopPop.

Thank you for being here today to share in the memory of my father. It means a lot to all of us and it means a lot to him.

My remarks today are inspired by a quote from one of my favorite authors, Cormac McCarthy, who wrote in his book, Cities of the Plain. “And since death comes to all there is no way to abate the fear of it except to love that man who stands for us. Do you love him, that man? Will you honor the path he has taken? Will you listen to his tale?” 

I like to think my father stood for all of us, and perhaps you would agree, so together, let’s honor his path and listen to his tale; or rather, indulge me in my tale about him.

My earliest memories of my dad are a little blurry: maybe it’s the passage of time – after all, it’s been almost 50 years. But I guess, to say it simply, when I was a small child, I remember my dad as just, well, a really big guy who was kind of a mystery.  I was really little and he was really big.

My first vivid memory of my dad is from 1979; Jeff was 7, I was 5, and Allyn was 3. One evening, it happened to be Halloween, Jeff and I were just minding our own business but my sister, Allyn, was really upset. When things quieted down a bit, Jeff and I came down the stairs into the living room to see what all the fuss had been about and we found my sister sitting on my dad’s lap in one of our wooden rocking chairs. And in an attempt to comfort her, he was reading to her. The book was “Blueberries for Sal”. And in that moment, I turned to my brother in complete disbelief, wide-eyed, and whispered, “DAD CAN READ?”

It was through many more of these tiny moments and memories that my father became a lot less of a mystery to me and began to take shape in my life as a large, but gentle, always present, source of comfort and assurance.

Every child deserves to think of her father as a hero. And my father gradually earned his hero status in my eyes not through big grand gestures and majestic moments, but through his steady presence in our lives, slow to anger and even quicker to comfort. He never seemed far away, we could always find him, and we felt constantly safe in the warmth of his shadow. Being able to read was also a real plus.

The heroism of my dad was his simplicity: Old Spice cologne, the J Giels Band, a Dodge Caravan, pecan rolls from Buehler’s. 

But of all the simple things, the most simple thing my father did was love us. Maybe this is the most important part. My dad made me feel easy to love. And in a world where headstrong, spirited, strong, some might say stubborn, girls (and now women) like me often feel anything but … that was such a gift to me. My dad made me feel easy to love. And he loved me easily.

I am only one of four people on this earth to have been his child, and one of only two to be his daughter. And I know all of us would agree, my dad loved us with the simplest, purest, love.  As he was fond of saying, “I love you to pieces, and I always will.”

After bringing my dad home from the hospital in February, I was leaving to catch my flight. I was hugging him and I was crying, so scared and sad that I might not see him again.  He looked at me with the most peaceful expression, wiped a tear on my cheek with his swollen thumb, and told me, “Babe, I don’t know why you’re so upset. I love that you have a life that you love to live, a life that needs you. What more could a father want for his daughter? That she live a happy, full, interesting life. I’m so proud of you. Now, please go and don’t be upset about me.”

His love was simple; it had no terms and it had no limit.

When I think back on the very end of his life, there was were so many times when we didn’t know what to do, we simply did not know what to do. So we did what we could to comfort him: a popsicle, a vase of daffodils, a 6:00 AM flight from Madison, finding ESPN on the channel guide. Our efforts felt heroic, as simple as they were. We loved him as he taught us to love.

My sons flew in separately to see my dad and spend time with him the weekend before he passed.  On each occasion, he asked them to pull up the wooden rocking chair (the same one on which he once comforted my sister), to sit in front of him, and listen to his tale.

“You see,” he said, “I have a celestial heart.” And then he would pause and look at me, confused, and he would ask, “Babe, I know that’s not the right word. What do I have again?” And I would say, “Congestive heart, Dad, you have congestive heart failure.” And he would repeat to the boys, “So you see, my heart is celestial and it is failing.”

My dad and his celestial heart; it never failed to love us.

In 1967, from Fort Benning, Georgia, my dad wrote this in a letter home to his family, “Tomorrow I am going to do something that up to a year ago, you wouldn’t even believe – I’m going to Church for the 5th straight Sunday. That’s right. Five Sundays in a row. I really enjoy going to Church because I can relax and it just somehow makes me feel better.”

Well Dad. We’re here now and you can relax. I know you feel better than you did in your final days. I know how hard it was for you to bear witness to our bewilderment over losing you – even as we tried heroically to hide it. Death comes to us all, and our only way to abate the fear was to love you – and continue loving you as you loved us.

Your limitless, loving, heart is indeed celestial now. May you relax and forever feel better there.

Dad, I love you to pieces. We all do. And we always will.

Thank you for listening, honoring my dad, and listening to his tale.

~Delivered Saturday, March 16, 2024 at Second Congregational Church in Beverly, MA.