A few days ago, I stood next to a tombstone which was engraved, in addition to the usual name and date, "Amo de la Musica y el Champagne." Lover of music and champagne. By my math, this Spanish speaker was 81 at the time of her death, nearly 82. Old age takes on a whole new dimension: the idea that who we are, our joy of life, continues with us into our twilight years suggests that the sun will continue to shine instead. As another bystander commented that day: "Don't you want them to say that about you, when you go?" Lover of music and champagne, indeed.
I was, of course, standing in a cemetery (the Hebrew, which translates to "House of Forevers" is such a much nicer name). I was, of course, attending a funeral.
The man who had died, a friend's father whom I first met when I was 18, had that same joy of life. He lived with gusto. When I last saw him, six weeks earlier, he looked at me, grinned, and in a booming voice audible to the entire courtyard in which we stood, proclaimed, "I LOVE YOU BECAUSE YOU REMEMBER ME WHEN I WAS YOUNG." Maybe those were not his exact words. Maybe he said "knew" instead of "remember"; maybe he said, "like" or "love seeing you," but no matter. You get the point.
I should be clear: to my eyes, he looked the same as he had when I met him. He hadn't aged, as far as I was concerned...and perhaps I didn't see him as all that young when I met him as my friend's father all those years ago. He was a "grownup," after all. But he really did look the same. I'm sure he'd slowed down a bit, but in my brief encounters with him of late, I didn't perceive it, not really. Trim beard? Check. Shiny pate? Check. Larger than life personality? Check. Love of family - and even the friends of his family? The most important Check.
In fact, I have been quoting (or misquoting) that utterance for a month, in my attempt to characterize this man, my friend's father, who demonstrated (in another original quote that doesn't pertain to this post) that he was a big fan of mine - and that he thought everyone should be. More to the point today, everyone was a big fan of his.
Let's talk about decisions. This was a man who, upon his death, could only be described as one who chose to live well. Born a Jew in the Soviet Union, he uprooted his family and brought them to America for freedom and Judaism and who knows what opportunity. His daughters embodied his kind of American dream, becoming both learned in Torah and attending the top universities in the country. And they followed their father's choice of life - but it entailed uprooting themselves and their families to settle in Israel, embodying the Jewish dream of centuries. And this man (and his wife) followed his children (ahem, grandchildren) to resettle himself in his years of retirement. Another uprooting, but by all accounts, in the end, it was done with joy.
Back in the day, when I was more of a regular in their home (how many times was a really there? Twice? Three times? It certainly felt like more...), I was amused by the family dynamic - to the extent that I dubbed the dinner table a "sitcom." The family remembers this - six weeks ago, my friend's sister (who after all these years may also be called "friend," I believe) reminded me of it, and maintained that nothing has changed. Rather, they now have spinoffs upon spinoffs (starring the grandchildren, of course).
What do I remember? I remember that this man got in the car one Sunday morning to drive his daughter to visit her boyfriend (now husband), who was working in a summer camp. The drive was approximately 3 hours. Each way. I know. I was in the car (for me, it was just a fun Sunday - to visit friends - but then, I wasn't driving).
I remember, from the stories at the table, that in his excitement to be able to keep kosher, my friend's father could not believe the vast number of products that were under rabbinic supervision. Until he discovered that the symbol of an "R" surrounded by a circle is not the same as the symbol of a "U" surrounded by a circle.
I remember that, more recently, every time I ended up at my friend's for a visit, and saw her father after shul, he greeted me with that booming excitement, apparently rather happy to see me, always asking me how I was doing, and so on. Despite many years separating my visits. As a fairly reserved person, I might have retreated from his welcome, but I never felt invaded or put on the spot. Rather, the opposite is true: he brought out my own ability to smile big. It did not surprise me (or anyone) to hear my friend say, in her eulogizing her father, that this man could not walk down the street without stopping every few blocks (yards? feet?) to shake hands with yet another acquaintance.
Even when things were hard - even when daily circumstances shifted (different countries, different health at home) - it was that effusive personality that put everyone at ease, that approached every day with healthy perspective, that carried out every act with dedication, that I think embodied a decision to live with joy. .
I've always liked the dedication of Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik's
Lonely Man of Faith, to his wife, "a woman of great courage, sublime dignity, total commitment, and uncompromising truthfulness." It's a strong characterization, and I've always understood that she was an impressive, formidable woman.
But what's missing in that dedication (though perhaps not in the woman herself, a"h - I don't know) is the recognition that appreciating the fun in life makes it joyful - with music and champagne. Or a sitcom, if need be And life is better when it can be lived with joy. An object lesson from my friend's father - on how to live from now until that house of forevers.
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| יהי זכרו ברוך |
