Blogging is good. I look back on some of these entries and I learn so much about the process I've been through and about my parents. Now, my dear sweet loving talented dad is gone. And my mom is with me. And I will honor his love and memory with the best love and care that I can give her. It's what I can do.
We gave him the best care we could . . . and when his poor wracked body could stand no more, we gave him the best send-off that we could, with so much love. He was SO loved.
So I share here the words I shared at the memorial service yesterday. I was so very moved by all the loving family, friends and colleagues who showed up to say goodbye to my dad and to honor him. He deserved every word of praise and every salute that he received. My son-in-law, Mike, will take the flag that was presented to my mother (what a touching moment) and make sure it is properly stored and loved.
Today my mom shed some tears (first time if you can believe it) and it bolstered my resolve to make sure that my dad's intention to care for her will be my intention. He speaks now through me and I have no doubt about what he would want.
Life is demanding and difficult, but we are human beings, and the love we take is equal to the love we make.
Dad's Eulogy
I actually wrote this
some months back, when my father wasn’t ill, or so we thought. I was inspired to write about him and put it
away because I knew that when the time came I wouldn’t be able to get any
coherent words on paper.
As anyone who knew my father
will confirm, he was quite a character.
A wonderful – larger than life, loving, passionate character.
Thomas Edison had
nothing on my dad.
Few people realize
that Joseph Maliandi had 17 patents listed with the U.S. Library of Congress,
developed when he had his own photographic manufacturing business.
He was
inventive.
And that spirit of
invention extended to his oral autobiography — he could have taken a few
patents out on the highly original and wonderfully creative stories he loved to
tell us about his life. Like . . . that he played minor league baseball,
and was first on the field when the umpire shouted "Play ball!"
Oh! And that he worked as an extra in
Hollywood westerns, after having learned to ride horses in the days when he was
stationed on the West Coast in the Navy. While records exist to prove he
indeed served in the Navy, the rest is a bit harder to pin down. But no
matter -- the way the light danced in his eyes when he spoke told us that
these tales were real to him and part of who he was. A great
storyteller. Someone who saw himself as larger than his life, and so he
truly was.
His nickname -
Buddy - was no random label. No one who ever met my father ever walked away
saying anything less than “What a great guy!” You immediately wanted to be his
friend. He immediately became your Buddy.
He started out in life
wanting to be a song and dance man. It was noted in his autograph book
when he graduated from middle school. His dreams were nurtured by his
idols, Gene Kelly and Frank Sinatra. And in turn, when I was
growing up, my dreams were nurtured by my father's songs.
No matter the occasion
or situation, my father had a song for it. It was his way of expressing
how he felt. When my daughter Lee got married, my then 78-year-old father
got up on stage with the orchestra and rendered a very touching version of “Try
A Little Tenderness,” which he had lovingly rehearsed at home for weeks
before. No one who was at that wedding will ever forget that
moment. It was the greatest gift he could have given to his
granddaughter — the pure, melodious expression of his love.
Then there was a
moment just a few years ago when he got up on stage at the senior center where
he lived, as part of a musical revue of classic Tin Pan Alley songwriters like
Johnny Mercer, and sang a version of “Accentuate the Positive” that no one will
every forget. Because that was my dad.
Especially in his
later years he was relentlessly positive in the face of some pretty tough
stuff. He was a survivor of two kinds of cancer and a triple
bypass. But my dad hardly ever let anyone know that he might be sad or in
pain.
He was
frustrated. He retired from his business of inventing and manufacturing
photographic equipment just around the time that the digital era was chasing
all his business paradigms out the door. But, even after retirement, he
tried and tried to learn to use a computer and drove us all a little crazy with
his own “inventive” ways with technology. Enough said.
My dad was a
lifesaver. He would help anyone, anytime. He literally saved my life when
I was a kid when I was drowning at Rockaway Beach. Not a flamboyantly
muscular man, he summoned everyone ounce of strength to propel himself
through undertow and impossibly strong surf to reach out and grab me and my
friend who had been dragged out beyond the point at which we could
stand. I always called it the “leap of love.”
I've always said that
he spoiled me for any other men because he became, for me, the model of what a
man should be, and few measured up to his example.
My dad was a
lover. Recently, in the course of expressing frustration with their
situation and my mother’s stubborn determination to live independently, without
assistance, I asked him to be tougher with her and not to give in to her demands.
And he told me, “Honey, I love her. She’s the love of my life. I
can’t be any other way.”
And truly, he couldn’t
be any other way -- as he was with me. He was always there with
extra everything – hugs, love and now and then some spare cash saved from what
he called his “allowance.” “Don’t tell your mother,” he would say, in a
conspiracy of love between us.
The sight of his great
grandchildren, Lucy and Molly, would bring him figuratively and literally to
his knees. It was always such a joy to see him down on the floor playing
with the girls – Scrabble or whatever they wanted to play – or pushing Molly’s
bike along the sidewalk. He would summon every ounce of strength that he
still had, and it never seemed like an effort.
I often found myself wondering
how he got to be such a generous and happy fellow. And I took a lesson
from this. My father was an only child – the only SON – of two doting
Italian parents, Nick and Pauline. He was the apple of their eye.
My Nana called him JOJO. How tough it must have been to send him off, at
age 19, to World War II. But her love – their love – was
unconditional. And my father learned that love from them. Whatever
he had, he gave to my mother, to me and to the rest of our family.
And now, I'd like to
think he's singing his heart out somewhere, perhaps comparing musical notes
with Frank and Gene, Bing and Judy. Maybe he's enjoying a ride on Pegasus,
twirling a rope just like he did in those Hollywood westerns. Or he's in the
on-deck circle, taking some practice swings in the Interstellar League. And the
umpire motions to him. "Buddy," he says, "play ball!"
