Merry Christmas, Bill!

Bill's Bench

December 24th 2011

A Daughter's Eulogy

Sorry this took so long to get posted (my fault, not hers). Here is the text, as written, of my sister's Eulogy for Dad:

"I want to start by saying: thank you so much for coming here to pay tribute to my dad. My family and I want you to know that all your thoughts and love really matter to us, just as you all mattered to my Dad.

Over these last few days, I have been taking stock of all the things that my father gave me. I won’t get to all of them, because I had the best dad in the whole world, and we’d be here for three years. But I’ve been looking in the mirror, trying to see. He gave me my short, stocky frame and my coloring. We both had bad teeth prone to cavities. I’m hoping he gave me that hair that will never really go gray. And frankly, he kind of owes me because, as anyone who has done an ounce of physical activity with him knows, he sweat copiously, no matter the temperature, all the time. Yeah, he passed that gift along to me. He also gave me the genetic disposition to get sappy and emotional at tender moments; he gave me a taste for asparagus. It’s something that has been very humbling to consider, in my simple love for him: that his legacy to me is not just the things he taught me, but it’s actually inscribed all over my body: that I gesture like him sometimes, and smile like him sometimes, and that no part of me would be here without him.

But what makes me even happier is the list of things that weren’t just gifts of chromosomes and genes, but were things I learned from watching him. He taught me that moving was always better than being still, though stillness has its place. He taught me to laugh at off-color jokes, and to make them as often as possible. He taught me to clean my plate, and to shamelessly eat other people’s left-overs too. Dad loved literally every single food except okra and, weirdly enough, kim chee, but luckily these didn’t come up very often. If you put a plate in front of him, he would eat away happily, every time. He taught me the joy in exuberant eating, though that shouldn’t surprise us, because he found joy in everything.

And I think we all know: my dad was a total rockstar. He was amazing! He accomplished so many impossible things that they became mundane. Of course he just ran fifty miles. Of course he just climbed Kilimanjaro, and then ran a marathon around the base. But lest his ironman physique fool anyone I am here to tell you: my dad also loved beer and Doritos, and he loved them a lot. How cute is that? My dad was pretention-free. I always found it so endearing: after running 17 miles, teaching a million classes at the Y and doing god knew what else, he’d lay on the couch and drink a bunch of beer and eat a ton of chips, cheerfully pouring the crumbs into his mouth when the bag was nearly empty. I want to paint you a family tableau, one that replayed itself too many times to count. Around eight o’clock we’d all sit down and pop in a movie. Dad would be horizontal on the couch, rattling his bag of Doritos and crunching loudly. We’d gripe at him: God Dad! We can’t hear the movie! but we needn’t have worried because within minutes the bag would stop rattling, and the crunching would slow and then stop. He always would sit up at the end and give us his review of the movie, which we might have believed, if we hadn’t heard him snoring away for the last two hours.

But when he wasn’t passed out on the couch, my dad was in constant motion, doing everything. His physical achievements weren’t even the most impressive thing about him, which is saying a lot. My dad could do anything capably. He taught me how to play wiffleball, how to do my taxes, how to stretch my sore hamstring, how to make friends with anyone. My dad could fix a bike, carve a turkey perfectly, pack the car. He sang beautifully. He told both really good and really bad jokes. For someone so smart, so funny, so strong, so loveable, the best part is that Dad was never haughty or superior. It would never have occurred to him to act like that. When I think of him, I picture running on the canal path with him trotting next to me, not caring how slow I was, chattering away blissfully. If we were climbing a mountain and he got a bit ahead, he’d wait at every turn. When we played baseball in our yard as little kids, he’d pitch underhand, straight at the bat, so we could know the pleasure of hitting the ball. He was never frustrated with our pace, as kids or as adults. And though he worked, uncomplaining, for thirty odd years behind a desk to support my family, he always fully supported the creative lives that my brother and sister and I have all somehow stumbled into.

Though my dad could run circles around so many of us, he was happiest when he was with people, anyone, everyone. We’d tease him, when we were all out in public together: Do you know everyone, Dad? Now it’s clear: he kind of did. My brother-in-laws was in the Supercuts at Eastview Mall two days ago. When he told the stylist he was here in town for Bill Hearne’s memorial service, five people in the Supercuts mentioned how much they loved Dad. People everywhere loved him because my father was, above all else, incredibly kind and open-hearted. My father was loving, and loved to hear anything you had to say. He had so much love that it took this many people to hold it, and if he had lived for thirty more years you know there would be hundreds more people in here. His exuberance and the way he cared for other people is, for me, the most inspiring thing about him. Though we can go on and on about how superhuman he was, the truth is that my father was, at base, and most importantly, a kind and lovely man.

My dad was like the sun. He was constant, warm, and beaming. If I hadn’t talked to him for a while, it was OK because I knew he was in motion somewhere, shining brightly. My dad, like the sun, lit things up with joy. My dad was freakishly cheerful. Maybe you all thought: no one could really be that cheerful all the time. But I grew up with the man and I have to tell you: he did not have some weird dark underside that made him to kick cats or anything like that. My dad’s joy was utterly sincere. These last few days I’ve wondered: how did he maintain these endless reserves of joy? But he just did. He couldn’t help it. That was the way he came to us. He was like the sun, and I was lucky enough to warm myself in my father’s light for thirty one years.

My father’s body gave out last Thursday, as all of ours will, sooner or later. But my Dad was right where he wanted to be: high up, surrounded by beauty and new and old friends, and as close to the sun in spirit as he could ever be. I’ll miss his light for the rest of my life, as we all will. Thank you."

Posted by James (way late).

UPDATE: this was reposted with the name of the author removed, at her request.