My father, Stephen Weil, died tragically on 5 March 2019 from injuries sustained in a recent automobile accident. This is the eulogy I gave at his funeral at the Goldman Funeral Chapel in Malden, MA on Friday 8 March 2019.
 |
| A Toast From My Dad |
Dear Family and Friends
Thank you all for joining us on such a somber occasion. Before
I continue with my eulogy, I wanted to take the time to describe how thankful I
am.
- Thankful for my mother Shelly who doesn’t realize the
strength and resilience she has.
- Thankful for my wife Elana for being unfailingly
supportive.
- Thankful for my brother Eric who successfully
navigated the past few weeks as both pained son and competent healer.
- Thankful for my children who ground and amaze me with
their perceptive comments.
- Thankful for my sister-in-law Andria for providing
perspective with so much depth.
- Thankful to my Uncle Marty for his decisive nature and
my Aunt Marcia for her constant support.
- Thankful to Rabbi Hamilton for somehow being in the
right places at the right times to provide comfort.
- Thankful to all of the first responders and medical
professionals who worked so hard to help my father heal and then provided
comfort to him when it became clear that recovery wasn’t to be.
- Thankful to my children’s mother Beren for managing
two family crises simultaneously – with sensitivity and love. For those who
aren’t aware, her beloved grandmother Barbara Rosenblum passed away the same
day as my father. She was very special to me and my grief is doubled.
- And – most of all – thankful to our communities for
your overwhelming support. We are humbled and grateful for you all.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. My father – fit and
friendly and lively – should have had many more years to enjoy his retirement
with my mother. But that simply wasn’t to be. So here we are, gathered to
remember a man who really defied categorization.
What do I mean by that? Well…
- My father wouldn’t have considered himself to be an
“intellectual,” but you’d rarely see him without a book in his hand and a
Sudoku puzzle half completed in his bag.
- My father wouldn’t have considered an “athlete,” but
he was always on his bicycle, in the pool, on the slopes, or in the gym.
- My father wouldn’t have considered himself particularly
“ambitious,” but when need be, he always rose to the occasion. I know the
residents of his condo are going to feel the absence of their capable
president.
Steve Weil was a humble guy. He
wasn’t one to boast or complain. He was one to offer a helping hand without
being asked. He was one to tinker and fix (or, sometimes, break).
Born in the Bensonhurst
neighborhood of Brooklyn, and carried his accent proudly wherever he went. And
his accent rubbed off on those around him. I was a teenager before I realized
that I wasn’t pronouncing “mirror,” “vanilla,” and “drawer” like my friends
did!
Dad rarely talked about his time in
the Naval Reserves. He was never active duty during Vietnam. Country and
freedom were important to him, but he would never have overly emphasize his
service when so many others had given so much. Still, he always had his dog
tags near him. A reminder, maybe, of the friends of his youth.
My father was at Ground Zero on his
way to work when the airplanes hit the towers on 9/11. He found shelter in the
Chase Bank vault until the coast was clear and then walked miles to safety. But
it wasn’t something he brought up very often. He didn’t want anyone’s pity or
undue attention.
Some of my favorite moments were
spent outdoors with my father and brother. Skiing as a child at Vernon Valley
or Mt. Snow. Camping at Otter Lake. Hiking in the Adirondacks or the White
Mountains. Rafting on the Delaware, Hudson, and even the Colorado. My father
loved being outdoors in any weather, and I relished the time spent with
him. Except when he taught me how to
ride a bicycle and left me to coast uncontrollably into the pond by Copeland
Middle School in Rockaway.
He wasn’t overly emotional, but he
had no trouble telling my mother, brother, and our children that he loved them.
We seldom spoke on the phone, even though I speak to my mother often. But he
wanted to know everything that was going on in our lives and would get daily
reports from Mom.
The last time I saw my father was
Thanksgiving, when he (1) tried out my nephew’s hoverboard and fell – into the arms
of his granddaughter and (2) snuck out of the house, drove up to New Hampshire,
and went skiing despite the significant protests of my mother. Did I mention
that he pretended to be 80 years old to get a free lift ticket?
Dad lived without regrets. He
didn’t hold grudges because he knew how to avoid or resolve conflict. And
didn’t suffer from artifice, preferring to be true to himself regardless of the
situation. That situation might have been on a nude beach with a joint in his
hand. He encouraged me to embrace this philosophy. My father once told me that
I should always be myself; that I shouldn’t change who I am in response to the
group I’m with or the company I keep. I try to live up to this ideal.
But as central as this is to the
way I try to live my life, it isn’t the aspect of his personality that I most
aspire to live up to. No – that was his dedication to our family. My father
sacrificed a lot to provide for my mother, brother, and me, commuting every day
from suburban New Jersey to New York City; getting up early and spending hours
in cars and trains. On weekends, rather than sleeping in, he would always find
ways to spend time with us. To eat with us, throw a Frisbee, or go for a bike
ride. Those are memories I’ll always cherish and behaviors I’ll always respect.
Musically, my father was among the
most tone deaf people I’ve ever met. Literal tone deafness. Hearing him sing
“Happy Birthday” or “You Are My Sunshine” made me cringe as a musician. But as
his son? It was marvelous. It reflected a man who was rarely self-conscious;
who was always true to himself. And I wish I could hear him sing those songs off
key one more time.
I loves you, Dad.
