Eulogy for Stephen Weil

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.