Eulogy for Dad, 8/16-17/03

what was complicated about my father was that to me he always seemed to have one way of being, but turned out to be a lot of different ways to different people.  while he was growing up, his family knew him as “ alex.”  At work, they called him “ al .”  his life-long friends always called him “rush.”  of course, my sisters, brothers, and i just called him “dad.”

although i always found these various identities curious, i have no choice but to concentrate on the last one.  I hope those of you here who knew him as “Al,” “ alex,” or “Rush” will indulge me for a few minutes because i think he always considered his work as father his most important identity.  i have a few stories to explain why i believe it.

but first, you may be thinking why am i doing this?  which one of the kids is that?  Well, i’m not the youngest, not the oldest, just one of the nine.  it must have seemed to many close to them that my parents just had a bunch of kids.  even to the nine of us—growing up in that small row house on wishart street —it just seemed like mom and dad had a bunch of kids.  and while this is true, it also made more precious what little one-to-one time we’d manage to get with them.

      it’s been making sense to me in the past few days that the first one-to-one with my dad that i remember is when i was four years old and his mother died.  i was the only one not in school yet except for mike who was only a few weeks old.  so when i saw him heading out to tend to the stuff remaining at his mom’s house, i asked to go along.  i could tell my mom was surprised he agreed to it.  Even so, she whispered a caution to me as we headed to the car:  “stay out of his way!”

      it didn’t occur to my young mind that our mission was to empty grandmom’s house, but as i saw the pile of stuff forming at the front door, it was just too tempting.  so i climbed up the stuff and came to rest on top of a closet.  there was a nickel sitting on it and my joy broke out:  “hey, dad, look!  A buffalo head!”  his eyes got big as he race over to lower me to the ground and yelled at me:  “Get down from there!”  once I was safely on the ground, we just looked at each other.  then i opened my palm.  “can I keep it?”  a quick smile cracked through how sad and angry he was.  dad just said, “yeah,” then turned back to his work.  and i stayed out of his way.

      once i started school, there weren’t many chances for one-to-one time until I had the misfortune to get braces.  the only bright side of the whole two plus year ordeal was that every two weeks dad and i had a half hour round trip in the van during which we’d talk about anything and everything.  well, those of you who know me know that he mostly talked and i mostly listened.  I can remember one round trip during which he spent the whole drive telling me in detail about a film he just saw at the dollar movie.  he even did an intermission, then the whole second half after my wires had just been tightened and i needed something else to think about besides my aching teeth.

      during one of these trips i was moping about a recent break up and i could tell my sour mood was getting to him.  he finally said, “look:  it’s her problem, not yours.  if she thinks she’s going to find anybody better for her than you’ve been she’s an idiot and you’re better off without her.”  it was exactly what i needed to hear then, and i doubt it would have worked as well coming from someone else.

      when i went to penn state , we had four hour road trips, but not as many unfortunately because i was driving myself by then.  the one that stands out is the second to last one.  i had only graduation to come back for and dad came out to help me pack up and take home my college stuff.  during part of a conversation when i was convinced one reason teaching was for me was because i would still have the summers to write, i made the mistake of saying i wasn’t intending to raise any kids.  dad broke in, asking what i would leave behind, then.  when i said “books,” he looked away from the road to say, “let me tell you something:  kids are what matters.  The rest of life is B S.”  only those of you here now know he didn’t use the initials.

      it took having my own children for me to believe him about this.  one of the things about raising us right was making sure we nine got a solid education.  So it must have made dad livid when i was intending to quit after the second year of college.  fortunately for me, I was in wildwood and he was in philadelphia when he found out.  he was intending to drive to the shore and set me straight, but settled instead for writing me a letter.  if i can get through it without crying, i intend to finish up by reading that letter to you now.  the original hangs in a frame in my office in tennessee .

“dear Jeff,

Mom told me, finally, that you were considering quitTing school.  –Forget it—

Just keep in mind that i’m only asking for two more years of your life.  you don’t have to be the greatest student in the whole wide world.  Keep in mind that you are a romanczuk.

grandmom and grandpop crossed an ocean, left friends and family behind, to come to a country where people spoke a strange language, with different customs.  they raised a family under these circumstances, with a depression to boot!

I’ve lived through a depression, handed down clothes, and no money in my pocket.

You are one of my kids and I love you.  I want you to have a good future so try to hang in there.  Two years out of the next sixty years or more isn’t asking too much, I hope.    Love, DAD“

of course, he didn’t tell me that more than twenty years later, i’d still be going to school.

god’s peace to dad,

or rush,

or alex, or al,

or whatever you knew him as and how ever you knew him.  thank you for letting me share the man i knew and always will know.  may his memory be eternal!