Once More, With Feeling
Dec 13th, 2008 by Marilyn
Gratitude.
Soft as a blue sweatshirt, and warmer than onion soup. That’s how I feel about you people, surely the loveliest readers in blogdom. Your care and kindness came through in every comment.
When the first slaps – funeral day, stricken friends, tired eyes – have passed, then comes the harder work of going forward. Some people eat; I cook first, then feed, then eat. That steamy soup? Just right. We’ll make it together in a few days, but first, another look at the character that was my Dad – an onion-soup-bread-dipper if there ever was one. In your kind condolences, many of you asked me to share the eulogy I read at his service, so I am printing it here. And from the bottom of my soup-spooning heart, thanks again for your love and support.
Dad with Josie at Bern’s Steak House, Tampa, Fla. in June 2007 – many steaks, much bearnaise, and one big Shirley Temple.
Read on Dec. 7, 2008
If you knew my Dad, you probably know that he didn’t do anything halfway – as in, he did not have a casual relationship with accounting. He took eating, movies and loving his family very seriously, and with him, it was all the way or nothing. Whatever he did he wished to do well, and in turn he was always amazed by what other people could do – break Olympic records, win an Oscar, make a triple play. He didn’t think he lived a big life, but in fact he lived quite a life, and I’d like to discuss that – I’d like to share a few things that you may or may not know about what my Dad could and could not do.
* He could not dance – he always forgot to move his lower half – but he could imitate Patrick Swayze in Dirty Dancing, which embarrassed us but entertained our friends. All of our friends, from grade school to college, loved to hang around the family room at 3211 Wilmette Avenue, just to chat with Murray.
* He could not ride a horse but he could draw a horse, and this odd, single artistic skill made him proud. He was an Albany Park kid who didn’t know a saddle from a hoof, but he drew perfect forelegs, manes and tails on napkins, on post-its, and sometimes, on ledger paper.
* He could not bat like his hero, Ernie Banks, but he could bowl a fiercely perfect strike, as he and my brother often did at father-and-son tournaments. I couldn’t bowl to save my life and just watched – but it was at those tournaments that they both taught me how to keep score.
* He could not sing – we actually begged him not to sing – but he liked to tell us how as a lovestruck young man, he’d walk past my mom’s apartment building at night and sing up to the windows, a song from My Fair Lady, “On The Street Where You Live.”
* He could not cook – he couldn’t even butter toast – but he could find any Italian hole-in the-wall, sniff out the best pot-stickers and always, always tell you about the best thing on the menu.
* He could argue with his late business partner, Leonard, for hours, but if my sister said she felt like eating bratwursts – in Wisconsin – he’d say, “okay. Let’s go for a ride.”
* he couldn’t find his socks, but could spot an error in any tax return
* he couldn’t frost a cake, but remembered the birthday of everyone he’d ever known.
* he couldn’t pick out a shirt, but he could choose a dinner place – while still eating breakfast.
* He could not do tumbling – the only class he ever failed – but he could swing a grandchild high up in the air. He could squeeze them and throw them over his shoulder and play on the floor. Becoming Papa to Josie, Elliott, Jennifer and Garrett made him someone different. It made him flexible.
He was like a rock in more ways than one – he could be cautious, questioning and stubborn, but he could adapt, and when he was asked to, more than once, he did. He had so many sides, some of them surprising – he was a big guy who was all tender heart, a man who cried at our weddings and bear-hugged our kids. He was generous, loyal, in some situations helpless and in others supremely competent. But even with all those shades, nobody would ever call dad a free spirit. He didn’t think of himself as a righteous man but as a responsible man, moving through life, working hard at family, working hard at working, working hard to be a good friend. What he had the most of was heart, a great big heart, and all he ever really wanted was to tell stories, and share laughs and have a good time, and for everybody else to have a good time, no matter what.
My dad, Murray Joel Pollack, was both a character and a man of character. He had a special appetite for life, and I know that at one time or another, it touched each and every one of your lives, as it did each and every day of mine. I think that’s how he’d like to be remembered, and as I hear the outpouring around me of love for my Dad, it’s easy to say that he will. Of course he did my tax return for me all my life, and if he did yours, too, you’ll know that when your return arrives in the mail you receive a cover letter on Reicin Pollack stationery, all business, and signed Murray J Pollack, CPA. I must have been one of the lucky ones, because mine were always signed “Love, Dad.”
I’m sure he’s smiling now — that was just beautiful! Thanks so much for sharing that. And you know, I only met your dad a few times, but as I read that, I wasn’t surprised by any of it! The first time I met him, I think I already knew what a great guy he was.
This made me cry. I lost my dad 2 years ago this coming Jan. 30th and the pain is still there. I’m so sorry for your loss.
Oh, I just want to hug you and smooth your hair and call you sweetie – in other words, kiss the hurt away. You wrote from your heart and I really believe he (and everyone else) heard it.
Thank you so much for sharing this.
Hugs…
Beautiful. I’m sure your dad was smiling down and saying, “My girl sure can write!”
Your dad Murray sounds like he was a great guy.
You are so lucky to have had him, and he to have had you!
Hope you stay strong through this difficult time.
Stacey Snacks
What a beautiful tribute. You are a devoted daughter and a gifted writer.
Beautiful!
How completely lovely. Thank you for sharing this. I send many hugs your way.
May your tears be lessened by each tear your freinds shed for your heart. May your heart heal with those tears. We do share your grief.
I’m sure he would be so proud to call you his daughter! Simply beautiful. I wish you only the best.
Beautiful…my deepest thoughts and prayers to you all.
Marilyn, thanks for the gift of posting this eulogy on your blog. It gives all of us readers a peek into the funny, hard-working character and warm-hearted, beautiful soul of this remarkable man you were lucky enough to call Dad. Savor these memories like you do that soup! With love….
Marilyn: I found your site through StumbleUpon (which is kind of weird and stalkerish, I know), and just wanted to make a quick comment here. This is a beautiful tribute to your dad, and I’m so, so sorry for your loss. How lucky you were to have each other. I lost my own dad four years ago, and I miss him every day. Hold the people you love close and remember to breathe. Lots of hot showers are nice too. And tea. And time.
You paint such a wonderful picture of you father. I didn’t leave a comment on your other post about his passing because I know there are really no words to help you right now. I did want to say that I am thinking of you and your family at this time though, maybe that helps a little temporarily at least! I lost my father when I was seven and my mother at nineteen. My husband has only his mother left. It is just hard for me sometimes not to be jealous of other adults who still have parents much less grandparents living. That sounds terrible I know. I just know that in my teens I took for granted the fact that I had my Mama still, and I wish so badly just for an hour or a day with them now.
Treasure your memories of the years you had with your father, I know you will!
What a lovely tribute to your dad. I read it with tears in my eyes, but I smiled, too, knowing what he meant to you and all of your family. Take care of yourself in these coming days. It’s easy to take care of others at a time like this, and easy to neglect yourself. I’ll be thinking of you.
I lost my dad four years ago. It was sudden, and at the time I was so gripped by shock and pain that I could not even speak at his funeral; I wish I was able to give my dad the kind of tribute you gave your father. Thank you so much for sharing your memories with us; your beautiful words were so deeply touching, and brought memories of my own dad rushing back this evening.
Oh Marilyn. What a beautiful tribute. I love the “a character who was also a man of character.” Those are my favorite kind of people. Sounds like your dad knew how to live and to love well, a rare and wonderful quality.
So sorry for your loss.
Such a wonderful tribute. Really lovely, Marilyn.
Stay strong.
It’s a beautiful tribute. I admire the grace of your words.
So sorry for your loss, Marilyn. Your eulogy brought tears to my eyes — beautiful words like your beautiful recipes. May he rest in peace.
This is so sweet and well written — a wonderful tribute to a deserving man.
Your father sounds like someone I’d like to have a beer with, as long as we don’t talk about cooking, I guess
Based on your description, I wish I had known your dad. You write so beautifully. My condolences.
I came to your blog only recently – through the Eddie Ross post you did – and have enjoyed it thoroughly from the first read. I write from Montreal, where I was born and grew up and still live, but I have a Chicago connection. My best friend, Yona, also a native Montrealer, lives in Glencoe; her daughter went to New Trier and her son is there now. So I feel a bit of a connection on that level.
That said, your father sounds like a sweet soul. And you sound like someone who really loved her daddy. And so behind the lovely eulogy and your graceful writing, I sense the sadness and the pain and the hole of his absence you must all be feeling. My condolences – and I hope there is a measure of comfort in knowing that you are in the thoughts of so many people.
Most sincerely, a devoted reader.
Sorry for your loss but wishing you warmth and happiness for the Christmas season.
Sorry about your Dad. Take good care of yourself.
What a beautiful gift for your dear Dad and for everyone else who loved him. Your special and lovely way with words is apparent even in your heartbreak. Thank you for sharing this with us.
Mar, I’m so glad you posted this, for so many people to read your perfect words about one of the most marvelous guys ever. We all had so much respect and love for him. What a sweet, wonderful mensch.
Many long-distance hugs to you, until I see you again for more hugs in person. As someone said above, take care of yourself.
Marilyn, you are so generous. I read your blog for your wonderful stories, and your sense of humour and your solid, humanitarian world view, and, of course, the food.
I was so sorry to tune in after a long absence and to read that your world has been rocked this way. Thank you for posting that beautiful tribute to your father. He was a lucky man to have had a daughter like you.
What a wonderful Dad! Who raised an equally wonderful daughter. Thank you for sharing this. It was touching and inspiring.
This is such a beautifully written post and a wonderful tribute to your father. I’m so happy I came across your blog. I’m subscribing to it just now, after I press “submit comment”.
Banu
Dear Marilyn: I was trolling the Internet for updates on our family tree (I am your mom’s 3rd cousin) when I came across your blog. To say the least, I was overwhelmed by your words, your word picture and the tenderness of your tribute to your father. May his memory be for a blessing.
Stanley Diamond, Montreal