Where I speak at a funeral

Before last week, I had never written a eulogy. In the family I was born into, it simply wasn't done. While planning the funeral, you'd meet with the Rabbi and tell him a bunch of stuff. Then at the funeral, you'd sit in the front row and listen to him speak. And hopefully he'd hit all the right markers.

Easy, I suppose. But somehow incomplete. As if we allowed someone else to tell the story. Granted, a professional someone. But, still, if it wasn't this person's job, they wouldn't be up there.

So I wanted to speak at my father-in-law's funeral. I felt that after four decades of being first his paperboy, then the big-haired teen who dated his youngest daughter, then the somewhat more responsible young man who married his youngest daughter, and finally the slightly pudgier, slightly more grey-haired guy who helped make him a grandfather, silence on this day felt like I was letting him down.

I also felt in my family, not the one I was born into, but the one I had joined, the one I had helped create, the one that defines the very centre of my universe, this was the way we honour those who have imprinted themselves on us. And in every respect, my father-in-law imprinted himself on me for much of my life.

So I wrote a eulogy, and although I delivered it at his funeral last Monday, the reality is the words began percolating in my head months ago. I hope I did enough before he left us to let him know this was how I felt. In any case, here it is:

I knew Irving for longer than I’ve known my wife, Debbie. I was 11 years old. And my first job was one that no longer exists for 11-year-olds: Paperboy. Every morning I’d drag my wagon filled with piles of Montreal Gazettes through the quiet streets of Chomedey. And at least one evening a week I’d wander those same streets to collect the week’s subscriptions.

You get to know your customers pretty well when you drop in on them on a regular basis. Most of them paid the weekly rate of one dollar with barely a second thought. Some said thank you. Others scurried behind the curtains as I approached, hoping I wouldn’t see them.

And in a friendly-looking house on a friendly-looking street, there lived a friendly-looking man who stood out from my other customers. He always had a smile and a kind word. Always took the time to step out onto the front porch and chat with me for a few minutes. He never scurried.

So you can easily understand why I always looked forward to collecting from him. And why I remembered him long after my other scurrying customers had faded, forgotten, into history.

Fast-forward 6 years and 17-year-old Carmi met a pretty girl named Debbie. Coincidentally, his daughter. 

The friendly man in the friendly-looking house on the friendly-looking street was still as kind as he ever was. Still chatty, too. And he welcomed me into the family as Debbie and I figured out the universe had plans for us.

He tolerated me well. Even when I accidentally shot video of his widening bald spot at a family gathering, he found it more amusing than upsetting - a story that stuck with us for decades. To be clear, he didn’t know he was THAT bald beforehand. Thanks to my video, he did.

As we moved toward marriage, and we had to figure out what to call him, he asked if I would call him dad.

So I said, no, I’m cool with Irving. Or Mr. Zwirek. Or Sir. Or Sir Mr. Zwirek.

No...I’m kidding. Dad it was. In a heartbeat. And from the moment I first realized he was the same guy who years earlier had tipped me so well for not soaking his Gazette in a muddy puddle, I loved him for a lot of reasons.

He enjoyed my stupid sense of humor. He always let me pick from the serving plate before him whenever I came over for dinner - which was often. He always had time to sit down and chat. Once he realized I wasn’t disappearing anytime soon, we moved the chats inside. I had earned my place.

Over the 40-plus years that I knew Irving, he taught me much, usually with a subtle word or a quiet nod. He always had the time. Always made the time.

I called him dad because he made me feel like mishpacha, like family. I was never an in-law, or a son-in-law, or the guy who took his daughter away. I was part of his family, as if it had always been so. 

Three things stand out in my mind when I think of him:

First, when we lived in Montreal, we regularly shared Shabbat dinner. The food was, of course, ridiculously good because Zelda had been in the kitchen all day. Irving didn’t say much, but it was always obvious he was the quiet centre of the Zwirek family Friday night experience.

After we were done stuffing ourselves silly, he’d produce a paper bag and unceremoniously shove it into my hand. “Here”, he’d say.

See, he regularly met his cronies from the Chabanel garment district for lunch. One of his buddies was a tie guy. And that unassuming paper bag always had a silk tie or two. Always unbelievably beautiful. Always quietly shared. This continued for years. And to this day, virtually every tie I own comes from him. And his tie guy. And before every early-morning interview in some darkened TV studio, before I went on-air, I’d pick another one from my collection and slowly put it on, silently reflecting on my father-in-law’s lifetime of gifts.

Second, he lived for our kids. Becoming a grandfather was the joy of his life. One look at his face when the kids showed up was all we needed to know. His schedule - ritualized, methodical, clockwork, like the career comptroller he was - got set aside whenever we came to town. He used to tell Debbie he could play bridge with his friends anytime. But he couldn’t play with the kids all the time.

So when they were over, his time - all of it - became theirs. And he used that time so well - leaving them with countless moments they will forever cherish. Imprinting on them, in his quiet, monolithic manner, the importance of family, of knowing who the centres of your universe were. And he was, and is, the centre of theirs.

Third, he lived for his wife. It was obvious to me when I first came into the family that he and Zelda were, in a word, bashert. Fated. Meant to be together. But like so many facets of Irving’s life, it wasn’t overt, or obvious. It was subtle, in the margins, in the way he said her name. Zel. Deferred to her when questions had to be asked and answered. Looked at her when he thought no one was looking. But we were looking.

When Zelda got sick, there was nothing he wouldn’t do for her. This was way more than chauffeuring her to every appointment, dialysis treatment, or procedure – which he did ceaselessly. Or running errands for her while she was in treatment. He ran the entire show, shouldering the burden quietly, doing whatever it took. Day, night, whenever. We worried about him. Endlessly. But he shook it off. Because it just had to get done.

And that’s the Irving we knew, loved, and will always remember. The one who was there. Who always stepped up. Who cared for, looked out for, provided for, everyone around him - his brothers, his wife, his daughters, me, his grandchildren, his shul, his community. Who never complained. Who just got it done. Quietly. Subtly. Thoroughly. With kindness. Like the unassuming paper bag, filled with insanely lovely silk ties that told you everything you needed to know about the man who had chosen them.

Needless to say, I hit the father-in-law jackpot. As I look around the room today, I know there isn’t a person among you who wasn’t touched by him in some seemingly small - yet fundamentally profound and lifelong – way. May we all lead our own lives with such passion, grace and dignity. Thanks, Dad.