Dad's eulogy.
(As read by my brother-in-law, Jon C.- who helped edit, add important details, and does a far better impression than I.)
We would like to share our, the kids, collective memory- as written by Cary.
The last real conversation with Dad dealt with his concern over having upset Mom. She wanted him to eat, but, as he told us, he had no appetite and nothing tasted right. He was resigned and tired at that point, but was more concerned that refusing food was hurting her...than with his own feelings...or his fate. He never once complained during his illness or griped "why me?"
His concern was for the impact it had on those you love him. Even when he called to reveal the diagnosis, he said, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." He was sorry? Yes, he was most concerned about how his illness was going to affect us. That's just how Dad was.
Not a perfect person by any means, but in all the ways that really count. He was a beautiful, humble, unselfish man. Fairly sure he'd not approve of all this fuss we're making about him right now. But bear with us Dad...we know, we know...the wake is starting in about 45 minutes.
He understood better than most what really counts in life. He would notice the elegance and beauty in what we'd think is simple or mundane, like the perfectly round hole made by a carpenter bee in the front porch post. He loved the little things, the things you miss while you're busy looking for something exciting. Watching birds at his feeders or the blinking flash of lightning bugs floating through the night in the backyard. Music you could sing along to, even if off-key. That unmistakable snap, crackle, pop of ice melting in a glass. Or seeing a distant lightning storm slowly crawl in over the ocean. And of course...of course...a round of golf. That is 18 + 1, all 19 holes.
He never set foot in a shopping mall. "Jesus Christ no!" And if it weren't for gifts from his family he'd still have hit the beach every year in those infamous blue, thin Y strapped flipflops and his circa 1970 red Budweiser swim trunks. He admired nice cars, and did well enough for himself that he could afford a brand new one- the latest and greatest. But that wasn't Dad- he couldn't comprehend spending that kind of money. So he'd buy himself a used one and drive it until there was absolutely no possibility of further mileage- just ask that grey BMW M5 series with more than 300,000 miles. For years we had Christmas trees that looked more like deranged, mangy shrubbery, because he knew the farm we bought them from was struggling- and helping them out was more important than a good lookin' tree.
He never threw things away. He saw the unattained value and was certain that even the most used up things had further usefulness. Last summer, rather than buy, he made a skimmer net to fish leaves out of the pool- the man knew his knots- and you bet he had a piece of screen, or a rod, or something in the garage ready for use. The examples are endless. One of his last projects was an empty tissue box- top removed and edges reinforced with tape- to serve as a tray for his nightstand. He was also able to see the unattained value, or better stated, potential in people- he would take a chance on you.
When you got a chance to be alone with him, you know, one on one dad time...you knew it was almost sure to be a memorable moment, whether it was teaching us to iron our shirts during those preppie years or kayaking in the Adirondacks. Being tossed high through the air at the swimming pool on a hot day, or sitting on the back porch slouched in a chair staring at the stars with a cold Straub wrapped in a paper napkin, or falling asleep together at the movies and waking up wondering what the hell Chariots of Fire was about. We wanted that Dad time because it was special. As a child remember that anticipation while waiting in the window for him to come home from work? Watching for that car to pull into the driveway. Dad is home! Being so happy to see him. Or bringing him a beer as a toddler and not spilling it--I didn't spill it, I did it--and seeing how proud he was.
He was a quiet guy, shy even in some environments, but he loved people without discrimination. He wasn't naive, he knew we're all flawed, but he had a way of looking beyond that and getting to what made each person unique and lovable. Especially when it came to his grandchildren! He loved to see them grow and develop their unique personalities. About all of them he'd say, "He/she is such a neat kid!" He adored each for their own special reason. When Sofie spent a long stretch in the hospital, he was the doting grandfather who was there almost every day, taking extra care that the flowers he brought were only purple. Only purple. Had it been any of the other kids in the hospital, he'd be there with their special thing. And he encouraged each kid to grow and learn- suggesting sports, loaning books, or refining their sense of humor with gems such as Monty Python, "It's just a flesh wound!" Or Inspector Clouseau, "Does your dog bite?" Or that cowboy campfire scene from Blazing Saddles, "I think you've had enough beans!" Or he'd just shake the kids little hands as they were leaving after a family get together, providing this advice: "Give 'em Hell buddy!"
Even when mistakes were on the table in front of him, laid out, diagrammed and labeled exhibits A, B, C...(some of us well beyond Z at this point), nevertheless, when we knew he was disappointed in us, we never felt judged by him or that his love for us wavered for even one second. Whether family or friend you know the unflinching loyalty I'm talking about. Whatever your mistake or dilemma, he'd say, "What do you need?" And whether that was a little bit of quiet company, a shoulder to cry on, a dog needing to be watched, a room painted, a stiff drink, or $10,000 cash in unmarked bills, he was your go-to man.
He also had a wicked streak of mischief and a great sense of humor. Spend 10 minutes with him and you'd be holding back tears of laughter due to an Irish joke or the retelling of some outrageousness committed by one of our pets or something in regards to "Goddamn Donaldson." For the longest time more than one of the in-laws didn't know Uncle Gary's first name because Dad always started a funny story with "So, Goddamn Donaldson..." Of course, the way he used "Goddamn" was a term of endearment...unless you were a squirrel or that sliding screen door or that "Goddamn Outer Banks traffic." He often referred to Mom as "The War Department." Again, truly, a term of endearment- he was tipping his hat to her for keeping the operations and maintenance of the Dunlap army under control. He was also the caring husband alongside "The War Department" taking care of her every need when she wasn't well.
In typical guy fashion, he was the Dad who wouldn't ask for directions but the third time we crossed over the same bridge would point and quietly say, "Hey look kids, there's Big Ben, and there's Parliament...again." [Griswold reference]
He was the grandfather who, as mentioned, love watching birds at his feeder and solved his "Goddamn squirrel problem" by buying a Supersoaker and coaching his grandchildren how to sneak up and get a good shot off to knock "those bastards" off the feeder. Extra points if you could shoot through the sliding screen door! The grandkids unanimously agree that Grampa was AWESOME. And yes, he was the guy who, after a few drinks, would have you up until 3 in the morning, raising your glass and singing Irish songs...
There's no question that he loved his 3 children, his 9 grandchildren, all of his family by blood and marriage (shout out to Lois, Heather, and Jed), and his friends old and new. Like a lot of his life, his relationship with Mom was largely private. We've only just begun to understand how deep their love for each other was. It wasn't all smooth sailing, I don't imagine any relationship spanning 48 years is. Witnessing the love, tenderness and patience with which Mom cared for him in these last weeks was heartbreakingly beautiful. And we know it was only the depth of his love for her that allowed him to, in the end, finally let himself lean on someone else- to yield and let her care for him. As sad as we are, there is something absolutely beautiful in seeing them, Mom and Dad, loving each other, and Mom by his side at the end.
He had his flaws, who doesn't, but it's so easy to let them go. We were lucky to have Dad on our team- a part of our War Department. Now we feel a huge void has been left in all of our lives. And when we are sad just recall one of those memorable "Dad" moments---like Dad captaining the pontoon boat about the lake with all of us loaded aboard. And in those times, those times when it hurts too much, try to imagine him reunited with Mary, the younger sister he adored. Those two together- look out! Imagine them trapping their grandmother in the upstairs bathroom on Main Street in Woodbury. That is, when they're not leaning their heads together, pointing down and laughing at the earthly mayhem their kids have yet to live through.
We believe that Dad would share the sentiment of this Henry Van Dyke quote:
To be glad of life because it gives you the chance to love and to work and to play and to look up at the stars
-to be satisfied with your possessions but not content with yourself until you have made the best of them
-to despise nothing in the world except falsehood and meanness, and to fear nothing except cowardice
-to be governed by your admirations rather than by your disgusts
-to covet nothing that is your neighbors except his kindness of heart and gentleness of manners
-to think seldom of your enemies, often of your friends
-to spend as much time as you can in God's out-of-doors
These are the little guideposts on the footpaths to peace.
We would like to share our, the kids, collective memory- as written by Cary.
The last real conversation with Dad dealt with his concern over having upset Mom. She wanted him to eat, but, as he told us, he had no appetite and nothing tasted right. He was resigned and tired at that point, but was more concerned that refusing food was hurting her...than with his own feelings...or his fate. He never once complained during his illness or griped "why me?"
His concern was for the impact it had on those you love him. Even when he called to reveal the diagnosis, he said, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." He was sorry? Yes, he was most concerned about how his illness was going to affect us. That's just how Dad was.
Not a perfect person by any means, but in all the ways that really count. He was a beautiful, humble, unselfish man. Fairly sure he'd not approve of all this fuss we're making about him right now. But bear with us Dad...we know, we know...the wake is starting in about 45 minutes.
He understood better than most what really counts in life. He would notice the elegance and beauty in what we'd think is simple or mundane, like the perfectly round hole made by a carpenter bee in the front porch post. He loved the little things, the things you miss while you're busy looking for something exciting. Watching birds at his feeders or the blinking flash of lightning bugs floating through the night in the backyard. Music you could sing along to, even if off-key. That unmistakable snap, crackle, pop of ice melting in a glass. Or seeing a distant lightning storm slowly crawl in over the ocean. And of course...of course...a round of golf. That is 18 + 1, all 19 holes.
He never set foot in a shopping mall. "Jesus Christ no!" And if it weren't for gifts from his family he'd still have hit the beach every year in those infamous blue, thin Y strapped flipflops and his circa 1970 red Budweiser swim trunks. He admired nice cars, and did well enough for himself that he could afford a brand new one- the latest and greatest. But that wasn't Dad- he couldn't comprehend spending that kind of money. So he'd buy himself a used one and drive it until there was absolutely no possibility of further mileage- just ask that grey BMW M5 series with more than 300,000 miles. For years we had Christmas trees that looked more like deranged, mangy shrubbery, because he knew the farm we bought them from was struggling- and helping them out was more important than a good lookin' tree.
He never threw things away. He saw the unattained value and was certain that even the most used up things had further usefulness. Last summer, rather than buy, he made a skimmer net to fish leaves out of the pool- the man knew his knots- and you bet he had a piece of screen, or a rod, or something in the garage ready for use. The examples are endless. One of his last projects was an empty tissue box- top removed and edges reinforced with tape- to serve as a tray for his nightstand. He was also able to see the unattained value, or better stated, potential in people- he would take a chance on you.
When you got a chance to be alone with him, you know, one on one dad time...you knew it was almost sure to be a memorable moment, whether it was teaching us to iron our shirts during those preppie years or kayaking in the Adirondacks. Being tossed high through the air at the swimming pool on a hot day, or sitting on the back porch slouched in a chair staring at the stars with a cold Straub wrapped in a paper napkin, or falling asleep together at the movies and waking up wondering what the hell Chariots of Fire was about. We wanted that Dad time because it was special. As a child remember that anticipation while waiting in the window for him to come home from work? Watching for that car to pull into the driveway. Dad is home! Being so happy to see him. Or bringing him a beer as a toddler and not spilling it--I didn't spill it, I did it--and seeing how proud he was.
He was a quiet guy, shy even in some environments, but he loved people without discrimination. He wasn't naive, he knew we're all flawed, but he had a way of looking beyond that and getting to what made each person unique and lovable. Especially when it came to his grandchildren! He loved to see them grow and develop their unique personalities. About all of them he'd say, "He/she is such a neat kid!" He adored each for their own special reason. When Sofie spent a long stretch in the hospital, he was the doting grandfather who was there almost every day, taking extra care that the flowers he brought were only purple. Only purple. Had it been any of the other kids in the hospital, he'd be there with their special thing. And he encouraged each kid to grow and learn- suggesting sports, loaning books, or refining their sense of humor with gems such as Monty Python, "It's just a flesh wound!" Or Inspector Clouseau, "Does your dog bite?" Or that cowboy campfire scene from Blazing Saddles, "I think you've had enough beans!" Or he'd just shake the kids little hands as they were leaving after a family get together, providing this advice: "Give 'em Hell buddy!"
Even when mistakes were on the table in front of him, laid out, diagrammed and labeled exhibits A, B, C...(some of us well beyond Z at this point), nevertheless, when we knew he was disappointed in us, we never felt judged by him or that his love for us wavered for even one second. Whether family or friend you know the unflinching loyalty I'm talking about. Whatever your mistake or dilemma, he'd say, "What do you need?" And whether that was a little bit of quiet company, a shoulder to cry on, a dog needing to be watched, a room painted, a stiff drink, or $10,000 cash in unmarked bills, he was your go-to man.
He also had a wicked streak of mischief and a great sense of humor. Spend 10 minutes with him and you'd be holding back tears of laughter due to an Irish joke or the retelling of some outrageousness committed by one of our pets or something in regards to "Goddamn Donaldson." For the longest time more than one of the in-laws didn't know Uncle Gary's first name because Dad always started a funny story with "So, Goddamn Donaldson..." Of course, the way he used "Goddamn" was a term of endearment...unless you were a squirrel or that sliding screen door or that "Goddamn Outer Banks traffic." He often referred to Mom as "The War Department." Again, truly, a term of endearment- he was tipping his hat to her for keeping the operations and maintenance of the Dunlap army under control. He was also the caring husband alongside "The War Department" taking care of her every need when she wasn't well.
In typical guy fashion, he was the Dad who wouldn't ask for directions but the third time we crossed over the same bridge would point and quietly say, "Hey look kids, there's Big Ben, and there's Parliament...again." [Griswold reference]
He was the grandfather who, as mentioned, love watching birds at his feeder and solved his "Goddamn squirrel problem" by buying a Supersoaker and coaching his grandchildren how to sneak up and get a good shot off to knock "those bastards" off the feeder. Extra points if you could shoot through the sliding screen door! The grandkids unanimously agree that Grampa was AWESOME. And yes, he was the guy who, after a few drinks, would have you up until 3 in the morning, raising your glass and singing Irish songs...
There's no question that he loved his 3 children, his 9 grandchildren, all of his family by blood and marriage (shout out to Lois, Heather, and Jed), and his friends old and new. Like a lot of his life, his relationship with Mom was largely private. We've only just begun to understand how deep their love for each other was. It wasn't all smooth sailing, I don't imagine any relationship spanning 48 years is. Witnessing the love, tenderness and patience with which Mom cared for him in these last weeks was heartbreakingly beautiful. And we know it was only the depth of his love for her that allowed him to, in the end, finally let himself lean on someone else- to yield and let her care for him. As sad as we are, there is something absolutely beautiful in seeing them, Mom and Dad, loving each other, and Mom by his side at the end.
He had his flaws, who doesn't, but it's so easy to let them go. We were lucky to have Dad on our team- a part of our War Department. Now we feel a huge void has been left in all of our lives. And when we are sad just recall one of those memorable "Dad" moments---like Dad captaining the pontoon boat about the lake with all of us loaded aboard. And in those times, those times when it hurts too much, try to imagine him reunited with Mary, the younger sister he adored. Those two together- look out! Imagine them trapping their grandmother in the upstairs bathroom on Main Street in Woodbury. That is, when they're not leaning their heads together, pointing down and laughing at the earthly mayhem their kids have yet to live through.
We believe that Dad would share the sentiment of this Henry Van Dyke quote:
To be glad of life because it gives you the chance to love and to work and to play and to look up at the stars
-to be satisfied with your possessions but not content with yourself until you have made the best of them
-to despise nothing in the world except falsehood and meanness, and to fear nothing except cowardice
-to be governed by your admirations rather than by your disgusts
-to covet nothing that is your neighbors except his kindness of heart and gentleness of manners
-to think seldom of your enemies, often of your friends
-to spend as much time as you can in God's out-of-doors
These are the little guideposts on the footpaths to peace.