Ben's Eulogy

As most of you know, our father was not a man of many words. He was not quiet, or shy, or unaware, but he only talked about what he had to. By his own admission, he did not openly discuss his feelings because he really did not have, or care to learn, the language. Mostly, I suspect, because he saw little logic in emotions. To him, emotions arrived without provocation and generally seemed to defy common sense; there wasn’t much you could do about them. For him to talk about feelings was to dwell on the unchangeable. What he wanted was to change his feelings; to do something; to act so as to pass them by and settle life down again, to know where he was headed. Talking about his feelings didn’t solve anything.

In my younger days, I saw his way of dealing with his feelings as a lack of awareness. Of course, now I know this is not true. His was a way of living that required a clear knowledge of self. Not only did he know what his feelings were, he knew how he could best cope with them. Crisis? Go sailing. Angry? Chop wood. Frustrated or depressed? Build furniture or a boat. And it is thus that I have come to understand my father’s feelings. He expressed his knowledge of who he was and how he felt by what he did. He managed always to get his point across, whether through the one sentence letters he was famous for in our family, or through some other means. Generally, he made himself clear: how he felt; what he wanted; what he knew to be true; what he was resolved to live with; and how he chose to live.

When Dad first was diagnosed with cancer, I almost immediately became a doom-sayer. A couple of times a year I would get a call that he was in the hospital for this or that and I would think: “Well, this is it.” I would head to the Foreside house or the hospital and find Dad, unalterably the same. Same sense of humor, same ability to face his lot and move ahead with his life, never complaining or whining. But still, for five years, I insisted on assuring myself that his death was just around the corner. Clearly I felt sorrier for myself that he did for himself. I should have known that he would eventually tell us when he knew it was finally his time, as he put it, to “go up.”

Now, other than the usual truthfulness, honesty and etc., my father taught me two things that I have taken to heart nearly all my life. The first is; NEVER rake the lawn. The second is: contemplate only as long as necessary, make the decision, and move on. Do not bother to try to forestall the inevitable.

He made his decision on May 13th, at 11:45 AM, with all the dispatch and allusion, indirectness and clarity through which we knew him. He made his decision and got his point across with nine words. He made it clear that he knew it was time for us to start saying our final goodbyes. And having said these nine words he took to his bed and basically never got out again. It was his time to die.

He said: “Well, I guess it’s time to sell the boat.”

I wrote the following poem for my father in 1995, it has been one of my few published poems. This, I think, honors the subject far more than the writer. I read it thinking about where I believe Sandy is right now.

Old Boat, Old Friend

You have never asked
for my gentle boatwright hands
to caulk a weeping seam,
though you lend me your mooring
or show me a quiet cove
in which to ride out a storm.

You have never sought passage
with me as your navigator,
though I have sailed
many miles rocking your heart
in my mind.

However often I have entered
harbors alone in the fog,
you have ridden as my Bo’ sun,
sometimes my mate,
Sometimes my captain.

So, I wonder what it will be like
when you are gone;
when your ribs can no longer
support the press of the sea,
your sails, the weight of the wind.
When I can never know
how the trim of my sails
has helped your speed.

Still, I hope I will be able
to sail you one last time
in a soft breeze,
with a fair tide,
to a calm cove,
to help you set your anchor
in the deep mud of the earth.