My Daddy

My father passed away early in the morning on November 3rd, 2019.  The following are the words I mustered the strength to speak at his memorial service.

It goes without saying that I am a Daddy’s girl. The loss I feel today is tremendous, so, to come up with words to express how I feel, to share with you my insights on the kind of man he was, is a daunting, if not impossible task. 

I can start by saying, Daddy was an extremely sentimental man.  Of course, we all know what a gifted photographer he was; and let's not forget, he was a photographer before things like Instagram filters, or Photoshop, or automatic camera settings existed. He just had rolls of Kodak film, complete with just 24 chances to get a good shot.

He lovingly saved not just his own photographs (heaven forbid, don’t call them "pictures"), but he managed to be the keeper of all of the family photographs that had been cast aside by his parent's generation.  These are archived in dozens of albums...Freudberg photos, Caplan photos, Falkowitz photos - we have them all.  In addition to the photos, he held onto all sorts of mementos like speeches, invitations, programs, and newspaper articles.

He also saved homework assignments.

Now, my dad was not only a great character, but he loved the spotlight. So naturally, whenever I received an assignment for a  descriptive essay, he was my go-to best subject.   He saved a few of these gems in one particular photo album and, when I was a kid he repeatedly made me promise to read them at his funeral.  So in keeping with that promise, I will share some key excerpts:

From Seventh Grade: 

From 1977

"This man is not very tall, but is of average height.  He is 48 and his gray, balding hair is the color of a stormy day.  Unfortunately, he is always fighting "The Battle of the Bulge" but is on a diet so he can win that battle...."

Why he would want to be eulogized as short, bald, and fat is beyond me, but I digress...





From Freshman Year at Penn State:

Freshman Year

"Daddy, never Father, never Pops, never Dad; he’ll always be Daddy.  According to Daddy, there is no relationship as sacred as the relationship between a father and a daughter.  And just as he’ll always be my daddy, I’ll always be his little girl.

...What makes my father unique is that he truly respects me as a human being, not just some little kid with nothing valuable to say.  When I was younger, he regularly told me that I was 'wise beyond my years'.  As if, even though I’m his child, he actually has something to learn from me too.

My dad and I are very much alike.  We share many of the same qualities.  We both find beauty in the abstract.  Consequently, he is a photographer, and I am an artist.  We both take an interest in the theatre, we love old movies, and enjoy staying up late to watch them (musicals are our favorites!).  We can both be grouches, but we usually can find humor in any situation.  And in a curious way, we look alike..."

And then I ended the essay in a way my professor described as "disappointing" - and it went something like this: “Daddy and I aren't just father and daughter...we’re great buddies!" 

My professor was right, it was lame.  She challenged me to work for depth from start to finish, rather than opting for the easy way out.  So I stand here before you today, to fill in the blanks and to properly complete my 37 year old homework assignment.

Let's start at the beginning of his life with a few quick fast facts:

Born in 1928, my dad was the younger brother to his sisters Betty and Helen. Their parents, Sam the tailor and his wife Ida, were both immigrants, building their life in the Strawberry Mansion Section of Philadelphia.  At the age of eleven he joined a homing pigeon club, and raised and bred his own set of pigeons in a homemade coop that was situated on the roof of their little rowhouse.

Daddy the Pigeon-Boy

He wanted to see the world, so he joined the army while in his early twenties.  He worked in the Signal Corps operating a Teletype machine.  He spent most of his military time stationed in Japan, which he loved.  Apart from dealing with some anti semitism during his boot camp training, he spoke fondly of and was grateful for his military experience.

After serving honorably for two years, he came home and worked for Metropolitan Life as an insurance agent.  It was few years later that he met a young Joyce Freudberg.  When they met, she was also in the insurance business, running her own agency in Center City Philadelphia. He liked her immediately, and she liked him.  She gave him her phone number and three months later, from the Hot Shoppes Restaurant on York Road, he used the pay phone to call her.  Eight days after their first date (yes, EIGHT DAYS), they were engaged. By November of the same year (exactly 60 years ago this month), they became husband and wife.

Mom and Dad <3 td="">

This was also a business merger.  Dad started Bayard Insurance Agency from the basement of my parent's first home on Bayard Street in Mt. Airy.  Mom was his partner, handling the books, as well as the babies.  Wendi was born in 1961, I came into the picture three years later.

Mom and Dad had a great partnership.  They ran their business together and shared a passion for many of the same things.  Both adored their daughters, jazz music and political activism.

It is not lost on us that his funeral landed on Election Day.  Growing up in Cheltenham Township, our home served as a sort of headquarters for Cheltenham's Democratic Party.  I’ve often said that Election Days were the most important "holiday" we celebrated. Daddy served as the Chairman of the party for several years, and he and my mom were instrumental in building a democratic stronghold in Cheltenham Township after many years of Republican domination.

As a dad, he was different than the other fathers out there.   If I was having a bad day,  Daddy would stop everything to take me to the local Howard Johnson's.  He'd sip a large glass of iced tea while watching me devour an enormous hot fudge sundae. John Travolta in town?  My dad schlepped me and three of my best friends into the city to stand in line for an autograph.  The Flyers making an appearance at a car dealership?  Aaron Caplan would fit as many kids in the car as he could, on the off chance we might get a sliver of time with our Broad Street Bully heros.

The portfolio of photography he built was massive, incorporating everything from landscapes to wildlife, flora and fauna, to portraits of family and friends.  He’d have these photographs printed, matted and framed not only to display in our home, but he would routinely present these as gifts to his "models".  He never asked or expected any payment for these services, it was quite simply a labor of love.

Arches National Park, Utah

Tiger - Philadelphia Zoo

His favorite subjects 

Beyond photography, he loved Philadelphia sports, animals (although we never had our own) gardening, and collecting Life Magazines. He owned hundreds, if not thousands of issues, dating back to the 1930’s.  We would pour over these issues together, a combo lesson in art and history, giving me hands-on evidence of the speed at which our world has changed.

He loved food, and although as a kid I recall him being a real "steak and potatoes" kind of guy, he chose to be a pescatarian for the last forty-five years of his life.

He was the best dancer in any room, adding life and fun to any wedding or bar mitzvah all the ladies would line up to dance with him!

And of course, when it came to grandparenting, he was the one and only best "Gran-Dad" in the world!

He was a man of great gifts, but his greatest gift was how special and beloved he could make you feel. If he loved you, you knew it...there was no guessing.   Being loved by him was like having a teacher, philosopher and cheerleader all rolled into one impossibly adorable, sweet, sensitive lovely person.

Celebrating my parents 55th wedding anniversary

My mother’s death 16 months ago was an insurmountable loss.  He was such a rock and so strong for so long, but his poor broken heart struggled to keep beating without her.  He was lonely, and grieving and was determined to figure out how to thrive without his Joyce.   He tried desperately, and never gave up hope.  He would regularly complain about how sad he was, but always ended his thoughts by telling me, “It’s ok, tomorrow will be a better day" .

Welp, It’s tomorrow now, and he’s no longer with me.  But it IS a better day. It’s a better day, because I know his suffering is over.  And I know he and his Joy are dancing together once again.

 ***********************************************

Special note: Several days have passed since I read these words to our family and friends.  And I finally realized why it was so important to him that I share my seventh grade essay at his funeral.  It was never about him, or how he wanted to be remembered.  It was about ME.  It was his way of letting me know he was proud of me, he would always be proud of me; and, even as a middle school kid, or an young college freshman, my thoughts, my opinions, my musings had garnered his respect.  

Just look what he did!  He found a way to posthumously encourage and validate his little girl.  How blessed I am.  My daddy was a good man.  He led a good life.  And I’ll always be my daddy’s precious little girl.