September 17, 2013

365


365 days ago, my dear father passed away. I am posting the eulogy I wrote and read to share a little bit of my dad with you all. He was my biggest fan. I know this would make him smile. He loved being the center of attention after all.  Thanks for reading. It's a long read, so get comfy, and thanks as always, for reading...

Say not in grief 'he is no more', but live in thankfulness that he was.
~  Hebrew proverb
It doesn’t matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was. 
I remember my father, Leo Kushner, as a story teller. His story began on July 13th, 1927 in Buenos Aires, Argentina. He loved living in Argentina, he loved saying “Argentina,” often talking of the busy city and the quiet countryside where he lived with my grandparents and my uncle. He loved to talk in detail about the colors of tucan birds and butterflies, while drifting into stories about his mother smacking him with a broom when got out of line. Which was often. 
My dad could tell a story like no one else. Whether he narrated in a loud booming voice or his quiet whisper, his hand gestures, animated facial expressions and uniquely hilarious observations made every story compelling. Sometimes he would break into song mid-story, just to make sure you were listening. I wish I could do it now, but he always told me I couldn’t carry a tune and would say, ‘Nina, a singer, you’ll never be.” He was right.
At 14, He moved with his family to Chicago. Can you imagine not only moving at 14, leaving your friends, your family, your cousins, your school, but moving to another country where you didn’t know the language, the customs, the dress? While my father understood some yiddish, he did not speak it, as in Argentina, his family spoke Spanish. So even though they moved to a Jewish neighborhood on the West side of Chicago, my father was quite nervous at first. He told me during the first week he was here, his mother sent him to store. He was so nervous he might get lost on the way home, like the mover and shaker he was, he decided to memorize the street lights since he couldn’t read the English street signs. So he saw yellow light, green light, yellow light, red, and on and on. Simple, right? They didn’t have street lights in Argentina, so he assumed they would stay the same. He goes to the store, gets what his mother told him, and he sets out for home thinking yellow, green, yellow red.... To his horror, on the way back, what he’d memorized was ALL wrong, and he wandered for hours trying to find his way home. When he finally and God only knows how he made it back home, his mother smacked him with a broom. Now  I didn’t do that story half the justice it should have gotten, because when he told it, he filled it with fake tears, and a frightened face and a terrified grimace when talking about his angry mom.
I could stand here and tell you hundreds of stories about him too. I could tell you about the time I told him I didn’t need a ride home from work from Baskin Robbins, and he stalked me in the parking lot across the street to make sure I didn’t get in a car with a boy. I could tell you about the time he took me back to school shoe shopping when I was 12 and we went to Spire shoes, at Watertower-very chichi  for 1981. Watertower, with my Dad - I’ll never forget feeling so special. I could tell you about the time I came home with an awfully awful short haircut at 9 years old and he said, ‘Now, now you look like a Kushner!’ - and he made me feel like that was all in the world that mattered. And I remember vividly, when I couldn’t decide between two wedding dresses, his was the most important opinion I could gather. My maid of honor was there, my mom was there, but I knew for certain, Dad would be able to make the decision for me. I came out in the first dress and his eyes got wide and he said ‘no shit.’ Very Leo. I went and changed into option number two. Walked out again and he said “no shit.”  And then he said, “I don’t know, what do you think?”  Can you believe? My decision maker, my go to guy, THE guy - “what do you think?”  I rendered my poor Dad useless in that moment - He hadn’t a clue. No mind, I got a dress, got married, it all worked out. I could tell you a thousand more stories, there are so many that I wake up with every day...
I remember my father as my cheerleader. He gave me the greatest gift anyone could give another person, he believed in me. He got a kick out of me. We enjoyed each other’s company SO MUCH. MOST of the time. 
When I lived in the city, he would come to meet me on Saturday mornings at the Bagel on Broadway for breakfast. No matter how late I was out the night before, I always met him for tunafish at the Bagel.  We laughed. We had un-awkward silent moments, we fought - oh my gosh how I fought with my father. We drove each other bananas. I wouldn’t change a thing.  He loved me unconditionally, the same way he loved my brothers, the same way he loved my mother.
I remember my father telling me he was a lucky guy. We grew up very modestly, in a small apartment, how was this lucky, I remember thinking, when he told me this. He said, “I never, never thought I’d be here, as long as I’ve been here, married to a woman who loves me, takes care of me; with three kids, a son who is a teacher, three kids who are ‘fantastico’ all the way around, grandkids- are you kidding me?” he said. “I never dreamt it. Not in a million years. I am a lucky guy.” 
I think though, that we are the lucky ones. 
The stories I share today, will never do him justice. But they are bursting from inside me. Since the day he passed, I’ve felt so much of him with me, each story just waiting for its turn to be let out, rehashed and cherished. I feel his arms around me, only he could hug me and make the rest of the world melt away. My Dad is a character, he is laughter, he is tears, he is hilarity and irreverence. He is my father, all of him. 
He loved us. All of us. So fiercely. So much. In HIS own way. And it was only, HIS way. And he loved my mother, so much, so fiercely, in his way. He called her La Rubia, the blonde. I remember him telling me she was one of the special ones, that there’s no one like her, and that he was so lucky she put up with him. The week before he died, while we all sat with him in his room, my mom was down the hall. She walked in the room, all smiles and beautiful and he whispered so softly, “there’s my girl.”  And you are and always will be mom. You’ll always be his girl.
I remember my father laughing when he told us about my mom and their fun nights on Rush Street before they got married. He loved to tell us about how she and my Aunt Connie would come into Dino’s bar and all the guys would shout out a warning - “LEO, Florence is here...” He would laugh and wait for mom to either give him a shove or a wise crack or an eye roll. He new how lucky he was to have her. And I know she feels the same about him. He had nicknames for everyone - I told you, mom was La Rubia - I was ‘mi corazon,’ his heart. Dave is ‘The Big Guy.’ Jack is his ‘Class act.” Tom was always “My Man,” and Colleen is the “Irish Girl.” I have a lot of Irish Girl friends, and you know who you are, and you were something to him. 
He loved his grandchildren, so very very much. He had names for each of them. He called Sydney his little shiksa, Ashley, Princess Ashley, Sarah he called simply Sarah Kushner, because he was so proud it was his mother’s name. He called David ‘D’ or the ‘other Big Guy,” Michael was Miguel, or the ball player, and Olivia. Olivia was his Gypsy. Nothing gave him greater pleasure than spending time with his grandchildren. Simply sitting back, watching them live their life.
Life is for the Living. I remember my father saying this ALL. THE. TIME. Life is for the living. And here we are. All living. All feeling my Dad in these moments. Life is for the living. The past few weeks, as I’m doing laundry, or driving to the grocery store, or distracting myself online, I freeze and think, what am I doing, what am I doing? Shouldn’t I be grieving?. This isn’t to say that I haven’t had moments of pain or crushing tears. Those have come too. But during the other moments, I am living. I am living because I am alive, and because he taught me to do. Just that. To live. 
I will miss the father I remember. I will look for him everyday in everything I do. I am bursting with his love, and know his hugs and smiles and silly winks will carry me through the rough moments.
I will close with this lovely poem
Death is nothing at all;
I have only slipped away into the next room.
I am I, and you are you;
Whatever we were to each other, that we still are.
Call me by my old familiar name;
Speak to me in the easy way you always used.
Put no difference into your tone,
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow,
Laugh as we always laughed
At the little jokes we enjoyed.
Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.
Life means all that it ever meant -
I am but waiting for you, for an interval,
Just around the corner.
All is well.

3 comments:

Magnus Pym said...

Nina,
What a lovely tribute to your father.
I can see his smiling eyes as he calls everyone by their nicknames and tells stories.
Thank you for bringing his legacy to life for me.
Jen Pen

Magnus Pym said...
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Magnus Pym said...
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