The Eulogy I Never Got to Give For My Father

In 2020, my father died, alone, in a nursing home, as part of the first deadly wave of Covid.  I was living abroad and unable to go home to bury and eulogize him.  My second home, Thailand, was not letting anyone in or out and my immediate desire to go home to Boston and be a part of his funeral was stifled.  All the traditions of grief were taken away from me.  I would miss the recitation of prayers at the temple and at the grave site.   I would not be part of the lowering of the body into the ground.  There would be no shiva — where friends and relatives, just by being visitors to your home, surround you as a community to show love, respect and caring for the family.  I could not follow our traditions, so brilliantly created not for “closure” – whatever that means — but for completion of our obligations to the dead and to the living.

I am my father’s only son but I would not get to kiss him goodbye. I would not get to say prayers at his grave. I would not get to eulogize him. I would not get to grieve with my family. And maybe most important, for me as a Jew, I would not get to show him kevod ha-met or “respect for the dead” by throwing dirt on his coffin as a final gesture. It is said that the sound of dirt hitting the coffin is a “terrible and haunting sound of finality” and allows one to accept the reality of the death and start to grieve. I would not get to hear that sound.

After my father first had gotten sick with dementia, I decided to write his eulogy immediately – not when things were stressful and so sad immediately after he would die – but when my head was clear and I could think about my father as he was and as he lived.  For me, it was always comforting to know I had his eulogy already written…so when that time came, it’s one less thing I would have to worry about.

I never got to give the eulogy but I am happy I can share it now.  Whether it be friends, family or just total strangers reading it here…it makes me feel happy to know I am able to tell a little of my father’s story – especially as it relates to Judaism —  and as his only son saw him and loved him.

I never quite understood my father but, like all of us, he was human.  With all the perfections, contradictions, beliefs, passions and love that come with that moniker.  He was, in a sense at least for me, a puzzle for which I was putting pieces together for as long as I knew him.

Going to temple in suburban Boston was something I never thought about.  It just was something we, as a family, did.  My father loved the temple dearly.  When he and my mother joined in the 1950s, it was housed in an unimpressive building and was what one would call humble.  But the community of families that started the temple was as strong as the most vibrant tree roots.  My father reveled in being part of this community that offered a “no frills” opportunity to be a loud and proud Jew.

When he was young, my grandparents sent him to New York Military Academy because he was said to have needed some discipline in his life.  He became a star boxer and star wrestler who, he was proud to tell us, once held the New York state record for fastest wrestling pin-fall of an opponent.  70+ years later he told me of something he was even more proud of from his school years.  There was a scrimmage with another school and no one wanted to wrestle the other school’s only black wrestler.  My father, matter-of-factly, said he volunteered to wrestle the boy.  “I was so happy to wrestle him,” he offered.  Not much more needed to be said.  That was a mensch thing to do.

Years before it became custom at our greater Boston temple, my father would – following the ancient ritual – completely wrap himself in a tallis when he first put it on.  This would embarrass us – as he was the only one in the congregation doing it — but he didn’t care.

When we visited the Fuller Street cemetery in Everett, Massachusetts, and walked through the B’nai Israel section, representing the Orthodox temple he grew up in, my father offered rather “colorful” comments about many of those laid to rest there. He was seemingly oblivious to the fact that we all had been brought up to show respect to the dead.  He gleefully pointed out to me how Charlie right there, had screwed over Morrie over there, in a business deal.  He noted who had been true supporters of the small, Orthodox shul and who had just gone through the motions.  He also explained, shall I say, more “interesting” relationships carried on by others who are buried there.

To some it may seem disrespectful but, to me, it was my father being truly “down to earth” and doing things his way.  A trip to the cemetery was good for saying prayers…but also a little commentary along the way made it all the more interesting.  He was just being himself, saying what was on his mind, telling his truth about the people he knew.  The fact they were dead didn’t really matter to him.

This willingness to say what was on his mind, do what he wanted to do and, at times, flaunt society’s conventions used to embarrass me to no end.  I would cringe when he would call a restaurant manager over to complain about a meal; something he often did and always in a loud voice.  I wanted to just walk away in a Tel Aviv cafe as, instead of ordering an iced tea, he would order two tall glasses of ice, a hot tea, and three packets of Sweet & Low.  (The sabra server told him exactly what he could do with that request.)  I figured I was in serious trouble standing next to him at the funeral of a family acquaintance when he whispered to me, “You know, just because someone dies does not make him a great man.”  That statement has stuck with me for many years.  What does make someone a “great man” or a “great person”?

I literally thought G-d would strike us down on a Friday night in Jerusalem, overlooking the Old City bathed in ethereal lighting, when he listened to a waiter tell him that the Orthodox couple several tables away in the restaurant objected to his smoking on the Sabbath.  He sat calmly, then said to the waiter, “Well you can go tell them to take their opinions…” I don’t need to finish the sentence.   Seriously?  Jerusalem, Shabbat, an Orthodox couple….and my father was just saying what’s on his mind!

These might seem like cringe-worthy moments for some, especially me, but they were my father’s moments and only years later did I realize that was just the way he was sometimes .  And in a day and age when we – as a society – have become so politically correct, he was just the opposite.  When people are so quick to opine as to what words mean and parse them to understand and identify who exactly might be offended, my father was just not politically correct.  In a time when we have to think so much more about what we say, when we say it and to whom…my father was an original.  He was true to his thoughts, his beliefs and he said what he wanted to say.  As I grow older, I respect that more and more, every day.

My Dad brought the world to me, taught me so many things and helped me understand myself and maybe understand a bit more about who he was.  Some share great and ideally profound thoughts in a eulogy.  I believe it’s also important to mention moments that are pieces in the puzzle of one’s life.   At the time, they may seem simple or just normal…but, in time, they become memories that warm the heart and remind us of the essence of the person.  Thus it was with my father.  Memories of mine that are really about him….but helped shape me.

Aside from the births of his children and grandchildren, I believe my father’s favorite moment in his life was when he was arrested.  It was 1972 and the Vietnam War was raging.  The New England Council of Rabbis had decided to join a protest against the war at the Kennedy Federal Building in Boston.  Our temple’s rabbi, was planning to go and, according to the rabbi, my father had said he wanted to go to ensure nothing happened to the rabbi.  The rabbi was getting a “bodyguard” of sorts and my father was getting a chance to protest a war he believed was morally wrong, together with a group of fellow Jews…in this case, a bunch of rabbis.  For him, what could be more fun?

For years he would regale us with stories of the mayhem around the protest and told us he had been arrested after he grabbed the arm of a policeman who was pulling a woman by the hair.  That was interesting, but for him, he was most animated when talking about himself with all the rabbis sitting in a jail cell in the basement of the Federal building being called to the initial hearing before the judge.  Summoned by the court officer to appear upstairs, the rabbis explained they were in the middle of davening afternoon prayers and the judge would have to wait.  As my father tells it, in their own version of Thoreau’s Civil Disobedience,” the rabbis had to daven afternoon prayers many times that day…always needing to re-start just when the officer returned repeatedly to say the judge was still waiting.

It didn’t occur to me at the time…but now I realize how brave and courageous my father and the rabbis had been.  They chose to try and “repair the world” and they really didn’t care who knew it.  The case became known as “The United States versus Alintuck, et. al.”  That was our last name and my mother was mortified.  On the other hand, my father was overjoyed.  He was always so proud that the case was “named after” him and so proud to have been in the company of these learned, courageous and passionate rabbis.  It was a highlight of his life.

To talk about my father is to talk about Temple Beth Elohim in Wellesley, Massachusetts.  My father had a love affair with Judaism and nowhere was this seen more than at the Temple.  He truly loved being part of this community in many different ways.  He was not a founder but an “early adopter” of the Temple.  And he was one of its greatest evangelists.  He decided in the early 1970’s to run for president of the Temple and felt so passionate about it that he contested the decision of the nominating committee to put someone else’s name up for the position.  This was not really the way things were done…but this was my father…and he won the election.  He was one of the early proponents of holding public Tashlich services outside at the Charles River…something which was not an obvious thing to do given it was a time when Jews in New England were not all entirely comfortable practicing their faith outside the Temple.

He blew shofar at the high holidays and would enjoy turning “beet red” as he extended tegiah gedolah for what seemed like forever.  He loved teaching shofar blowing to so many children, some with special needs, some who were terribly shy and some who – before meeting him – just couldn’t figure out how to do it.  Also in the 1970’s, he led members of Temple Beth Elohim to the Boston Common to join thousands of Boston-area Jews in protest to support freedom for Soviet Jews who were refused the right to leave the bastion of the Iron Curtain.  At a time when American Jews did not have “How do you Tikkun Olam” bumper stickers adorning their cars, he chanted loudly and proudly.  He led the Temple’s combative response to alleged antisemitism by the local newspaper and was quoted doing that in Boston magazine’s cover story, “Why are Boston’s Jews So Angry.”  It was important for Jews to be heard.  And my father wanted to be heard.  And he was.

He led groups to visit nursing homes at the high holidays to conduct services for the elderly who could not leave the home and he truly kvelled as the Temple grew.  In his later Temple years, my father proudly wore the pin on his tallis that read “beloved greeter” and truly loved welcoming people — new and old — to the Temple and offering the pushke to allow everyone in the community to make tzedakah.  Temple Beth Elohim was the center of his life, this community of Jews that was truly his second home.  It was a beit yisrael – a house of Israel – that made him feel warm, respected, comfortable and so important to everything that went on.  He loved Temple Beth Elohim.  He was an important part of the Temple and the Temple was such an important part of him.

We had a tradition in the family of “reviewing” the rabbi’s sermon after High Holidays on the ride home.  No one in the family held back as we dissected the wisdom that had been imparted and sometimes — ok maybe often — we found some of that wisdom lacking.  I like to believe this was done in the tradition of the old rabbis who would discuss and debate the meaning of Torah passages, Talmudic teachings and anything else that was worth having multiple opinions on.

This was HIS way of bringing Judaism into our minds, our thoughts and our hearts. Temple Beth Elohim gave my father perhaps his greatest opportunity to matter.  It gave him a place of comfort and serenity where he could worship G-d, where he could help strengthen his Judaism and where he could truly be himself.  Temple Beth Elohim brought the best out in my father and it is where he had some of his greatest success.

My father was strong at times.  My father was weak at times.  My father was a good soul who cared deeply about others.  He was passionate about being a Jew and was unafraid to yell it at the top of his lungs.  He was so dedicated to the Temple.  It was his passion.  It was so much of what made his heart beat strong.

My father won’t be written up in history books.  I am not sure whether others would say he accomplished anything extraordinary.   But he lived and he loved.  He will never be considered famous and, perhaps one day, few will know his name other than some family in future generations.  But he would be ok with that.  He would understand the words of Rabbi Harold Kushner who wrote “Rarely can we, by what we do alone, move mountains, and make a difference.  But by being good people and doing good things, we can, as members of a community dedicated to goodness, change the world.  We can matter.”  That would have been enough for him…that he mattered.

For me, my father was a puzzle that I was always trying to put together.  I imagine it is that way with many children and my quest is no more special than anyone else’s.  But when I look in the mirror, when I hear my own voice while someone says, “You sound just like your father,” I realize I have managed to put most of the pieces together.

Rabbi Larry Kushner wrote: “Each lifetime is the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.  For some, there are more pieces.  For others, the puzzle is more difficult to assemble.  But know this: you do not have within yourself all the pieces to your puzzle.  Everyone carries with them at least one and probably many pieces to someone else’s puzzle.  Sometimes they know it; sometimes they don’t know it.  And when you present your piece, which is worthless to you, to another, whether you know it or not, whether they know it or not, you are a messenger from the Most High.”  It is my hope that those who knew my father received at least one of those pieces from him.

Was my father a great man?  I am sure he would tell you he was not great at all.  Maybe it doesn’t matter.  I know, I am a better person for having had Arthur Alintuck, my dad, as my father.  And for me, that’s pretty great.

One morning, at a Cambridge, Massachusetts café, the bottle of water on my table had a label printed with a quote from the American writer Clarence Kelland: “My father didn’t tell me how to live; he lived, and let me watch him do it.” In my mind, that sums up my father.  He had little spoken advice for me, but to watch him taught me so much…and I hope it makes me a better husband, a better father and a better man.

I miss him every day.