Yahrtzeit

Yesteday was the unveiling of my grandfather's tombstone and this Friday is the first Yahrtzeit since his passing last year. The following is the eulogy I gave at his funeral:

As an adult, I came to understand my grandfather’s many admirable qualities, but as a small child I would have simply told you that my Apu was fun. We never lived in the same city as our grandparents, and a trip to visit them or a visit from them was the highlight of each year. Apu was the driver who would take us to the park or to a carnival or to his cabin in the country. It was Apu that would make us laugh with jokes on the border of good taste and spoil us with treats and gifts. Apu was always ready with a silly game or activity, like Chipi Choka, a traditional Hungarian nursery rhyme that even he didn’t quite know the words to. I remember spending hours rubbing my fingers on his face, waiting for him to snap his head and try to catch my fingers in his mouth. The games would always end with a tickle or a cuddle or something of the sort.

And the stories. Apu wasn’t much for plot. I don’t think he ever successfully wrapped up a story before we were called to the table or, begrudgingly, sent off to bed. But that was probably because he used so many characters that he literally had to use our toes to keep track of them all. This little one is the baby princess, and this long one the brave knight, this one the astronaut, and this big one the troll under the bridge. Involving toes was probably also a good excuse for more tickling and cuddling.

...

As I got a little older, I began to appreciate more about my Apu. The camping and the boating and the fishing. The way he could work with his hands fixing any broken toy and making repairs around the house. I could tell my Apu was tough. His mind was practical and sharp; his hands were skilled and strong. His face was stubbly and rough.

It was the weekend of my Bar Mitzvah. I remember sitting at the table with my grandfather. With great difficulty he told me his personal story of the war years. The upheavals. The separation from his family and loved ones. What he did to survive. The magnitude of his loss. How he and my Grandma came together to rebuild from the ashes.

He also told me the escape from the oppression of communism 10 years later. Of the difficult flight across the border during that brief opportunity. Once again forced to leave loved ones behind.

And of the journey to Canada. And a fresh start as an immigrant in a strange land. And of his hard work and perseverance and success.

My Apu was tougher than tough. God and time have taken a soul that triumphed over the evils of Nazism and Communism and over the challenges and travails of life. And he showed my that no matter how tough life could be, I could be tougher.

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I am grateful that Apu had the chance to meet and interact with all three of my children and that they got to enjoy him. While they got the chance to play a few games of Chipi Choka and hear a few elaborate toe stories from their Apu, these memories will, sadly, likely not last in their young minds. But we will show them the pictures and home movies and retell the stories to them; the silly stories and the tales of tragedy and triumph and toughness. And I am sure that their uncles will be able to tell a few of his off-coloured jokes.

Although my own children will not get to experience the same wonderful authentic Apu experience that I did, I can see how everything has shifted a generation. While my wife and I are now focused on details and responsibilities of the daily grind, it is our parents that have become the fun ones. As a parent, I can now appreciate the patience and effort it takes to tell a made up story to a 6-year old for 20 minutes, and I see my father doing just that on the way home from synagogue every week, I now know how trying a simple car trip or rainy afternoon in can be with children in tow, and it is my mother taking the children to the library or undertaking projects like making chocolate lollypops on a day off from school.

So while I feel Apu’s loss, for myself and my children, I see Apu in my children’s Savta and Saba and their uncles. And within myself. And forever with all of us.