rob's eulogy

Since my Grandfather had been a Ford dealer, I guess it was natural that my father, too, would be interested in cars and loyal to Fords. I shared his interest in older, more classic Fords, but I didn.t understand why he continued to buy the newer models. I remember more than a few vacations where we seemed to spend more time at the repair shop than on actual vacation. After a series of breakdowns, I remember asking him why he kept buying Fords. I never remember him giving me an answer.

Maybe he felt I was too young to understand, but I eventually answered my own question. To my father, Fords were my Grandfather.s lifeblood while struggling to raise two young children during the depression. To my father, Fords helped send him and his sister to college, enabling them to start families. And to my father, Fords symbolized hard work and loyalty to those who have helped him out. He displayed his sense of loyalty to his employer, where he worked for thirty years. He displayed this sense of loyalty to his friends, many of whom he.s known longer. And he displayed this sense of loyalty to our family, working hard so that we could have a better life. Loyalty was one of my dad.s best qualities, and one I can only hope to emulate.

To my dad, this talk of loyalty would be too serious for him. He loved laughing and making others laugh, even when he was the target of that laugh. For instance, during the 70s, our long-time neighbor had an affinity for pouring sour cream on my dad.s head, probably after a humorous retort. We still have pictures to prove it, with my dad wearing a wide-eyed smile in each photo.

My dad.s sense of humor was a bit unorthodox, as well. As a child, I remember just before bedtime he used to put on a towel on his head, raise his voice a few octaves, and voila, he transformed into Aunt Stella, an elderly widow with an affinity for horse racing and a possible gambling problem. She was a very approachable character, and my sisters and I enjoyed asking Stella about the horse races and whether she.d won big. I still don.t know whether Aunt Stella was trying to develop my social skills or warn me of the dangers of gambling. I do know that my dad used humor throughout his life to ease trying situations and make a connection with me.

But my father and I connected best through music. Music has this innate ability to bring people together, and it definitely brought us closer. Whenever I came to visit, my dad would break out the ukulele and the harmonica, smiling and playing along to songs I.d learned on the guitar. I didn.t always understand my father or see eye to eye with him, but when we played music everything about him made perfect sense.

During his last days, I never thought I.d hear my father play again. He was extremely weak and had difficulty speaking and organizing his thoughts. I thought this would be my last memory of him, lying in bed, unable to communicate effectively. But as I was thinking this, in a faint voice, he asked me to bring him his harmonica. He proceeded to prop his head on a pillow and started blowing with unbelievable power, although his cheeks were barely moving. His eyes were closed, and he seemed to be smiling. Maybe in his mind he was traveling down some dirt road in his .51 Ford, or maybe he was racing his sailboat, or maybe he was sharing a laugh with friends. And he.s bending notes with utter precision and skill, going up and down scales, sounding like a one-man symphony. I don.t know what song it was, but it sounded full of hope and enthusiasm. From that moment in time, I forgot that my father was dying and only remembered how he lived.