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Preparing a Eulogy
Sun 11 Oct 1998 [David Butler writes] It's been a month now since I lost the best Dad I ever had. I want to remember in writing how we remembered Dad at his memorial service. I hope that you, my readers, will help refresh my memory by sending your corrections, however trivial. Time has already blurred the line for me between what I planned to say, what I actually said, and what I later thought I should have said. Dad's memorial service was to begin at 12:30 Monday afternoon 14 Sep. For days I'd been thinking about eulogizing Dad. I felt a little stage fright, but I was inspired by the memory of an earlier experience in public speaking. I remembered how exhilarated I felt on that earlier occasion when I'd said my piece. I felt certain that this afternoon I could manage to deliver a fairly lengthy reminiscence without any preparation at all. But I did plan to prepare a little bit -- at the last minute - - by pulling a few selections from Dad's manuscript, "Stories of Neighborhood Children." Tina and I arrived at the house not long before noon on Monday and I found that I had left myself less than an hour to prepare. I started with the selection (about 100 of the manuscript's 800 or so double-spaced typewritten pages) he'd recently sent to an editor. I wanted to find selections that would not only make people laugh, but also show Dad's unique point of view at work and tell a little bit about who he was. I raced through the first hundred pages, then grabbed a handful from the middle years. I settled on three selections of two to four pages each. A fourth selection I had to paraphrase because I had first decided not to use it, then could not relocate it after changing my mind. I needed to find some funny stories, and I was looking especially for stories that lent themselves to dramatic reading with opportunities for visual interpretation. I feel lucky to have found a story in which Dad describes the antics he uses to embellish a story he's telling to a classroom full of students. I think I must have asked Tina to drive the ten minutes to the funeral home so that I could put my thoughts in order, and jot down a few notes. I think I was still adding notes while Cousin Skip primed the crowd. Not that I made a lot of notes -- here is the 8-point action plan I carried into battle that day: - nicknames - letters, conversing w strangers - how do you do that? - harry's hero - dinner w fuzzer - vacationing girl - yukon girls - diving, butterfly In the funeral home's parking lot I flag down the first stranger I see to ask if he is here for the Butler affair. He introduces himself as Griff and says he has known Mom through her volunteer work with local chapters of The Nature Conservancy and Audubon Society. I hope you have some funny story about my Dad you'd like to share with this gathering, I tell Griff. I'm encouraging anybody who might have a funny story about Dad to help us all remember him. Griff says he is here for Mom and really can't speak about Dad, sorry to say. I have no better luck lining up speakers as I worked the crowd gathering indoors. Dad's brothers Bill and Tom each say they're not good at that sort of thing. Nor can I coax Cousin Jennifer into the spotlight. Only Robin and I are scheduled to speak. I will encourage others to join in later, but no one else has committed in advance. Robs is an old hand at public speaking, which forms a big part of her job with the National Forest Service. In southern California's San Bernardino Mountains there is a rampant jackass problem and it is Robin's job to try to keep the jackasses from running amok. The message she's charged with delivering to the townsfolk in their community meetings is above all to keep the jackasses off the highways. So Robs, I expect, is cool as a cucumber. I, on the other hand, am a nervous wreck. For maybe the second time in my life I'm facing an audience of more than twenty, and I have my heart set on doing justice to Dad's sense of humor and him to life for this crowd. I have high hopes and a deep feeling of obligation. It wouldn't be right to let this occasion pass without sharing the sort of thoughtful conversation that Dad so loved, not to mention the funny stories. After Skip's introduction Robs moves confidently to the podium. Dad sent each of his children many letters when they first began studying away from home. This habit of sending letters, even though he rarely got a written reply, continued all his life. When Robin was in college, she says, Dad wrote four or more times a week, usually filling both sides of three or four handwritten pages. When she was having difficulty adjusting to a new social set, Dad sent a letter which included a thoughtful piece about making new friends. I struggle to focus on Robin's reading, as my mind races ahead to what I might say when my turn comes. Robs, I hope you'll help fill in my recollection -- if you'll supply that excerpt I'll link it here. In no time it seems, Robs has finished and turned the proceedings over to me. My Dad loved to entertain. As a teacher he entertained students. As a host he loved to lead a discussion, parry an argument, or tell a funny story. He felt that polite people had an obligation to discuss things, and that when a person finds himself in the company of strangers, he ought to introduce himself and make some attempt to engage in a conversation. Many of Dad's younger relatives, and many neighborhood children, as well as complete strangers, will remember Dad for his magic tricks. Dad loved children, and seemed to connect with even the very youngest. For the past eight years Dad has been writing a book he called "Stories About Neighborhood Children," a private memoir he shared in serial form with his children and a select mailing list. Many of you have seen bits of that manuscript and perhaps one day much of it will be published. Some of those stories I'd like to read to you today. Dad loved making people laugh, playing jokes, and telling stories, or entertaining through his facial expressions and antics. He gave nicknames to everyone. He had a million nicknames for Mom, including Tulip, Waffle and Bugs. When my younger sisters were learning to talk, they had difficulty pronouncing my name, and Dad began to mimic their attempts, referring to me for a while as Deeday, then developing a dozen variations from Deeds to Deedee to Deedle. A voice from the peanut gallery interrupts me here. How about The Little Puker, pipes up Dad's brother, my uncle Bill. Dad was the oldest child in his family, and he pinned this epithet on poor brother Tom, the youngest. As I looked through Dad's stories this morning to find something to share with you today, I came across a description of something that happened when I was very young, which I don't remember. Young David asked, You know, Dad, sometimes when you have guests downstairs after I've gone to bed, and I'm upstairs I can hear your voice but I can't hear what you're saying and then you say something and everyone laughs. Well what I want to know is How do you _do_ that? One of Dad's Stories About Neighborhood Children tells of one child who says to Dad, Do you know that you are my brother's hero? He wishes that he could make people laugh the way you do, that he could think of those lightning quick responses that provoke surprised, sudden laughter. A lot of Dad's humor was the spontaneous product of his quick wit, but many of his jokes were conceived far ahead of time. He had envisioned a similar situation and had thought of something funny he might do or say, then had stored that idea away until the occasion arose. In one of Dad's letters he describes rehearsing and planning to be funny while in elementary school. I plan to read from some of Dad's letters today, but I'd like to take a break first and let someone else speak. I hope that many of you will come up here to speak, even some of you who didn't know Dad very well, and especially those that have a funny story to tell about my Dad. Funny stories were among Dad's great loves and I hope we won't leave here today until we've heard a story from every one of you. I'm hoping we'll hear from those who knew Dad in his younger years. I know that Dad's brothers have some stories to tell, if only I could prevail upon them to stand up. A while ago I read Dad's description of a frequent event in his father's home, an exchange of comic remarks over the family dinner which left John and Bill laughing so hard they rolled helplessly on the floor holding their sides as Bernard and Beulah, along with sister Barbara, hammered away with their jokes and barbs. One of the selections I'd brought to read I have instead mostly paraphrased, fearing that reading word for word might prove too lengthy and tedious. But I soon decide I've made a mistake in substituting my own words. They didn't save much time, and what they lack are the key thing, his words. I resolve to stick to Dad's words in my next selection, and concentrate on my oral and visual presentation. Young Cousin Alex is among the first to dare to step forward to the podium. I'm surprised and delighted to yield the floor to youth. But I barely have a chance to sit before Alex is done. He remembers Dad's magic tricks and he remembers the impression Dad made on his younger cousins who called Dad the Magic Man. Thanks, Alex, especially for mentioning the Magic Man, because that is who Dad was to a lot of children who never learned Dad's name. Dad has written many stories about performing magic tricks for children he meets in his travels, and I have one which I'll read now. This story continues on the next page, with Dad's story of 29 Jul 1994, "Yukon Girls." In my reading I'll omit the first couple of sentences, and not mention that Mom and Dad are traveling through the Yukon, about to enter Alaska. Dad had marked that first paragraph to be deleted, and I didn't see any reason to dwell on the location.
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