I lost my father last week. I’m just now trying to emerge from the fog of that loss. I have a very big family, and checking out for more than a week and being able to spend time with those closest to me has been a great solace. Probably the greatest comfort was the wake, a Catholic ritual quite popular on Long Island (and I imagine elsewhere) in which the dead body is on display in a casket for friends and family to gather around to say their last goodbyes and share stories. If you have seen The Sopranos you have a sense of what I’m talking about.
A scene from the Sopranos featuring Tony preparing to pay his respects at wake
It’s a tradition I grew up with, and while it has become a bit of an industry, the occasion to grieve publicly together is quite powerful. The ritual provides a sense of closure that might otherwise be elusive, and in the face of death even the mightiest of materialists has to struggle with the great unknown of the hereafter.
The Sopranos wake scene featuring the father Intintola in between meals at a parishioner’s home
Anyway, as I was working with my brothers and sisters to prepare the services, I was asked to come up with something for the Requiem Mass at the wake, a time allotted by the priest for folks to share stories and eulogize the deceased. I had been asked to do the same thing for my mother almost twenty years ago when she passed, but I was a complete mess so that never happened. I’m sad it didn’t because trying to reflect on a life in words while those emotions are still quite raw is a therapeutic complement to the requiem. So, below was my brief eulogy that was crafted to encourage others who came to share their own stories, but more on that anon. For now, here is the eulogy:
My children might be shocked at the idea of my speaking publicly given after ten years in Italy they’re conditioned to believe I should only ever speak inside the house. When I’m out and about in Trento and I start uttering my trademark terrible Italian, I immediately hear “Dad!” and their fingers go to their lips and their eyes signal desperately for me to stop talking. So right now they must be beyond themselves, but I just want them to know: “I have a voice too and I want to use it!” Aren’t dads supposed to embarrass their kids?
More seriously, let me start by saying thank you to everyone who has come tonight to pay their respects. Interestingly enough, our father—for reasons not entirely clear to us—spent a fair amount of his adult life attending wakes across Nassau County. In fact, I’m sure if at all possible he’d be more than happy to trade places with any one of you right now ? Alas, that’s not meant to be, this will officially be our father’s last wake.
Thinking more about his gravitation towards wakes, I wonder if he had been preparing himself for this day all along? Maybe the loss of his own parents was the impetus? I wonder if attendance helped remind him of what’s truly important in this life? Or maybe, just maybe, he was drawn to all the stories that get shared by friends and families.
While I can’t say for sure why my father attended wakes so regularly—he wasn’t one to share his innermost thoughts and secrets, to be sure—right now I truly appreciate that a good, Long Island wake provides a welcome opportunity for each of us to share a story about the deceased.
Stories are how an ordinary life, like our father’s, becomes extraordinary. Stories capture his sense of humor, his idiosyncrasies, and most importantly a deeper and clearer sense of the soul we’ve lost. In the end, the stories we tell and hear about our father will not only be a celebration of his life, but a much welcome coping mechanism. With each tale comes a memory and with each memory a manifestation of the man.
So, as you might have guessed, we’re going to relate some stories and memories about our father to round out this eulogy, and we encourage those of you who have one to do the same.
Let me start, I remember going on a field trip with my father when I was in middle school. He never talked about his work at home, all we knew was that he was a teacher. But it was on this field trip to Caumsett Park that I saw a whole different side of my dad. He was taking his class on a hike through the park identifying plants, trees, and, his specialty, birds. He was not only knowledgeable, but he was also entertaining. He would identify a bird, discuss a few of its characteristics, and then, without fail, find a way to tie one of the bird’s traits to a student in his class. They loved the whole thing. It was such an effortless gift of his to teach through humor and playfulness. It’s something my father could do so well that I have been inspired by ever since.
From there my brothers and sisters, along with grand children, shared stories, many of them quite entertaining. The healing power of storytelling should never be underestimated. But the grand finale was two of his students from the 1980s at Lynbrook Middle School shared how much my father meant to them. One anecdote that was particularly powerful was how he would have nicknames for all of his students, and the gentleman sharing noted his last name was Renz, and my father called him “Renz-a-lot” and his younger brother in the grade below “Renz-a-little.” It’s hard to articulate how amazing it was to hear this unsolicited story. My father’s playful use of language to connect and commune was at the core of his very best qualities, and having the opportunity to remember this while surrounded by friends and family was a true gift. He will be missed, but I can rest assured that my children have heard the stories and they will now know to only relate the most flattering of tales at my wake 🙂
