There is something remarkable about a Jewish funeral. We gather for the long goodbye, knowing that no words can undo our loss. Prayers are chanted, tears are shed, and then someone recounts a tale. The room begins to smile. Heads nod, and through the tears, the person we have come to mourn is, for a time, happily with us again.
It is through these stories and their telling that our loved ones remain alive through the years.
Ten years ago, on Sunday, October 23, 2016, the morning of what was to be his 99th birthday celebration, my father, Lloyd Hatch Strausz, enjoyed his daily bowl of oatmeal and scalding-hot coffee, shaved, showered, combed his hair, dressed in his favorite sport coat, shirt, and bowtie, sat in his red leather recliner for a nap, and gently passed away.
Family and friends had traveled from across the country to celebrate. Instead, three days later, we gathered to bury him, sharing heartfelt eulogies and stories he would have loved to hear.
This year, on what would have been his 109th birthday, I posted a photograph of him holding a birthday balloon on Facebook. Suddenly, he was here again. Not simply a memory, but the larger-than-life father whose humor, generosity, opinions, and occasional outrageousness shaped my life and the lives of our family and friends.
It seems fitting that his tenth yahrzeit coincides with the Torah portion Lech Lecha, in which Abraham is called to leave the familiar and journey toward an unknown future. The portion invites us to consider what we carry with us as we move forward. For me, it raises a deeply personal question: What continues after life ends? I believe the stories we share about our loved ones are part of the answer.
Dad was one of the funniest and oddest people I have ever known. A brilliant storyteller and master of the one-liner, he could turn an ordinary moment into family lore. He admired proper manners but thought nothing of belching loudly at the dinner table. His stage whispers were anything but quiet, and as he grew older, I often found myself gently shushing him. Despite his unfiltered remarks, people loved him.
He was a natural entertainer, the sought-after emcee at family weddings, reunions, and company parties. He understood that humor could bring people together.
Dad believed in hard work, education, punctuality, and treating people with respect. He taught us to offer a firm handshake, a warm smile, and steady eye contact. He was generous, sometimes to a fault, and famously gave us presents on his own birthday, which only increased his popularity! He could be demanding, but he led by example, moving from an outrageous remark to a thoughtful gesture in an instant.
He also had an extraordinary memory. A brilliant mathematician, he completed crossword puzzles in ink, was an avid reader, and remembered people and details the rest of us had long forgotten. As the oldest living member of the Hatch family (TOLMOTHF), he preserved the stories of relatives who lived long before we were born. Family history, to Dad, was not simply names and dates; it was the personalities, peculiarities, and experiences that helped explain who we were.
Even after his death, I continued discovering pieces of that history in his correspondence. He was the finest letter writer I have ever known. In elegant, loopy handwritten thank-you notes and, later, emails, he made a point of staying connected. He remembered former customers, beloved neighbors, people he had met on cruise ships, and friends and family scattered around the world. Most of all, he adored our family, and hearing his praise was extremely special.
He collected people and connected people. Ten years after his death, people still contact my brother or me because they knew him or have kept his letters and want to share them. His humor and distinctive way of seeing the world remain alive in those pages. What fun we will have reading these newly discovered treasures at family gatherings. What better way to bring Dad back to his chair in the room?
Perhaps it’s no coincidence that my own work as an executive director of JSL centers on bringing people together and enriching the lives of older adults. Dad taught me the importance of connecting with people and making them feel remembered. It’s a lesson I continue to carry with me proudly.
At Dad’s funeral, I recalled his impatience with long eulogies. He would time the speakers on his watch, tsking if they went “too long,” and had repeatedly told me to keep my own remarks brief. Sorry, Dad!
Recently, I watched the video of his funeral and was delighted to hear all the stories we shared. Once again, he was with us. He wasn’t always old, and he rarely acted old when he was. He was once a mischievous child, a handsome young soldier, and a father who could do a backflip off a diving board, teach his daughter to ride a bicycle, and pitch baseballs in the backyard, cheering every effort: “Good job… good throw.”
When I was four, he taught me to roller skate and ice skate. Ice skating became something we loved to do together on Sundays for years. He taught me to mow the lawn while sitting on his lap on the tractor and then sat in the living room listening as I practiced piano. These details may seem small, but they are the substance of a life. They make a father more than a name, a photograph, or a date on a memorial calendar.
His grandchildren knew his magic tricks, funny jokes, teasing, and familiar expressions. He made them feel like the smartest and most important people in the world. We inherit more than family names and traditions. We inherit ways of behaving, loving, telling stories, and seeing the world. Sometimes we recognize these gifts years later, when a parent’s familiar expressions become our own.
Dad preserved the stories that came before him. Now it’s my turn to carry them forward: to gather around a table, share memories, read his words aloud, discover something new, and laugh at a familiar bit of his playfulness.
Ten years later, I still feel his absence. What I would give to hear his voice and laughter again, receive one of his letters, or watch him work a room. I am grateful to have been his daughter…. to have been taught, challenged, embarrassed, entertained, and loved by him. I am grateful that his grandchildren knew him and that his great-grandchildren can hear our stories about him.
May his memory be a blessing to us all, and may his story continue to bring laughter and love to generations to come.
SHABBAT SHALOM
