Forward, Up, and Over

Some thoughts about my Dad

My father, Robert Kahn, died late Wednesday night. I flew to Boston on Thursday, and during the flight I wrote these reflections, which I read at his funeral on Friday. They were composed on little sleep, but I hope that the sincerity of my emotions compensates for their obvious stylistic shortcomings.

When my dad was sitting shiva for his father, my grandfather Bill, 40 years ago, he and I went downstairs one time to play ping pong.

That funeral and shiva were my first encounter with death. I had been fortunate, one of the atypical kids in my circle of friends who had four living grandparents, yet when Bill died I learned that I wasn't any more immune than anyone else. I remember wondering during those first days of shiva if things would ever go back to normal, if we could actually move forward. Not to mention the fear: if Bill could die - Bill, strong and apparently healthy, suddenly collapsing in the middle of a game of golf - what did that tell me about everyone else?

I sat on the stairs with my dad, and I expressed my feelings and worries. The first thing he said was that I should remember that Bill didn't necessarily have the healthiest lifestyle habits, and that he was overweight. He then noticed me looking at him nervously, so he added, "MORE overweight." Then he said, "Let's go play a game of ping pong."

When I was in high school, ping pong was one of our things. I don't think we ever played an actual game - I mean that literally - and if we had he would have destroyed me, because he was very, very good. We just volleyed for hours, day after day, and he would constantly coach me, with a particular emphasis on my forehand slam. "Forward, up and over" he would repeat the entire time, nonstop. We haven't played in many years, but I'll never forget those words. Forward. Up. And Over.

I'm not quite sure that it was halachically appropriate to play ping pong during shiva. But the fact that it wasn't the 'frum' thing wasn't necessarily going to stop my dad.

Don't misunderstand me; he cared deeply about doing the right thing, and he was truly and authentically committed to living a Torah lifestyle. For example, I remember that one time the six of us were sitting around and talking about what we would save if the house were on fire and we could only rescue one object. We all answered however we did, and Dad, who went last, answered, "My tefilin." That wasn't a cute line; he really meant it. And anyone who has seen him teaching leining - I was his first bar mitzvah student but nowhere near his last - with passion, dedication, care, and a massive sense of fun, knows that Torah was absolutely central in his life.

And even more pronounced than than his observance of ritual mitzvot, was his standing as a man of integrity and kindness. Years ago, when he was working in Jordan Marsh's computer department, the head of payroll tried to get him to raise his consulting rates significantly, which my dad would then split with him. It was very complicated, very fraudulent, and very painful - and my father's first move was to talk to my mother's father, a lawyer of impeccable integrity, and then to go to the police. [If you want to hear the whole story during shiva, just ask me; it's pretty wild.] The end result was that the head of payroll was arrested by the Newton police, and my father realized that he had to leave the company at which he had worked for years. But he would not compromise when it came to his integrity, even at the cost of his own job - and the examples of his integrity are legion.

His kindness was expressed in so many different ways, as well. He had such a good heart, and always wanted to help. He assisted us with our homework and helped us prepare for tests, and I always appreciated that he used the first person plural - "We're gonna get this" or "We're going to understand this" or "We're going to do well." I might have been taking the test, but he was telling me that we were a team. And it wasn't just that he helped us; he was really, really smart and he knew the material very well.

(I hope my sister Amy doesn't mind if I mention that one time in computer class at Maimonides, she was sitting at her desk when Rabbi Stein came over and was looking at her homework over her shoulder. Amy kind of asked him what he was doing, and Rabbi Stein answered, "Oh, I'm just admiring your father's work.")

Dad was kind, thoughtful, and generous. We often used to drive to Arlington to pick up Dough-C-Dough donuts on Sunday mornings - remember what I said about being overweight - but apart from the box for our family, he had a tradition where he would also buy for Debbie and Mark Moskowitz and Sheera and Asher Leeder and put them on their doorsteps before we went home to have our own. When a GPS called a Tom Tom first came out, he bought one and showed it to my brother Gabe. Gabe said that it looked cool, so my dad said, "You want it?" He immediately gave it to him without a second thought. I can't even imagine my father saying something like, "That's mine." He was so very giving to all of us, all the time.

And an example of his giving nature was taking time during the shiva for Bill to play ping pong with me. He knew that maybe it wasn't the frum thing to do - but he also knew that I needed to see that life was going to continue, that he was still here and still the same, and that we would be able to move forward and have fun times. So we went downstairs, like always. And he coached me to move my paddle forward, up, and over, like always.

And the fact that playing ping pong wasn't so frum was, I assume, a point in its favor. He cared about Torah, about doing the proper thing, about values, ethics, morals, integrity, and kindness. But he was cynical about some of the trappings of "frumkeit" - and as I've gotten older, I've learned how much ahead of me he was here, too. Simply put, he was right.

A while back, my teacher Rabbi Moshe Simkovich said to me, "You know, I like your parents. They're normal." Later that day I told my father that Rabbi Simkovich likes him because he's normal. My dad smiled and said, "He just means that I'm not that frum." And in saying that, he was unintentionally channelling Rav Soloveitchik, who once said that while anyone can be frum - religious - a Jew should be ehrlich - a faith in G-d expressed through honesty and good character. While my father probably wouldn't have used that term, it perfectly describes who he was.

But alongside that ehrlichkeit, my dad possessed real faith in G-d. He was extremely grateful for the many blessings in his life, and told me years ago that he wasn't scared of dying, because he had so many good things happen to him and when it's time to go, he won't have regrets. And I heard him say multiple times that the reason he had so many blessings was because he had such wonderful parents and grandparents. He believed that he had a good life for a reason - and the reason had nothing to do with him, but because of the goodness of those who came before him.

My dad had very human moments, too. He loved the Red Sox, Patriots, Celtics, and Bruins - and as a kid, I'd often go to Red Sox and Bruins games with him. Of course back then, everyone but the Celtics would break our hearts every year, and both of us were scarred for life. When the Red Sox or Patriots would reach a critical moment in an important game, even once they were both really good and winning multiple championships, he would often leave the room because he could not take the pressure; he was simply too nervous. I don't know if he literally hid his head under his pillow, but he might have - and I'm the same way. When the Red Sox finally won in 2004, I called him for the ninth inning of Game four against the Cardinals and had him do play by play for me over the phone. At the final out, I still remember his saying, "It's a ground ball... Holy cow they won!" He was really excited and, frankly, kind of shocked. It was the greatest sports moment I've ever had - with the possible exception of forward, up, and over - and I was lucky enough, from 6000 miles away, to spend it with my dad.

He would come home from work and watch Sesame Street with us when we were little - both to spend time with us, and because he really liked Sesame Street. He loved doing the voices of Cookie Monster, Grover, and the Count, and I still remember when my younger sister Lisa was born, his singing the old Sesame Street song, "I've five people in my family." (Gabe of course ruined that, which is farily typical.) He would also stand in the back of the family room, quietly watching the cartoons we were watching over our shoulders, then suddenly alerting us to his presence by laughing at Rocky and Bullwinkle or Bugs Bunny or Daffy Duck.

He was very wise, but sometimes he just got things wrong. Like the time he suggested a new job for me after my yeshiva closed; suffice it to say it was advice that I rightly ignored. And back in 1986, when the Red Sox were good, he made the following declaration: Roger Clemens is good, but Bruce Hurst is so good he'll make us forget about Clemens. He also explained why that was the case.

For those who are not baseball fans, that was decidedly not the case.

He would tell dad jokes that were painful and embarrassing, although sometimes he would come up with a good and dark one, like the time we had seats at Fenway Park that were far from the field, at the top of a long staircase. Zayde, my mother's father, was with us and sitting in a wheelchair at the top of those stairs. My dad looked at me and Gabe and said, "Remember Nordberg?" (If you don't know what I'm referrring to, just watch The Naked Gun.)

Above all, Dad's humanity came out in how much he loved our mom, his four kids, all of their spouses, and his 16 grandchildren and their spouses. His life with our mom was a genuine love story, and everyone knows that he would do anything for her. I think, if he had to choose one way of describing who he was, he likely would have said Harriet's husband. He took care of my mother's parents, Nana and Zayde, like a son. The story goes that Zayde once introduced my parents as "My son-in-law and his wife.”

I'm so honored that he loved Aliza and our kids so much. Yesterday, I was sitting on Yaeli’s bed and talking about Papa, when Aliza came in, crying more than both of us at that moment. I said to Yaeli, "I think Papa liked her better than me." (With good reason, of course.) Their relationship, which was more father-daughter than father-in-law and daughter-in-law, was one of the joys of my life. And another great blessing that Aliza and I have had is witnessing the beautiful relationship that my parents have had with Aliza's parents, Helga and Zishe, and it was so moving yesterday, and not at all surprising, hearing how much they would miss him, too.

He had real friends whom he enjoyed tremendously. His relationship with Auntie Mimi even in their 80s was an obvious echo of what it had been when they were kids. He loved and cared for his nieces and nephews and his cousins and Aunt Shirley - and that love was reciprocated. I hope he knew how much people loved and respected him. I'm pretty sure that he did.

I know that he when he was younger, and we were going to Maimonides followed by a year in Israel, he was concerned that his kids would become more religious than he was, and then we wouldn't respect him anymore.

Dad, we always respected you. And the older I got, the deeper my respect grew. You have been a fantastic role model for all of us, and the more we talked, the greater my respect for your wisdom, faith, and fundamental goodness became. When we would visit from Israel and drive from Delray Beach to Orlando, or from Boston to the Catskills, you knew that the best part of the trip for me was always the drive. Aliza would go with Mom, I'd drive with you, kids would be in the back, and we would have hours to do nothing but talk. Those are and will always be among the sweetest memories that I possess - and those wonderful moments always reminded me what a one-of-a-kind dad I was lucky enough to have. In those moments and others, you always made it clear that you were rooting for me.

I told my kids that real love is so strong, it is stronger than death. When we are tied together with bonds of love, we carry those bonds with us every day, and they survive even when one of us is no longer here. That’s what you had - and have - with Mom, the four of us, our spouses, and the grandchildren and their husbands and wives, Auntie Mimi, your beloved nieces and nephews and cousins and friends, all of whom meant so much to you. At Ephraim and Shira's sheva berachot about ten months ago, you spoke and said, "I think the reason I'm still alive is because G-d wanted me to be here for this." I'm so glad that Hashem wanted that, and I only wish that He would have allowed you to be at the upcoming semachot of Evan's bar mitzvah, which I know you were so looking forward to, hearing your father's exact name of Nachum Zev ben Gavriel HaKohen being called up to the Torah, and Yoey and Judah's wedding this July. But even if you won't be there physically, we will carry you with us in our hearts.

It's so hard to say goodbye. With you in my heart, I will always do my best to live life forward, up, and over: trying to move forward in a way that would make you proud. Making sure to look up and, like you, remembering Who is really in charge. And constantly going over the things that I learned from your words, but even more from your example.

I love you and miss you, Dad.

Hareini kaparat mishkavo.

T'hei nishmato tzrura b'tzror hachaim.