(This is the eulogy I read at my Dad’s funeral)

The soundtrack of my childhood and teen years was played by radio station Big D 103, the station of “the oldies.” There was a radio in the kitchen and one in the basement, perpetually tuned to this station. The tuner in the basement was on a shelf so high it was impossible for anyone (us kids) to change the station, on purpose, I’m sure. Even Dad at 6’2” with the longest arms of anyone in the family, had trouble reaching it without a stick or a ruler.

So, my very first lessons in music appreciation were under the directive “DO NOT change that radio station OR ELSE…”

Only in my adult years did I realize I had an abnormally large cache of Motown lyrics in my brain. Knowing all the lyrics to “Ain’t Too Proud to Beg” by the Temptations was never the big flex I thought it would be.  Except maybe at weddings.

And as a kid, I never understood why Jeremiah was a bullfrog, but that song will forever remind me of my Dad, doing a little shuffle with his feet, shoulders hunched up and arms bent at the elbows.

Dad was not big on cooking, but he sure could grill. Early on I figured out that grilling was a fine art to learn and to appreciate. And though Dad was not religious, I knew that overcooking a burger or a “nice piece of steak” was as close to a sin as he would call out.

I also learned that scrambled eggs are good enough for breakfast, lunch, and dinner; and potatoes, in any form, go with every cut of meat.

I learned the best meals are most often the ones shared with family, especially if it’s a potluck with at least 5 crock pots of meat and at least 3 pasta dishes. And that pizza night should be something regularly on your calendar.

Every year in August, we packed up our camper with sleeping bags and food for a week. We drove to our favorite campground in RI- Burlingame State Park.  Vacation didn’t have to mean getting on a plane, or traveling to some far away destination. Vacation simply meant slowing down and spending time together.

Fourth of July was always marked by a picnic with aunts, uncles, and cousins, plenty of potluck dishes and a home fireworks display of course. Dad always knew some guy at work who knew some other guy who had a friend who was driving up from “down South.” I could say that I learned to have a healthy fear of over-the-counter fireworks, but alas that would not be true.  There was noise, there was mess, there was sometimes an inappropriate level of blowing stuff up, but Dad and his brothers were never afraid. And so, I always felt safe.

My Dad has often been described as a “man of few words.” Obviously, I did not inherit that personality trait. But this did teach me the value of quiet spaces. That it’s ok to not feel like you must fill the silence with unnecessary words. Quiet spaces can be powerful but also comfortable. Often, we are not used to a lapse in conversation, but sometimes the thinking that happens in those quiet spaces can be just as important as the words you just shared.

Growing up in a house that started out as Grampa Garnder’s workshop meant there was a lot of history on that property, literal pieces of history, like architectural drawings, magazines, photos, notes. And then there were the tools: old garden tools, welding tools, car tools, woodworking tools, tools too old to identify that maybe looked like torture devices…. They were obviously saved because of some significance to… someone. And of course, a variety of antique cars rotating through the garage and “the barn.” (Which I don’t know if it was ever truly a barn so much as extra garage space to store all the extra stuff.

Dad was a collector. And so I learned to save stuff too. You never know when you might need______ (fill in the blank with… whatever)

Some of my favorite memories are going away for the weekend, camping out at the Rhinebeck, NY antique car show and flea market.  We’d spend weeks going through all our old stuff- all four of us- old kitchen stuff, old toys, old tools, whatever – and we’d bring a camper full of stuff to sell. And often, we’d promptly spend any money we made on more stuff that we’d take back home.

Guess who my neighbors call when they need random stuff like orange ribbon or an extra-large mason jar?

Me. They call me.

“Gardner Hill” had a random collection of heavy equipment, an old working dump truck and an entirely functional full-size bulldozer affectionately called “Bessie.” Dad worked on them a lot to keep them running and so I learned that it’s worth it to try and fix something old rather than abandon it.

When he wasn’t working on either of them, they became the perfect hiding and climbing spots for me, my brother, and my cousins. Many mud ball wars happened with one team taking cover in the bed of the dump truck. And although we had a swing set, the bulldozer made for a much better jungle gym. Thanks Dad, for letting us kids, just be kids.

Dad was also a collector of stories. He loved to tell stories about growing up on Gardner Hill- the apple trees, the attic space he shared as a bedroom with all his siblings, all the cars he owned, Gram’s pea soup on Halloween. And even if I’d heard them a dozen times, I still liked to listen to him tell them again.

I guess it was a natural thing that I was drawn to storytelling and writing at an early age.

Dad always knew how to take his time with things. He often said, “You can’t rush into these things,” and he might be referring to anything from weeding the garden to fixing a leaky faucet. While some might think he was a good procrastinator, I like to think it’s because in those particular moments, he was just being present. There is great value in slowing down, in simply enjoying the company of your siblings, your kids, your grandkids, for as long as you can do so. There’s beauty and solace in sitting outside with the sun on your face, listening to the birds. It’s ok to not be moving, to not be doing all the time.

It’s amazing and beautiful how one life touches so many others. Over his lifetime, Dad built friendships with a deliberate dedication. If you were a friend of Elliott’s, you were a friend for life. This was so very obvious last night as dozens of Motorcycle Club members came to pay their respects. So many maroon shirts and jackets. Sincerely, thank you.

What can I say about my Dad and his siblings? Those roots run deep and they’d do anything for each other. Growing up, it was like having a dozen extra parents- always watching us- I mean, watching out for us. Thank you for always being there.

For the last 10 years or so, Dad was lucky enough to reconnect and live with Barbara, his high school sweetheart. They traveled and laughed together, and I don’t know if I can ever adequately express my gratitude to her for loving him and taking care of him. It’s never too late in life to realize you deserve happiness.

All the evidence of being a good dad is sitting right here in my brother: hard-working, loyal, dependable, big-hearted, loves his kids with his whole heart.

I am the parent I am today because of my dad.

Even when he came home with two pink slips on two separate occasions, I could tell that my Dad was worried at first, but he protected us from that worry that surely cost him sleep and peace of mind. We were his priority, and we always had food on the table and a warm home. He put us first, we were never spoiled, but always deeply loved.

Everything I’ve done as a parent is with my kids in mind first. Thank you, Dad, for that lesson. I hope I’m living up to the high standard you set.

I will fire up the grill this week, for some cut of meat and some form of potato. I’ll put some Manfred Mann and Three Dog Night on the speaker, and we will toast to your beautiful life well-lived.

I love you. I miss you. And I will think of you every day.