Many of you know Linda as a friend, a colleague, as an adult. You know what a special warm caring person she was. I would like to share with you something of her childhood.
She was the most persevering, determined youngster you could meet. Life often presented challenges, because as you know she was not the most coordinated. However, she overcame most obstacles.
Nobody worked harder to learn to ride a bike than Linda. She almost destroyed her father both physically and emotionally, but she finally rode a two wheeler.
She would spend hours holding on to the fence with one hand and bouncing the ball with the other in order to turn her leg over the ball. Those of you who grew up in NYC would know that is how one played A my name is....
In closing, I want to share what she meant to me as an adult friend. It was not unusual for her to phone me 3 or 4 times a day. The last call always ended with "I'll talk to you later." and she often did. The phone line was our umbilical cord that was never cut.
She had a wonderful ability to laugh at herself and was a pleasure to be with. I will miss her dearly.
I hope, and never expect to, offer another eulogy to a child. So I close by saying, Carla and Paula, that you are very precious to me. May you enjoy long and healthy lives. I love you.
Friday, December 2, 2011
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Emily's Eulogy
My mother’s favorite thing to ask me was if I knew how much she loved me. She’d ask it five minutes after we had fought over what time I should be home or whether I had applied enough sunscreen to my back in the summer. She’d ask me the question after a soccer game when my bangs were matted to my head and I was tired and cranky. She especially liked to ask me this immediately after she had infuriated me in ways that only a mother could. She used to say that growing up with two sisters had taught her how to get in the last word of every argument.
As good as my mother was at pushing my buttons, she also knew exactly how to get me to open up. Driving down the road on our way to Kohls with her purse stuffed full of coupons, I would find myself telling her everything that had been happening in my life. My afternoon walks to class turned into “our time” as she called it and she would get very offended if I forgot to call or was running too late to talk. When I did make it out to class on time, she would demand to know everything that was happening in my life, how many green vegetables I had eaten, if I had read for my English class that morning, and if I had remembered to brush my teeth. By my sophomore year in college, my mother could tell you both my roommates schedules better than I could.
Sunday night was family dinner and being late to the table was non-negotiable. First to be served was always the vegetable followed by a threat that if we didn’t finish our broccoli we couldn’t have spaghetti. Dinners would always start out the same with my father trying to engage everyone in an intellectual conversation and my mother interrupting to announce that the pizza “might not look as good as it tastes”. She was however, a Jewish mother at heart and if we weren’t full by the end of the meal, she hadn’t done her job.
School lunches were also a big production and the highlight of most evenings. My brother would eat anything that she gave him and she would often boast that she could throw together anything last minute. I, on the other hand, had a much bigger problem eating “the stink fish” tuna or peanut butter and no jelly sandwiches. Those nights would often end the same way with her telling me “next time, you make your own lunch”. Somehow, I remained the only kid in high school whose mother still packed her lunch every night. I was also probably the only kid in high school who still got notes in her lunch and by the end of my senior year I had amassed a large pile of sticky notes with messages such as “good luck sunshine” and “love yah tons” on them.
Through everything, my mother managed to carve a place in the heart of every person she ever met. The nurses that took care of her at UPenn would crowd into her room and she would give them advice on finding a nice husband. The walls of her hospital room alone were covered with enough cards and letters to fill a book. My mother loved the attention, she loved the visitors, and she loved hearing all the news from back home. She fought for a long time because she wanted her family to know how much she loved them. So here’s to you mumsie, I love you.
As good as my mother was at pushing my buttons, she also knew exactly how to get me to open up. Driving down the road on our way to Kohls with her purse stuffed full of coupons, I would find myself telling her everything that had been happening in my life. My afternoon walks to class turned into “our time” as she called it and she would get very offended if I forgot to call or was running too late to talk. When I did make it out to class on time, she would demand to know everything that was happening in my life, how many green vegetables I had eaten, if I had read for my English class that morning, and if I had remembered to brush my teeth. By my sophomore year in college, my mother could tell you both my roommates schedules better than I could.
Sunday night was family dinner and being late to the table was non-negotiable. First to be served was always the vegetable followed by a threat that if we didn’t finish our broccoli we couldn’t have spaghetti. Dinners would always start out the same with my father trying to engage everyone in an intellectual conversation and my mother interrupting to announce that the pizza “might not look as good as it tastes”. She was however, a Jewish mother at heart and if we weren’t full by the end of the meal, she hadn’t done her job.
School lunches were also a big production and the highlight of most evenings. My brother would eat anything that she gave him and she would often boast that she could throw together anything last minute. I, on the other hand, had a much bigger problem eating “the stink fish” tuna or peanut butter and no jelly sandwiches. Those nights would often end the same way with her telling me “next time, you make your own lunch”. Somehow, I remained the only kid in high school whose mother still packed her lunch every night. I was also probably the only kid in high school who still got notes in her lunch and by the end of my senior year I had amassed a large pile of sticky notes with messages such as “good luck sunshine” and “love yah tons” on them.
Through everything, my mother managed to carve a place in the heart of every person she ever met. The nurses that took care of her at UPenn would crowd into her room and she would give them advice on finding a nice husband. The walls of her hospital room alone were covered with enough cards and letters to fill a book. My mother loved the attention, she loved the visitors, and she loved hearing all the news from back home. She fought for a long time because she wanted her family to know how much she loved them. So here’s to you mumsie, I love you.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Robbie's Eulogy
Nothing was more important to my mom than family and she expressed that commitment in her own special way.
When the latest preparation of a meal didn’t taste quite right, it was usually because she had been tinkering with the recipe to align it with the latest nutritional theory. The first iteration was always great and then the adjustments would begin. White flour would be replaced with whole-wheat flour and then spelt, butter would be replaced with yogurt which would then become water each following the theory that anything that tasted good probably wasn’t healthy enough. After a few weeks the original dish would have inevitably been transformed into a highly nutritious yet tasteless mush sprinkled with flax seeds (her favorite garnish).
Every time a confused Greyhound driver witnessed my attempts to navigate the Port Authority terminal while juggling a half dozen chicken thighs and a jar of homemade tomato sauce, you could be sure my mom had been at work, fighting to ward off the horrors of processed food. In the hour before leaving she would begin rummaging through the fridge and throwing everything in sight into a series of plastic grocery bags. It didn’t matter if I already had two suitcases, plenty of food at my final destination, or the only containers she had were leaky Tupperware. She was determined to make sure I would not starve.
If I ever temporarily misplaced my phone I was sure to find it with a series of missed calls from my mother complemented by a full suite of voicemails, emails, and text messages. She hadn’t heard from me in a few hours and wanted to make sure I was OK. When she felt I wasn’t being sufficiently responsive she would begin calling whomever I was with. It was almost a weekly occurrence where I would be told by a friend, your mom is looking for you.
Summer days often began with my mother chasing me down the sidewalk, an industrial sized container of sunscreen in her hand. She wouldn’t be satisfied until my pasty complexion was completely obscured by a thick layer of SPF 100. After that came a shirt, a hat, and strict instructions to stay out of direct sunlight. This was a routine she employed every morning between May and October as she had seen the damages that the sun could do.
Everything was done with an eye towards protecting those she cared about.
Every night, on my walk home from work I would call, and she would tirelessly quiz me on my day and any new developments in my career. When one of my early reviews made a mention of blocking and tackling she conducted extensive research into how this idiom should be interpreted and exactly how one would tackle in the office environment. She enjoyed hearing anything I had to tell her and while it was debatable whether she ever fully understood what my job entailed, it was always clear that she was my biggest fan.
Even in her final days, my mom never gave up looking out for those she cared about. Every visit entailed a complete breakdown of what everyone had been up to and every time I purchased a sandwich from the Potbelly Sandwich Shop attached to the hospital, she would remind me of the coupons she had at home and how I should take those next time I visited.
The hospital staff always mentioned how lucky my mother said she was to have her family, but in reality we were the ones who were lucky to have her. We love you mom.
When the latest preparation of a meal didn’t taste quite right, it was usually because she had been tinkering with the recipe to align it with the latest nutritional theory. The first iteration was always great and then the adjustments would begin. White flour would be replaced with whole-wheat flour and then spelt, butter would be replaced with yogurt which would then become water each following the theory that anything that tasted good probably wasn’t healthy enough. After a few weeks the original dish would have inevitably been transformed into a highly nutritious yet tasteless mush sprinkled with flax seeds (her favorite garnish).
Every time a confused Greyhound driver witnessed my attempts to navigate the Port Authority terminal while juggling a half dozen chicken thighs and a jar of homemade tomato sauce, you could be sure my mom had been at work, fighting to ward off the horrors of processed food. In the hour before leaving she would begin rummaging through the fridge and throwing everything in sight into a series of plastic grocery bags. It didn’t matter if I already had two suitcases, plenty of food at my final destination, or the only containers she had were leaky Tupperware. She was determined to make sure I would not starve.
If I ever temporarily misplaced my phone I was sure to find it with a series of missed calls from my mother complemented by a full suite of voicemails, emails, and text messages. She hadn’t heard from me in a few hours and wanted to make sure I was OK. When she felt I wasn’t being sufficiently responsive she would begin calling whomever I was with. It was almost a weekly occurrence where I would be told by a friend, your mom is looking for you.
Summer days often began with my mother chasing me down the sidewalk, an industrial sized container of sunscreen in her hand. She wouldn’t be satisfied until my pasty complexion was completely obscured by a thick layer of SPF 100. After that came a shirt, a hat, and strict instructions to stay out of direct sunlight. This was a routine she employed every morning between May and October as she had seen the damages that the sun could do.
Everything was done with an eye towards protecting those she cared about.
Every night, on my walk home from work I would call, and she would tirelessly quiz me on my day and any new developments in my career. When one of my early reviews made a mention of blocking and tackling she conducted extensive research into how this idiom should be interpreted and exactly how one would tackle in the office environment. She enjoyed hearing anything I had to tell her and while it was debatable whether she ever fully understood what my job entailed, it was always clear that she was my biggest fan.
Even in her final days, my mom never gave up looking out for those she cared about. Every visit entailed a complete breakdown of what everyone had been up to and every time I purchased a sandwich from the Potbelly Sandwich Shop attached to the hospital, she would remind me of the coupons she had at home and how I should take those next time I visited.
The hospital staff always mentioned how lucky my mother said she was to have her family, but in reality we were the ones who were lucky to have her. We love you mom.
Monday, November 28, 2011
Letter to Linda
Dear Linda,
We had 27 years to say what needed saying to each other, so there is not much I need to say here. You know I loved you. Although I never said it enough to satisfy you, I showed it in every other way and I know you heard those declarations. I will say it again just because you loved to hear it: I love you, I love you, I will always love you.
You also asked, I don’t know how many times, “am I your soulmate”? Being pragmatic and literal, I always thought it was silly question. If you can’t define a soul how can you define a soulmate. Also, if being a soulmate means fitting together perfectly with a person – well, perfection is an unattainable ideal. All this kept me from answering “yes” to your question. Now that you are gone however, I think I can give you a better answer. You were close enough to perfect for me. Wait for me, soulmate. As I whispered to you at the service yesterday; I’ll join you again when I’m finished here on earth.
I know you are in a better place now, and as Emily says “you’re going to keep an eye on us”. I hope and expect that you won’t be disappointed. Robert is Robert, only more settled, more responsible; an anchor for Emily and I. You were always proud of him growing up – I think you’ll be proud of him throughout his life. Emily took your passing hard, but she will work through it alright. You were “best friends” these last few years, and that will be a solid foundation for her life. Having them both around has been like having you around – that is a blessing I need.
Your family and friends have been amazing. I couldn’t have survived this without them. Heather called you a “sweetheart”, and the rabbi called you a “good soul”. They are both right – I would call you a “sweet soul”. I see it in your mother and sisters. I have been lucky to know you and the sweet circle of people that gathered around you.
Finally, you should know that your memory surrounds me alike a cloud. Nothing that I see or hear or touch doesn’t bring you back. I’ve done a lot of crying, but it is a good kind of grief. And if there is some way for the feelings of mortals to reach heaven then you are having a good cry too. But it is a good thing that unites us, and though we are parted now we will meet again, and cry again – but then it will be crying for joy.
Wait for me. I won’t be too long. I love you.
Lee
We had 27 years to say what needed saying to each other, so there is not much I need to say here. You know I loved you. Although I never said it enough to satisfy you, I showed it in every other way and I know you heard those declarations. I will say it again just because you loved to hear it: I love you, I love you, I will always love you.
You also asked, I don’t know how many times, “am I your soulmate”? Being pragmatic and literal, I always thought it was silly question. If you can’t define a soul how can you define a soulmate. Also, if being a soulmate means fitting together perfectly with a person – well, perfection is an unattainable ideal. All this kept me from answering “yes” to your question. Now that you are gone however, I think I can give you a better answer. You were close enough to perfect for me. Wait for me, soulmate. As I whispered to you at the service yesterday; I’ll join you again when I’m finished here on earth.
I know you are in a better place now, and as Emily says “you’re going to keep an eye on us”. I hope and expect that you won’t be disappointed. Robert is Robert, only more settled, more responsible; an anchor for Emily and I. You were always proud of him growing up – I think you’ll be proud of him throughout his life. Emily took your passing hard, but she will work through it alright. You were “best friends” these last few years, and that will be a solid foundation for her life. Having them both around has been like having you around – that is a blessing I need.
Your family and friends have been amazing. I couldn’t have survived this without them. Heather called you a “sweetheart”, and the rabbi called you a “good soul”. They are both right – I would call you a “sweet soul”. I see it in your mother and sisters. I have been lucky to know you and the sweet circle of people that gathered around you.
Finally, you should know that your memory surrounds me alike a cloud. Nothing that I see or hear or touch doesn’t bring you back. I’ve done a lot of crying, but it is a good kind of grief. And if there is some way for the feelings of mortals to reach heaven then you are having a good cry too. But it is a good thing that unites us, and though we are parted now we will meet again, and cry again – but then it will be crying for joy.
Wait for me. I won’t be too long. I love you.
Lee
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Burial Information
Linda will be laid to rest at the Keneseth Israel Cemetery at 11AM Tuesday, November 29th.
Directions from Cedar Crest Blvd and Walbert Ave
1. Head east on State Route 1006/Walbert Ave toward Office Center Rd (0.8 mi)
2. Turn left onto N Filbert St (0.2 mi)
3. Turn left onto Coolidge St (0.1 mi)
4. Arrive at Keneseth Israel Cemetery
Please call 610.776.7427 if you have any questions.
Thanks
Directions from Cedar Crest Blvd and Walbert Ave
1. Head east on State Route 1006/Walbert Ave toward Office Center Rd (0.8 mi)
2. Turn left onto N Filbert St (0.2 mi)
3. Turn left onto Coolidge St (0.1 mi)
4. Arrive at Keneseth Israel Cemetery
Please call 610.776.7427 if you have any questions.
Thanks
Shiva
We will be sitting shiva at Carla and Joel's home. Hours are
Tues 4:00PM-9:00PM
Wed 2:00PM-4:00PM, 6:30PM-9:00PM.
Address
354 Summit Ave
Oradell NJ 07649
201.262.6044
Tues 4:00PM-9:00PM
Wed 2:00PM-4:00PM, 6:30PM-9:00PM.
Address
354 Summit Ave
Oradell NJ 07649
201.262.6044
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Funeral Service
There will be a funeral service held 1PM tomorrow, November 27, in Allentown PA at the Bachman, Kulik & Reinsmith Funeral Home.
1629 Hamilton Street
Allentown PA 18102
610.432.4128
1629 Hamilton Street
Allentown PA 18102
610.432.4128
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