In Loving Memory
of Maurice

First, thank you all for being here, especially on a hot, muggy August day. It means a great deal to our family that you came to honor Maurice's life and memory.

My Grandpa Maurice lived 100 years, 5 months, and 24 days. It sounds almost impossible, and still, it doesn't feel like enough. But we knew it was his time. Toward the end, he could barely see. He was in tremendous pain. He stayed as long as he could.

And I think, in so many ways, he stayed for Sally.

They met as teenagers at Lincoln High School. Their first date, in 1943, was a movie followed by Nathan's hot dogs and french fries on the Coney Island boardwalk. They married in 1945 and would go to build eighty years of marriage! In many ways, they raised each other. And together, they built this family.

Grandpa began life with very little. The youngest of four, he effectively lost his parents by his mid-teens and was looked after largely by his older siblings. At 18, he proudly served his country as an Army medic, went to college on the GI Bill, became an accountant and later a teacher and professor, often working two or three jobs at a time to create opportunities for his family that he had never had himself.

He valued education, excellence, responsibility, keeping your word, and following the rules. He expected a lot of himself and of others. But he never confused achievement with what mattered most.

Grandpa was always immaculate. Everything pressed, spotless, and just so. And somehow, at 100, he still had a magnificent head of hair many younger men would have envied. He carried himself with dignity, but he also had a wonderfully wry, and occasionally wicked, sense of humor. He suffered no fools.

And he loved making me squirm. I remember sitting on his lap in the car after dinner once when he announced that I was making him nauseous and threatened to vomit on me. I was reduced to tears. This only made it funnier to him. That was Grandpa. Dignified, but mischievous. Exacting, but deeply loving.

Together, they had an extraordinary appetite for life. They traveled the world and made friends everywhere. In Puerto Vallarta, they became unofficial "camp counselors" to friends who were themselves in their 60s and 70s. Others simply knew them as "the teenagers."

Their great adventure was never really about how many places they saw. It was about having someone beside you with whom to see them.

Grandpa was widely read and exceptionally well-traveled. He loved mysteries and puzzles and remained intellectually curious throughout his life.

And just think of the century he witnessed. He was born in 1926 and lived through a world transformed, from radio and television, jet travel, the moon landing, the internet, smartphones and artificial intelligence. Through all of it, some things remained remarkably constant: Family. Education. Curiosity. Taking pride in what you do. Keeping your word. Showing up for the people you love. The world changed almost beyond recognition. What mattered to him really didn't.

For all he learned, saw and accomplished, Grandpa never put on airs. He remained unmistakably himself, grounded, practical, a little skeptical, and deeply rooted in where he came from. He saw much of the world, and he saw the world change much, without ever losing himself.

And no matter how far he and Sally traveled, they always came home. Though Grandpa liked to joke that no matter how far he went, or where he tried to leave HER, somehow Sally always found her way back.

Our Own Maurice

Each of us has our own Maurice, our own stories and memories. Many of my favorites happened on our travels. Wherever Grandma, Grandpa and I went, we found the markets. I would scout. Grandma would haggle. And ever-patient Maurice would pay. Sometimes we returned to places Grandpa had already seen. He once told me he didn't mind because seeing them with me gave him new eyes and a new perspective. That has stayed with me.

Grandma and Grandpa were also a particularly important presence in my life as my own father's health declined. They were always there, and our Sunday dinners together became a constant. I understand more fully with every passing year what a gift that was.

There is a teaching in Pirkei Avot: "Who is rich? One who is happy with his portion." That was Grandpa.

He began life knowing scarcity. He educated himself, worked extraordinarily hard, raised a family, survived more illnesses than we could count, and saw much of the world. And after all that, what did he really want? To be home. In Queens Village. A cappuccino in-hand. With a good mystery or a puzzle. His family around him. And, of course, some peace and quiet.

I once asked Grandpa what he considered his greatest accomplishment. His answer was simply: "A great family."

And that family showed up for him.

With Gratitude

Mom, your extraordinary devotion reflects so much of Grandpa's intelligence, competence, strength and integrity.

Uncle Ira, you carry his work ethic, devotion to family, and some of his very best wry humor.

Robert and Jeannette, you embraced and cared for him as a father. With a prepared meal, and occasionally some contraband items at IHOP, you both brought sweetness to his life, and partnership and support to his children and to Grandma Sally.

Melissa, you came ready with a ride or a helping hand. And as you and John marry on October 18, just two days before Grandma and Grandpa's anniversary, may the blessing of their extraordinary partnership carry forward into the life you build together.

David and Ji, you made precious time for visits in these final months. David — our family trips will forever be some of my most cherished and meaningful memories.

Ariel, Grandpa took such pride in watching you come into your own — from your Bat Mitzvah, where your spirit of service and leadership inspired us all, to the meaningful and independent life you've built for yourself.

Derek, thank you for loving Maurice too, and for reminding me, inspired by your own love for your Dziadek, of something very simple and important: Hold his hand. I'm so grateful you did.

And Renier, our gratitude to you is immeasurable. Your gentle, tireless care protected Grandpa's comfort and dignity when he was most vulnerable. You stayed beside him until the very end, caring not simply for him, but about him. You are family to us.

And to the kind people at St. Francis, I thank them for making every accommodation for Grandpa's comfort, bending the rules to allow us to be together, and making his final days as peaceful and pain-free as possible. At the end of a life, those things are not small. They make all the difference.

And Grandma, we have all lost a beloved father and grandfather. But you have lost the person who stood beside you for more than 83 years.

We cannot fill that space. But we can surround you.

When Grandma realized Grandpa wouldn't make it to her 99th birthday, she said the most impossibly Sally thing: "How dare he? Who gave him permission!? He stood me up!"

Grandma, your devotion helped keep him here for a very long time. Eventually, though, it was time to let him go.

Near the end, we sat beside Grandpa and held his hand. For years, I had given him back scratches. He loved them. So I scratched his back, stroked his hair, and tried to offer him some comfort. There wasn't much more to do. Just to be there.

Grandpa — We are here. We love you. You can rest.

In these last few days, people have said remarkably similar things about Grandpa: What a gentleman. What a fine man.

And after 100 years, his own measure of a life well lived was remarkably simple: "I have a great family." That may be the best summary of his life and his legacy.

Take pride in what you do. Keep your word. Stay curious. See the world, but know where home is. Show up for the people you love. And know when you already have enough. Grandpa did. He was rich in all ways that mattered.