My Father's Passing

On New Year's Day, Jan 1, 2020, My father, Michael Lewis Horen, passed away suddenly in a hospital in Florida. He was 78 years old and I thought we would all have a lot more time with him. As we begin the ritual mourning practices I am sharing the words that some my family members used to eulogize my Abba (my husband Sam, my brother Ben, and my mother Marilyn).

On New Year's Day, Jan 1, 2020, My father, Michael Lewis Horen, passed away suddenly in a hospital in Florida. He was 78 years old and I thought we would all have a lot more time with him. As we begin the ritual mourning practices I am sharing the words that some my family members used to eulogize my Abba (my husband Sam, my brother Ben, and my mother Marilyn).

Elisha Gechter’s Remarks for Michael Horen’s Funeral in Boynton Beach, FL

January 1, 2020

Over his life my Abba was a student, a yogi, a hippie, an artist, a wandering Jew, an Orthodox Jew, a Chabadnick, a son, a brother, a husband, a father, a grandfather, but most of all my Abba was a mentsch.

In 1941 my father was born in Philadelphia to Ben and Ethel Horen. His older brother Albert had already been around for 10 years and the two of them would get into many adventures and some trouble. My Abba loved his mothers cooking – the gefilte fish she made from scratch, the matzah ball soup that he adapted as an adult to include ginger and mushrooms. When he was young he had a kidney disease that relegated him to bed for a long stretch of time, and his mother bought him a drawing set to keep him busy. It was then that his incredible talent and love for art began to emerge. A few years later he submitted a drawing to a radio station contest of the flying purple people eater and won his mother a sunbeam mixer, which made him very proud. My dad was a contributing artist to Central High’s yearbooks and started at Museum College for art in Philadelphia but after a month he had outgrown the place. He got a scholarship to Pratt and was a Fulbright scholar at the Sorbonne in France. He told me that when he was there he used to have access to the archives of the museums and would go into the Louvre and handle Da Vinci drawings himself. He boarded with a family outside of Paris and sent his mother a note on the toilet paper there since it was so rough. She immediately sent him a case of soft American toilet paper. And I can see that he learned from his mother since he used to Fedex me challot from our favorite Washington Heights bakery when I was away at summer camp.

As a freelance artist my dad designed album covers, illustrated books, even knockoff Disney watches, and would sometimes accompany my uncle Albert on his antique sales. It was at an antique show that my Abba spotted my Emma for the first time and asked if he could join her for a cup of coffee. Those two have been having fabulous adventures ever since.

My dad was 38 when he lost his father, and he knew he wanted to say daily kaddish for him so he found himself on a Jewish journey that lead to a new way of living for both him and my mom. He became a dad at the age of 40 and again at 45. My Abba would get down on all fours and give us rides on his back around the backyard of the country house in Upstate NY, or dress as a clown with a curly gold wig and full face makeup for our birthday parties in our Riverdale apartment. He was an integral member of our shul the HIR and so many people there, and at the Chabad of Riverdale, and here in Boynton Beach Chabad which has been his home for the last 10 years, will miss him and his beautiful spirit, his beautiful suits with matching Stetson hats, and his beautiful way of connecting with people on an individual level.

He and my mom worked very hard to put me and my brother through Jewish day school at SAR. He was an illustrator/Graphic Designer for JJ Gross, then Artscroll, then IDT. My dad was often offering his artistic services to help out the school. I would always find him when he was in my building working on some project, and he would often sign my name on his creations. Not that we fooled anyone that I had made the art, but my dad knew how proud I was of him and how I wanted everyone to know who he was and what he was capable of, and it was a two way street. My dad used to carry me home when we walked back from Shabbat dinner at friends, and comfort me when I bruised my knees or my ego. He never stopped worrying about me on the physical and emotional level – last week I feel on the ice in Boston and hurt my elbow – I told my mom, who told my dad, who called me and left the most concerned voicemail. My pain was him pain. And that was also true in the aftermath of a miscarriage I had between Zoe and Erez – he wanted to make sure I was getting the care I needed in body and mind.

When my father met Sam 16 years ago he made him feel so welcome in our family, and he has continued to do so ever since. Every time we showed up for Shabbat in Pepperell, MA or he picked us up curbside at the PBI airport for our Pesach visits, his face just shown and he gave each of us a deep embrace and told us how glad he was that we were here. It meant so much to me that the first man I loved, my dad, loved my partner.

My father became a grandfather at the age of 71. Sorry we made you wait so long Abba. You were incredible every minute you were with your grandkids and they love you so much. When Zoe was born you and Emma came to our house – you did all the snuggling but also all the cleaning. When Zoe took her first bite of solid food at 6 month it was on the highchair you built for her. When you painted challah with egg with her, guiding her hand with he pastry brush, I could see all the love we shared when we did the exact same thing when I was little on kinneret boxed challot, pouring right into the next generation. My confidence and happiness in life you taught me and you taught to her and Erez too. Three years ago you served as the sandek at Erez’s bris and just a few weeks ago you cut a lock of his hair at his upsherin. You made them so happy and showed them joyful Judaism. You babysat for them all the time, giving me and Sam a break and time together. When we would come back sometimes, even if you had cleaned up vomit or had to read a story over and over or tell my kids how to change a carborator, you always said to us – why didn’t you stay out longer?

Abba I’m feeling so sad that I didn’t have the chance to say goodbye to you, to ask you to pass on final words of wisdom to me. But I realize that you’ve been doing that with me my whole life. Every time we ended a conversation it was with “I love you.” I have learned so much from you – even about how to mourn a parent. Though your parents died before I was born, you visited their graves every year at Rosh Hashana – driving hours to Philadelphia, sometimes having to hop a fence to get in. When I travel to Israel the only thing you wanted me to bring back were small, holy, rocks for you to place on their headstones. I asked you what you did when you went to the cemetery and you told me that you just talk to them. You talk to them about your life, about your kids, your grandkids, anything on your mind. You told me that there isn’t a day that goes by that you don’t think about your parents. I know that will be true for me for the rest of my days on this earth Abba.

Thank you for teaching me that our conversation isn’t over.

  

Michael Horen’s Burial in Boston, MA January 2, 2020

Sam Gechter’s Remarks

I’m not going to mince words. This sucks. It’s not fair. I remember when Michael was diagnosed with CLL, and either you Marilyn or Michael told me that the doctor said “You’ll probably die of something else first.” Even as things were getting more serious at the hospital this last week, Marilyn asked the hospital if it was time to gather the family, and they said oh, not yet. Six hours later everything was crumbling down around us.

I hope no one will take offense when I say this, but I think for all of us who knew Michael well, Michael was one of our favorite people. He was one of the best people we knew, and it always seems like the best people get taken too soon. Seventy eight doesn’t feel like a long life anymore, but a life cut short. Especially from the perspective of his children and grandchildren.

It’s not uncommon for people to have struggles with their parents. There is an investment there that parents have that is hard to be zen about. There are a lot of hopes and dreams and expectations that can get in the way of just being with each other. But for me, being a child-in-law and not an actual child, we didn’t have that baggage. Michael was, for me, the person I felt like I didn’t need to worry about myself around. He just accepted me as I was, from the first time we met. He was a big overflowing fountain of love and joy. He welcomed me with open arms. Not just at the beginning, something that Marilyn and I still joke about sometimes, but every time he saw us. He would welcome us literally with open arms, a big hug, the smile of seeing the people he loved bursting on his face. Michael was the one who brought joy, who made everyone feel welcome, and happy, and loved.

We often talk about people as glass half empty or glass half full type of people. For sure Michael had his cranky and cantankerous times, like the times when he was feeling like he was asked to do to many things and referred to himself as a dunky (that’s d-u-n-k-y in his Philly accent).  But Michael wasn’t a glass half empty, glass half full type of person. He would be like: “Wow what a big glass, and what a beautiful glass! I’ve never seen a glass like that. Such craftsmanship. And there’s so much in it!!! One of the best I’ve ever seen.” That’s the type of person Michael was. Elisha related a story last night at the funeral of how when we’d come home from a date he was babysitting for, he’d tell us all the things that would go wrong, and then ask why we didn’t  stay out longer. it wasn’t just that. Most nights, we’d ask how it went, and he’d say oh it was great, they were wonderful. Erez threw up, Zoe wouldn’t go to bed, but they are so delightful. (Marilyn would said this too, I’ll give you credit). Michael was just so able to see the good in what was so.

Some of you know that Michael was an artist. But he was also a craftsman, in the sense of Betzalel, who led the design and construction of the ark and tabernacle. Michael could do or learn just about any skill. When I met him he already knew all the visual arts. And he knew how to fix cars. He knew carpentry, and watchmaking. When Michael and Marilyn moved to their house in Pepperell they brought with them some stained glass windows to have installed in the new house. But they builder sized the opening wrong. So Michael learned how to work with stained glass, and resized two windows into one. When he bought a Bradly GT kit car, and it needed metal work, he learned welding. When he didn’t like the taillights, he learned how to rework fiberglass.  I had always imagined him teaching me and our kids how to do these types of things. I’m thinking about all the ways of fixing or making things he won’t be able to show us or teach our kids. I’m thinking about all the drawing and painting he won’t be able to do with them, and all the skill and creativity lost.

I’m thinking too of all the silly things he won’t get to do with our kids any more, all the jokes he won’t be teaching them… “Did you take a shower Zoe?” “Why, is there one missing?” All the kiddushes and sukkahs we’ll have to do on our own.

Michael leaves a hole in our world, an enormous hole.  The trick is not to let it be a black hole, that consumes and devours us. The trick is to have the hole be a reminder for us to fill it: with his light, with his joy, with his love, with his happiness, with his humility, and with his creativity.

Elisha Gechter’s Remarks

Abba you took me to my first funeral. I was in elementary school and close family friends lost their teenage child to a genetic disease. I stood by your side in that large NY synagogue and watched you openly weep. You taught me it’s ok for an adult to cry in public.

You taught me creativity. You designed posters for protests to free Soviet Jewry that we marched with as a family and as a community, you illustrated children’s books like the Artscroll Megillah, and technical pieces like the Mishnah to help people visualize what they were learning about. People have sent me messages over the last 24 hours to tell me how devoted they are to your Megillah and wouldn’t dream of using anything else on Purim.

You taught me about adventure - you traveled the world with us and with Emma - Costa Rica, Israel, Ireland, Prague, Morocco, Panama, Scotland, Budapest. At each place you sought out cool art, delicious food and connected with people, often bringing home a catch phrase that would become a family joke - like “Aren’t you right Mrs.” from a charming old inn keeper in Ireland.

You taught me about care. You drove me to elementary school in Riverdale, to high school in New Jersey- even to college in mid town Manhattan at the end of many a weekend, to my first day of grad school in Boston, and to my first day back at work after maternity leave. You knew the name, and the story of every Holocaust survivor in our synagogue. You left an impression of gentleness and encouragement on all of my childhood friends. All of us who came into contact with you felt your care.

You taught me how to be joyful. You’re 100% comfortable being goofy with our kids. You taught Zoe Victoria her first joke ever and Erez said to me yesterday he is sad that he won’t be able to tell Zayde his funny words any more. You showed me that Judaism is joyful and full of spirit - from singing Kabbalah Shabbat together in the living room and dancing in a circle for lecha dodi, to carefully selecting lulav and etrog for sukkot, to singing every single verse of Maoz tzur each night of Chanukah.

You taught me how to learn. Abba you were very sure of your values in this world but that didn’t stop you from learning from different places. When I returned from Encounter in the West Bank you asked me questions to genuinely understand what I had seen and heard. When you would come to us for Rosh Hashana you would spend the first day at Minyan Tehillah, where I was leading services, and the next day at Harvard Chabad. Each year you would come up to me and say “sweetheart that was your best davening yet.” You are such a traditionalist and yet you would try any Haggadah that I was excited about and you came to Zoe’s birthday party at Mayyim Hayyim’s mikvah even if that’s never something you imagined yourself doing before.
Because family and learning were so important to you. They are to me too.
I love you Abba.

Ben Horen’s Remarks

My Abba was a tinkerer, a seeker of beauty and truth, an artist, a mad scientist and entertainer. When he turned bar mitzvah age, he was given a mid tier watch. The kind of watch appropriate for a teenager in the mid 1950s. His eyes would glaze over as he watched the hands move and listen to the gears shifting. He had to know what made this watch tick. So he got out his watch repair kit and started to go to work. He popped the backing off, took out a few screws. Within a few hours all of the gears and moving parts were spread all over the floor. He had taken apart the tv remote and put it back together before, but this was completely different. Alas the excitement of seeing the working parts of the watch was tantamount to the actual function of it. He fit this gear into that one, as best he could remember and closed the backing. I don't remember how his mother Etel reacted, but she adored him; her "Mickele". He was the light of her life. Around the same age he got a job at the gas station slash car repair garage down the block. He would go there after hours to build an English style bike from parts at the scrap yard. Any task he set about he brought this same DIY enthusiasm. Tinkering and solving on the fly and doing it with naivety that only someone who had his patience could do. Soon after completing his bike he had an accident that had him on crutches for his first week at Philadelphia Museum of Fine Arts Program. His mother made him promise he wouldn't get on a motorcycle again. But when one of the kids on his block had been gifted a shiny new bike, he couldn't resist the opportunity to take tear up the street. Revving it back and forth, he didn’t see his mother watching from the front porch. When he came home later she'd ask him "Was that you I saw riding on that motorcycle?" NO no definitely not. 

When I was in high school he could see that I had a deep passion for playing music, and so he encouraged me to take bass guitar lessons that were more serious than I had taken before. And of course the best music teachers were in Brooklyn. He would pick me up after school in Paramus and would already have two corned beef sandwiches with coleslaw and Russian dressing on a Kaiser roll that he had just picked up. We would pull into a gas station on route 4 and eat our sandwiches then head to Brooklyn where he would wait an hour and change while I plucked away at the bass. He always made sure I had every tool available to me for the task I was setting out to do. If my guitar needed a repair, we took it to the factory that made it. If there was a presentation at school he made sure only the best oak tag or paper was used.

His fascination and engagement with people was bar-none. As part of his work, he was to coordinate a staff to drive a truck into Newark and distribute bagged lunches to anyone that wanted or needed them. He did this almost every day of the week so he became a fixture to the people the truck served. The interactions he had just couldn't be scripted. He had an openness and calm that disarmed people with the toughest exterior. He approached them as equals and they reciprocated.

Marilyn Horen’s Remarks

Michael’s journey is over but oh what a wonderful journey it was. He lived a full life: brother, husband, father plus the privilege of being a grandparent. We’re not granted the knowledge of when our journey will end but Michael would have been totally accepting of his fate because he also lived the life of an authentic Jew joyously.

I was privileged to be the partner to a magnificent man. 

Together our far flung traveling adventures were paramount until we discovered life with children and Jewish community life, both which brought us satisfaction and valued lifetime friends. 

While many of our contemporaries were planning weddings and bar and bat mitzvahs for their kids we were going to Kindergarten parents night. We were late bloomers, he as a genuinely enthusiastic Baltshuva at age 40 and me joining the tribe. We joked that that was when life really began. Our lives became filled with purpose beyond ourselves.

Yesterday morning I walked out the door as a wife. Today while I struggle through the unanticipated burying of my beloved I know from his total acceptance of beshert that he is exactly where he needs to be. We will mourn our loss but remember his outstanding qualities of giving, bringing joy to many, always doing for others. 

From experience I know that the tribe will continue to provide Elisha, Ben, me and Sam opportunities of strength, friendship ahead. 

May his memory be a blessing for us all. 

Some have a belief that their loved one is watching over them. Michael has already proven that. As Ben left the hospital he saw some one had dropped a shirt on the sidewalk. The shirt had a large yellow crown printed on it with a large script ‘M’ underneath it. Thursday we had a short layover lay over in Philly- Michael’s birthplace. 

Michael loved being spontaneous and unpredictable. He had a special way to help Erez get to sleep with a particular song. Only Zadie could do it right. I think it’s fitting to sing it to Michael now. Please join in with us as we sing Go to Sleep You Weary Hobo by Woody Guthrie. 

Go to sleep you weary hobo
Let the towns drift slowly by
Can't you hear the steel rails hummin'
That's the hobo's lullaby

I know your clothes are torn and ragged
And your hair is turning gray
Lift your head and smile at trouble
You'll find peace and rest someday

Now don't you worry 'bout tomorrow
Let tomorrow come and go
Tonight you're in a nice warm boxcar
Safe from all that wind and snow

So go to sleep you weary hobo
Let the towns drift slowly by
Listen to the steel rails hummin'
That's a hobo's lullaby