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
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