Eulogy for my dad February 18, 2014 My dad was such a complex and deeply serious individual; it's hard to choose just a few things to describe him. First and foremost, he was a true intellectual; he read all kinds of scholarly books just for fun. I am sure he wasn't too happy that I would win the summer reading contest at the library every year by reading novels about Nancy Drew, the Bobbsey Twins and Cherry Ames instead of the history, geography and philosophy tomes he devoured. He loved opera and would listen to it for hours and pretend he was conducting the orchestra. In my mind's eye I can see him sitting in his comfy chair imitating Arturo Tuscanini. One of my absolute favorite memories is getting all dressed up and going to see Tosca at the Metropolitan Opera House in New York when my mom got sick at the last minute and couldn't go with him. I know I got my love of music from that special day. Long before it was fashionable he took up jogging and would run for miles around the quiet suburb where we lived, even after the neighbors called my mom to ask her what he was running from. Later he learned to do yoga and would twist himself into a pretzel and do head stands in the living room. I started doing yoga about 9 months ago and I still can't do a head stand as easily as he did them. Most of all, though, my dad was my go-to guy for advice and counseling. It started when I was three years old and I would accost him as soon as he came in the front door of the two- family house where we lived. Before he even took off his coat I would make him sit down in the vestibule of our house and tell him about all the latest adventures of my imaginary friends, GlaGla and DeeDee and Red Richard. (Where I got those names from I have NO idea). I was a very lonely child; I had very few friends and the few that I attracted didn't last too long. When we moved from Newark to Chatham, New Jersey I had to start all over again trying to fit in. Chatham is a very old town; it was founded in the early 1700s and a lot of the female residents belonged to the Daughters of the American Revolution. I had a funny Italian last name, coke bottle glasses and my head was always in a book. I was the female version of the Wimpy Kid in the 1960s. Of course I was a prime target for bullying and would routinely come home in tears after some kid decided to make fun of me. My dad was always there to comfort me and tell me that it didn't matter what I looked like on the outside; it was the inside that counted. He told me to be strong and that I had to find my own way and not pay any attention to all the mean things other kids said about me. The poor guy had to listen to my endless tales of woe, pretty much every school day. He never complained, never tried to run away from me, he was always there for me with a sympathetic shoulder to cry on. When I think of all the other stuff he put up with from me it's pretty amazing as well. In sixth grade I started playing the fife with the Morris County Militia Fife & Drum Corps and my dad drove me all over the eastern seaboard from Virginia to Connecticut to march in parades and musters. I am sure it was terribly boring and a complete hassle but he never complained. He had to listen to me practice the flute and the fife; (think about it- would you want to listen to someone play “Turkey in the Straw” 50 or 60 times over and over on a shrill instrument that doesn't sound very good unless it has snare drums crashing over it?). He had to sit through noisy orchestra and band practices, drive me to all kinds of Girl Scout outings and then put up with more drama in middle school and high school with friends made and lost and then boyfriends dumping me or not asking me to the dances. Oh, sometimes he told me I was a spoiled brat because his dad never had time to do multiple activities with his seven kids but most of the time he was the epitome of patience, virtue and Christian charity. In fact, I didn't learn until I was an adult that he was actually a convert to Catholicism. I just assumed that all good Sicilians were Catholic and that my dad had been going to Mass and reading Maryknoll magazine from a young age. The truth is that his father was Pentecostal; my dad only became a Catholic so that he could marry my mom in the Catholic church to please her family from Croatia. Despite the fact that he was raised as a Pentecostal, he embraced Catholicism and was more devout than many of the dads of my Irish classmates whose families had been Catholic for centuries. He scraped and struggled to send us to Catholic school, even though public school would have been free. He joined the Knights of Columbus and he and mom belonged to all kinds of church groups over the years. He always embarrassed us by singing out of key and louder than anyone in church and he REALLY embarrassed me when he insisted on saying Catholic grace on the few occasions when I got the chance to have a boyfriend come to dinner. (That was after my first boyfriend broke up with me because I smelled like garlic; more tears and more consoling words from dad followed that episode). There aren't too many Catholics who have read the Bible as many times as he did; he would have put some of those born into the religion to shame with his knowledge of all the saints and popes. I am telling you this not to make him sound holy but to illustrate the source of his deep faith and compassion. Only someone with his grace would have studied the Bible and taken it to heart so seriously. And only someone who had that kind of faith would have been such a great dad; so selfless and so willing to do all the crazy things that kids ask you to do. My dad was there with me when I graduated from college and I know he thought going to law school was a really radical idea for a girl but he never discouraged me and he listened to more of my drama when I didn't have high enough grades to get onto the Law Review and had to write an article about constitutional law that I read to my dad over the phone. ( He said he didn't understand it but I won the writing contest anyway). Later he was there when I called him sobbing about my inability to get pregnant and he told me that if God wanted me to have children there would be a way. To his credit he never lectured me about the fact that taking fertility drugs and having surgery to get pregnant violates Catholic doctrine. When the triplets were born he and my mom took off from work and came to stay with us for two weeks. (Although, after two weeks of listening to three crying babies he told me that going back to work would be very enjoyable.) I am eternally grateful that he got to participate in all the fun activities of the boys' senior year of high school. By then he was starting to show signs of dementia - l am sure Christopher's prom date loved it when he said in a really loud voice, “Did she run out of fabric for that dress?” I will treasure forever the memory of him yelling, GO EAGLES, and clapping like mad when one of them got a ground ball or caught a pass at a lacrosse game. I am so glad he got to see them graduate from Hood River Valley High School, even though he got lost coming back from the rest room before the ceremony and had to be rescued by Jodi Goatcher, whose Heart of Hospice team would later care for him with love and devotion. (We love you, Tascha!!!!) I am sorry that he won't see the boys graduate from the University of Washington this June, but I am REALLY glad my mom will be there in his place. Life won't be the same without Dad's big grin and funny laugh but he will live on in our Mom and in our hearts and in the other grandchildren that we are sure will come our way someday. I love you, Dad. Rest in peace. Jean Biondo Sheppard Hood River, Oregon