Of Blessed Memory
On New Year’s Day, David D. Sicher died, becoming what one in Judaism euphemistically refers to as ‘of blessed memory.‘
As Jewish tradition emphasizes a prompt burial (and he and I were close), I flew from Portland the next day and officiated the service on Friday.
What follows is a description of the setting and then some of the words I shared.
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Setting:
Interior of the Frank E. Campbell Funeral Parlor
Upper East Side, Manhattan, NYC
- A large photograph of the deceased, age 79
- A beautiful flower arrangement
- A coffin
- A podium
- A filled room
Action:
Immediate mourners enter and sit in the first two rows of seats.
A funeral director, dressed in a black suit with the insignia of the funeral parlor, stands and announces:
“Ladies and gentlemen, please silence any and all pagers or cellular devices.
David Sicher’s memorial service will be conducted by Rabbi Brian, who knew the deceased for close to 50 years.”
Action:
I walk to the podium and speak the following.
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David Sicher.
Funeral Service.
Introduction.
Fuck.
Let me explain.
Never mind, most of you know.
—
A Memory
I’m not yet 10 years old.
I know that I’m not yet 10 years old because, in this memory I’m sharing with you, I’m wearing a favorite pink, Izod-collared, cotton shirt—not a sports coat.
If you are a Collegiate boy—as David was 25 years before me—you know that in our prep school, we started wearing sports coats the same year we started French: fourth grade.
So, I’m 8 or 9. I’m having lunch—or dinner—with my best friend Mark and his dad.
We are at J.G. Melon on Seventy-Fifth Street.
He is across the table from me.
And the thing is, he, Mark’s dad, is laughing at every joke I make.
He finds me charming.
This kind man, who let me pick whether I wanted tater tots—which I did—delights in me.
It feels like sunshine. I want more.
—
The David Sicher Fan Club.
That’s how I became a member of the David Sicher Fan Club—a group of people who were encouraged and loved.
The David Sicher Fan Club group meeting. Right now. We are all members.
And we are all mourners today.
Or is it Fisher?
I did that exact joke at Mark’s funeral—it played a lot bigger today.
I continued to be best friends with Mark until his death in the Spring of 1994. I officiated that service too.
Four years later, David and Linda stood—in the place of their son—at my marriage canopy, welcoming Jane as a member of their family as well.
Some time ago, David asked me to conduct his funeral.
I told him, “I don’t want to.”
He laughed his delicious laugh—the one I can still hear in my mind. He paused for a moment and said—both as a question and a binding contract—“So we’re clear.”
Yes, we are clear, David.
I don’t like it, but we are clear.
Although, my friend, you were never clear on my use of expletives.
Fuck.
—
Action:
I continue leading the service, introducing the speakers, and concluding with a prayer before we proceed to the cemetery for interment.
And, now, beloved reader, I ask you: Would you please, in honor of this man, be a little extra encouraging to others today?
