If you know me at all, you know that I am not afraid of a podium or a microphone. But the process of preparing a eulogy for my father, someone who I have always looked up to and admired, was unlike any preparation I had done in the past.

I kept hearing Fred in my head. He won’t remember this, but years ago I remember Fred talking about the importance and significance of giving a eulogy. When my dad passed two weeks ago, there was no question in my mind that I had to speak. It was as much for him as it was for me. It was important to me that anyone who took time out of their day to share our loss, walked away feeling that they knew my dad just a little. Of course, so many people in the room were long-time friends, members of our family, or colleagues from his many years as an educator. But he was our father, my sister and me, grandfather to my children and nieces and nephew, father to both my husband and brother-in-law -- and husband to my mother for over 60 years. How could I ever impart enough of all of that?

Dad passed relatively quickly and the funeral was just over 24 hours later. I literally had no time to think about the message I wanted to share. So many things happened in the course of that day. I thought all day about what I wanted to say, but I didn’t sit down to write until later that night. I was exhausted, physically, emotionally and in every other way.

I wanted stories but couldn’t reach any of them. Maybe that was how I was protecting myself from the difficulties of the last week – but I wanted stories. I needed Bill to come down to the kitchen table and stroll down memory lane with me. Once he started me off, we couldn’t stop. There were so many stories.

Like the time my dad arranged for my third-grade class to be pen pals with a third-grade class in his school. [He was a principal of a very large school in Williamsburg.] Like the blackout in 1976 when I was standing outside a friends’ house arranging with the group of girls and guys how we were going to walk home – when from up the block in the dark of the night came my father in his car holding a spotlight out the window looking for me. Like the summers I spent on our family boat fishing with my dad. It was Camp Dad. I was the best fisherman – shocking, right? Like the time my dad slept in his school because a big snowstorm was coming and he refused to be late. Like the stories that were lighting up Facebook from students and teachers he had impacted over the years. I could go on – and I did.

When it came my turn to ascend the podium, I was as nervous as I have ever been giving a speech. But once I got started, I wasn’t sure I was going to stop. It just felt so natural to be sharing a flavor of my dad – the most loving, generous, supportive, warm, caring and positive person. Since then countless stories from other people who knew him continue to roll in – so many people with whom he shared just one conversation, could tell that he cared; so many people commented that he saw such positive in the world.

A good family friend remembered coming by his house the day after Hurricane Sandy. My parents’ house had been hit hard and she found my dad out front assessing both of his new cars that were under water. This friend’s house had been similarly affected. Yet, she recalls, rather than lamenting about the trauma they had all just endured, he turned to her and said “This is all just stuff. We have our health, and that’s what matters”. According to her, he went about cleaning out the cars with a smile on his face. And that in a nutshell was my father.

I never write blogs this long, but I had to this time. My Gotham family has been so supportive over the last few weeks. Please know that every email, every card, every phone call, every visit – and yes, all the food – was received with all of the caring and support with which I know it was sent. I cannot sufficiently express my gratitude but I will continue to try.