Eulogy for Henry Frank Rosenthal (1923-2014)

I have dreaded this day my entire life and thought it would never come. That was of course wishful thinking. Our dad was a generous spirit. Anyone who knew him, knew that. Most people thought him a demure, kind man, certainly a punster and a straight arrow, quite fastidious. This would make him the butt of jokes that he would weather with good humor. He could dish out but with a kind wit, never malicious. If you went as far as to hurt his feelings, he would say in a vulnerable voice, “You’ll miss me when I’m gone.” He was so right about that. Oh, he could be fussy. His sense of order and decorum we had to respect if nothing else. Hank was slow to anger but he would yell if annoyed, “No trash in the living room,” and the classic, “Turn that damn noise down!” We’d learned to remember to turn the stove off and then neurotically return five times to check again. The seed never falls far from the tree.

As he grew older, I thought about his youth a lot. Not just the war stories that were common and genuinely remarkable, but the fact that he was a great athlete, could ice skate like a demon (I saw this a few times), played lacrosse and was an expert marksman. He followed his alma mater Hobart College his entire life and was annoyed for years afterwards when the New York Times dropped publishing the scores. It is easy to say he was a lousy golfer and a worse driver. The latter he would never admit to. It is amazing we survived long holiday trips up the East Coast from Atlanta as kids. I will always remember the day he drove a motorcyclist off the road on route 46 in New Jersey. The poor schlub managed to survive on the hilly verge by the seat of his pants, finally made in back onto the road and overtook our Pontiac sedan. He cursed out the whole family. You didn’t have to read lips. He flipped us the bird and took off. What a great memory.

Dad had one minor dilemma the most of his married life and I’m here to settle the argument. To be or not to be Episcopalian. I suppose the fact that we are here at St. Peter’s might make the matter seem irrelevant and you might think it’s enough to warrant honorary Christian-hood for my dad. But that isn’t the point. He was a hybrid character, like many of us, sitting on a cultural fence. He could never fully explain this but I have recently read his wish list in which he tries in 1993. I will quote here: “I never went to a Jewish social occasion or… but I seem to attend most of those on Episcopal side...” He missed the point. It is easy to do.  

Today, I have the official duty to amend his statement for the record. He did attend my daughter’s Bat Mitzvah later, possibly looking a little uncomfortable in Synagogue. I’m not sure why. Up in Pittsfield, Mass., little bits of German slash Yiddish peppered the elder Rosenthal conversation. I was called Hymie by Aunt Anne for years. Dad was Heiny, short for Heinrich. “Oy Vey” was heard as well. It was amusing but I believe this is why I found myself completely comfortable in a temple setting. My name alone got me through the door and my sense of humor clinched the deal. Same with dad though he wasn’t aware of it. As for myself I believe I have been doubly blessed to feel the love from both sides of the Judeo-Christian divide. Henry, inadvertently, paved the way. He goes on the say in his statement: “I try to live by the moral code of the Commandments acceptable in both of the above.” So it is moot whether he considered himself Jewish or not. Secular or “cultural” Jews are Jewish even if they drink martinis, play golf and dress up for church for the odd wedding or funeral. Let’s face it; that is what makes America great. One high point was the concert at St. Thomas’s in New York where Grandson Hank slayed the crowd on piano with the First Movement of Beethoven’s Sonata Pathetique. A standing ovation followed including a proud grandfather or two. If you can make it there.  For what its worth, he faced down a Panzer division in December, 1944 while wearing dog tags that bore a Star of David. Nuff said.

The point I’d really like to make today is that the traditions of both sides honor those who have passed and pass that responsibility on to the next generation. Hence all the candle lighting in Jewish tradition which we will try to abide by in Philadelphia. This is why brother, William’s work on Ancestry.com is so valuable. He has filled in gaps in both family trees that could never have been made without complex, interwoven algorithms. For a while we thought there was a direct blood link with Pope Gregory the Ninth. (laughs) Here, I must make special thanks to William, Emily and Max for taking the brunt of these difficult last few weeks that was nothing short of surreal. They have shared a lot of Martinis in the last few years.

Dad was the rare bird who could tie a bow tie in an emergency. He could cook a perfect poached egg. Hank pursued any activities, devoted husband and father, gin, golf and backing into parking spaces, driven by his own personality and timed to the minute. I will not mention his single-handed campaign against squirrels bordering on instability. One day he was nearly arrested by a Park Ranger for spray-painting the little rodents. I once found a one dead in the rain barrel at Skyline. Not a pretty sight. This mania has been passed down to his sons who are still devising humane ways to kill these damn creatures. I dispatched a squirrel myself by forgetting I’d caught one in a trap when the temperature outside was 10 degrees.

Our golden years may have been on Skyline Drive in this very town of Morris. Collective hours were spent with Grandpa McEwen (a real Englishman) and Julie watching Masterpiece Theatre and Fawlty Towers. Those really were the days. Strangers to the household were often in awe of the Skyline Drive rituals, tea and toast, followed by drinky-poos. Later life became a pop cultural mash-up of Seinfeldom, Simpsonasia, antics of seven beloved grandchildren and Will’s funny and never ending Bill Clinton impression. Mom and Dad watched each episode of Seinfeld about twenty times.

Dad married an English Major, Barbara McEwen. She still beats me at scrabble! This union was unassailable and affected everyone. Under Mom’s guidance, Dad continued a keen deconstructor of language and we’d all compete for a final Malaprop. His humor will be remembered. It made life more lively and live-able. He’d never fail to goof on waitresses. Once at a restaurant in Philly, he pretended he was Dr. Rosenthal with a straight face. It’s a good trick. Though puns will continue to be thought of as the lowest form of humor by stuffy librarians and schoolmarms, they get the wrong end of the shtick.

Never mind, for tomorrow we rise at dawn to battle the French at Agincourt. Or, in our case, set the snooze button for 7:30, maybe 8-ish. We’ll have toast with strawberry jam and listen to classical music on WQXR. Our cook will brew the finest ground coffee from the A & P (purchased with saved coupons) in an ancient stovetop percolator.  The women folk will have a pot of tea.

I’d like to end with a nod to the bard, oft mis-quoted in the Rosenthal household. We’d try to brush up our Shakespeare and start quoting him now, appropriately from Henry the V:

He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when the day is named,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian:'
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars.
And say 'These wounds I had on Crispin's day.'
Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,
But he'll remember with advantages
What feats he did that day: then shall our names.
Familiar in his mouth as household words
Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,
Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remember'd;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition:
And gentlemen in England now a-bed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.