Goodbye, Mom.
The eulogy for my mother focused on an odd, fun idiosyncrasy.
What a great day for a picnic, I thought as I headed across the sun-splashed lawn toward a gathering of friends and family. Cottony clouds wafted across a blue backdrop overhead as singing finches and robins flitted between the trees.
But this was no picnic. It was a funeral, my mother’s.
She died last March, at age 95. We were all gathered at Mt. Sinai Memorial Park, a Jewish cemetery in the Hollywood Hills, to pay our final respects.
While it’s never a shock when someone leaves this earthly plane at such an advanced age, family and friends alike grieved openly over the loss of someone so caring and vivacious, the kind of person who could make a pal for life while waiting in a grocery store’s checkout line.
I was certain that the eulogy by my brother, Jeff, would be comprehensive, heartfelt and touching. And I was equally certain that it would be conventional, something that the mourners in attendance would expect.
That’s where I came in.
Although I hadn’t read a eulogy at my father’s funeral 10 years earlier, I wanted to say a few words before my mom was laid to rest forever, piggybacking my brother’s eulogy by remembering Mom in an off-beat manner. So in addition to briefly reiterating Jeff’s kind, thoughtful words, my desire was to focus on something that many didn’t know about the ol’ gal. Doing so served to remind everyone in attendance on this sad day that, in addition to being a loving wife, mother, grandmother and friend, she could also be a real kick in the pants.
Mom was what I liked to call an “accidental comedian,” since she’d occasionally come out with something that, though not intended to be funny, was actually quite amusing.
Case in point: One evening about five years earlier, a TV news report noted that more shark attacks occur off the Miami Beach coastline than anywhere else in the world. Without missing a beat, Mom said, “Really? I didn’t know that sharks are antisemitic.”
To some, I suppose my eulogy was shocking, perhaps even blasphemous. To others it was hilarious.
To Mom, given her fun nature, I’m certain it was appropriate. At least I hope it was. (And, in case you’re wondering, I really did share what follows – word for word – at her memorial service.)
HARRIET D. URISH – 1/31/29-3/30/24
We all know that Mom was a loving soul who gladly sacrificed so much for so many. We can all come up with many of our own personal examples of her giving nature.
But I’d like to add one more thing, a fun eccentricity that many of you may not know about Mom, something I’d forgotten, something that my sister, Flori , reminded me of just a few days ago.
Mom was a happily unrepentant kleptomaniac. And she was a highly selective kleptomaniac. She stole coffee creamers, you know, those little liquid receptacles, from restaurants.
Yes, there’s a backstory. It all started one fine morning in that shining beacon of classy, beautifully plated fare, Denny’s.
As most of you know, Mom and Dad were avid sailors. Around 1972, we as a family drove south to San Diego to enjoy a weekend outing with our parents’ sailing club. For some reason, Mom needed a coffee creamer, maybe for a social function on the docks later that afternoon. And she didn’t have one.
Dad, being Dad – the quintessential New York alpha male, pragmatic and direct as ever – deftly snatched the creamer sitting on the Denny’s table, tipped the liquid onto what remained of his plate of buttermilk pancakes, and said, “You need a creamer, Harriet? Problem solved.”
Mom, being Mom, said, “Morris. We can’t steal.”
While tossing the coffee creamer into her purse, Dad added, in his distinctive Bronx accent. “Kid, looks like we just did…”
The very moment Mom walked out of Denny’s with that first stolen creamer, the thief heretofore hidden dormant within her innocent soul emerged into an unsuspecting world. Once Harriet the Klepto Monster got her first taste of illicit coffee creamer, the restaurant industry – actually, the entire food-service business sector worldwide – gave a collective shudder. As well it should’ve.
For decades, Mom happily pilfered, ripped off, snatched, plundered, looted, swiped, abducted, stripped, absconded with, stole into the night, and kidnapped all manner of coffee creamers.
To which I might add: If you use a thesaurus, don’t overdo it.
Mom liberated coffee creamers of every size and shape, as she slinked her way out of restaurants from Tonga to New Zealand to the Caribbean, from Alaska to Australia to Hawaii – to dozens of eateries throughout the Lower 48.
What ultimately motivated Mom’s multinational onslaught, her one-woman Gambino-like criminal stranglehold on Big Creamer? We may never have a clear answer.
And now, with Mom’s passing, it shall forever remain a mystery of the Cosmos. Maybe one day, when it’s our time to leave this Earthly plane and enter the holographic multi-verse, Mom will tell us. And my guess is she’ll be giggling when she does so.
By now, we’re all asking the obvious question: Why even mention the stolen creamers? Why now?
Answer: Until very recently, her easily managed life as a “functional kleptomaniac” was limited mostly to creamers. But, we would all agree – right here, right now – that when she left us a few days ago, she also stole a big piece of our hearts.
Mom, we all love you, we all miss you. And maybe one day we’ll see you on the other side.
And perhaps share a nice pot of coffee.
No thanks, we’ll take it black. Hold the creamer…
After my mother was laid to rest, several family members approached and thanked me for the levity.
However, I’m certain that not everyone found it amusing. Given the normally somber nature of the experience, I imagine a few were downright offended, which, come to think of it, makes perfect sense. After all, who calls the deceased a kleptomaniac at their funeral?
Nevertheless, they didn’t seem to understand that Mom would’ve wanted her final goodbye to be a celebration of her life, a light-hearted reminder to her loved ones that she could be a lot of fun.
And I had to remind myself that you can’t please everyone all the time, that there are moments when you have to do what you know is right, even if it flies in the face of convention.
Goodbye, Mom. We’ll see you on the other side.
And keep that coffee warm.
I wonder if your mom was aware of the joy she brought into the lives of others? I hope you know that you inherited the same capacity. It's not the kind of thing you want to wait to admit at your funeral.
None of us live resume lives. We’re far more rounded than that and often it’s in the things we wouldn’t put on a resume that reveal our true humanity and uniqueness. I, too, love that you paid tribute to your mom in this way. Sounds like she had a great sense of humour! Like mother, like son.
I’m glad that several family members thanked you for your levity. As you say, you can’t please everyone all the time. But your mom sounds like someone who came to enjoy doing things that flew in the face of convention. Same for your dad. To anyone who might have said, “Larry, you can’t tell that story about your mom”, your dad might have replied in his distinctive Bronx accent: “Kid, looks like we just did…”