My final words…
If you’re reading this, you probably read my blog post written on June 16, 2009. It was in many ways a testament to my dad. It was written on his 84th birthday.
A lot has changed in my life since that day. I’ve decided to leave Fathom and take on the challenge of growing an association that serves non-profits. It’s a big change for me, and I’m relishing the upcoming challenge. This will be my final post as a Fathom employee. I will soon become the COO of The Alliance for Non-profit Growth and Opportunity. (TANGO) www.tangoalliance.com
Something else that changed is that my wife and I recently moved into a new home. After 19+ years in the last one, a home more suitable to our current lifestyle was in order. It’s been hectic but rewarding to see it come together.
Finally, and most importantly since that June 16th blog, my dad passed away. Alzheimer’s disease finally took the physical body to go along with the mind that it had so slowly and methodically ravaged over a more than a decade. A week ago today, Charles Nathan Margolis died with his loving family at his bedside. It was a beautiful and peaceful ending to a horribly bumpy and long road. Chick’s spirit can finally be free, no longer trapped in a body and mind that had become so confusing and weak.
I had decided long ago that I wanted to give a eulogy at my dad’s funeral. I wanted to say a few words that would make those who knew him remember the man as he was before he got sick and those who had never met him a little bit about my dad.
The evening before his funeral, I sat down in front of my computer at 10:00pm when the house was finally quiet from the chaos of so many friends coming over to help get the house ready and unpacked from the move. There was so much that I wanted to say –
I began typing immediately, pounding our words quickly. I wrote a paragraph, and in an instant erased it. I began at a different place and once again, erased it. This went on for 15 minutes. I had SO much to say, how could this be possible? I tried to organize my thoughts before writing any more, but I could not. I had nothing but noise and confusion in my head. My dad lived such a rich life, and I couldn’t find the words or organize the things that I wanted to say the next day. I was blocked, big time.
After an hour, I went into our bedroom where Carole was. How did it go, she asked. I’ve got nothing was my reply. Zero, zilch, nada, squat. Carole reminded me of many of the fun times Chick had with our kids and my mom, she reminded me of so many things. The problem was that there was so much material; I just could make sense of it all.
The previous day, my brother and I had a conversation about a eulogy. I told him I was going write and deliver one. “I couldn’t possibly do that, Michael said, it would be too hard for me, I’d be too emotional.” I was certain that I could get through it. At 7:00am I got a text message from Michael, “I’ve decided to speak today too, do you want to go first or second?” “I’ve got nothing!” I replied, “you’re on your own”. I headed back to the computer again about an hour later to give it one more try. I decided to take some Fathom advice that we often give clients – “Positioning is the art of sacrifice.” Immediately I decided to talk about one thing and one thing only. Once I made the decision that I would only speak about his sense of humor, the words came immediately to me.
Michael delivered a beautiful eulogy first and I went after him. I’ve done a lot of public speaking in my lifetime. I was more nervous standing there in front of friends, family and my fathers flag draped casket than I’ve ever been. I soldiered on and was able to deliver what I was told was a very poignant, humorous eulogy for my dad. The Rabbi also knew Chick well and did a wonderful job himself. Between the three of us, I’m certain that everyone there knew what a special man Chick Margolis was.
Written by: Bob Margolis
Email the author: margolis.bob@me.com
Truly sorry to see you moving on, Bob. Thanks for this beautiful last piece of insight. I only hope that I am able to honor my parents with the same courage, honesty and sense of humor that you shared at your dad’s service.
Bob, I am so sorry for the loss of your father. I’m also sorry to see you leave Fathom - you will be greatly missed. To your point about your father, I think YOUR sense of humor is what we’re going to miss the most about not having you around every day!
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