In the end, this is the eulogy I came up with for my father. The writing was not an easy task. And I am terrified of speaking in front of groups larger than, say, my three most trusted friends. But somehow—once the writing was done--I was able to deliver this thing with relative ease.
(Thanks for coming etc)
Knowing what to say on an occasion like this has been almost impossible for me. My thoughts have been swirling for weeks. I think fathers and sons have a hard time understanding each other to begin with, and I’ll probably spend the rest of my life mulling over my relationship with Dad. He probably did the same with his dad, a stern-looking man who died when my father was 27. I can’t possibly sum up my father, but I can say a few things about the man I knew. And if none of it makes sense, you can tune out and meditate on the Matt Ryan you knew.
Like most people, my father embodied several contradictions. He was a man of logic, a slide-rule-using engineer who could build a car-top boat rack out of an old pair of skis or test an outboard boat engine in a garbage can full of water. But he could also quote poetry from memory, loved music, and knew Latin, German, and French. He could sometimes be a little awkward, but he wasn’t shy, and he loved to be the center of attention. And I could be wrong, but I think he was unsure about the existence of God, and yet he went to church every week, sang hymns around the house, and studied theology.
He was a serious man who took delight in bad puns and goofy jokes, and loved to sit at a formal dinner table with a spoon hanging from the end of his nose.
Around the house he sang hymns, classical melodies, novelty songs and commercial jingles with equal passion. I can still hear him singing a version of “Chattanooga Choo Choo” that featured backward lyrics. It was called “Ooch ooch agoonatach,” like one of those native phrases that can mean both hello and goodbye. “Ooch ooch agoonatach!”
Dad’s was a life of inquiry, of trying to figure things out—and he instilled in my siblings and me this tendency to wonder why, or wonder how. Why do chickens come home to roost? What is the purpose of tears? My wife Lauren teases me about this sometimes, gently. She calls us The I Wonder Family.
But really, one could do worse than to spend your life wondering. My father spent his life this way. I guess that’s why he was one of those dads who had a lot of the answers. But it’s the wondering itself that enriches a life, not the possession of answers. Dad taught us to fill our lives with music, to laugh at the absurd, and to wonder at things.
We loved Dad, and he was happy and proud to be loved. But in some ways it made him uncomfortable to hear about it. A visit to see me and my family in Vermont was invariably too short, and invariably ended with my father saying, with a big smile, “Well, we better leave before we outstay our welcome.” The truth is, Dad never outstayed his welcome. He always left too soon. Even after 86 years, he left too soon. Good bye, Dad. Hold onto our love. We meant it. Ooch ooch agoonatach.
