I stood before four-dozen friends and relatives at my Grandpa’s funeral on Monday, charged with the task of delivering his eulogy. A week earlier, it had been decided I’d be the one to deliver his farewell toast at the reception. Being given the honor of storyteller, I gathered my thoughts, and those of others at the wake the night before, and tried to create some kind of coherent sendoff. There is so much more to say about Midnight Lenny, but here’s the brief address I delivered on Monday.
When we think of the greatest minds in the 21st century, the familiar names come to thought: Einstein, Curie, Salk, and a slew of others. I’d like to argue you could add one more name to that list: Leonard G. Berent, my Grandpa.
Perhaps if Grandpa had been classically educated in the finest elementary and secondary academies, sent to the most prestigious universities, and placed in a think tank with other esteemed scientists, he’d have gone on to design wondrous structures or bring an end to world hunger or solve the nation’s economic crisis or write profound works of literature. But he didn’t. His gifts were not shared with the world at large, but instead, a select few. A small circle, who were fortunate enough to be called his family.
But who’s to say he didn’t construct grand structures worthy of the highest praise?
When Danny was in the 5th grade, he was assigned a project to build a bridge made of nothing but popsicle sticks and glue. He told Grandpa about it. He said ok. So one day later, he sat down with Danny and said, “Ok, here’s our plan…” So Grandpa and Danny worked around the clock, measuring, assembling, arranging, until after two days they had created a structure that could hold the weight of a small elephant. Needless to say Danny won the class contest for the strongest bridge.
But Grandpa didn’t limit his ingenuity to just work, he loved to use it for play. This is evident in the countless toys and games he devised using only what he had around the house (or could swipe from Illinois Bell). There was the skateboards-turned scooters he customized just for us grandkids, the magnets we loved to play with, the milk-cap strawberry-basket table hockey game, a favorite of Stanley’s, or that perilous high-speed revolutionary contraption he devised in his basement, the pair of bicycle handlebars attached to a turntable anchored to the ceiling known simply as “the bar.”
Who’s to say he didn’t he didn’t cure the hunger of the masses?
For as good as he was with a wrench and pliers, you should have seen Grandpa with a kitchen knife and cutting board. The things he used to cook up in his kitchen were the stuff of legend, though you’ll find the recipes in no great cookbook. I myself have tried many a times to recreate the delectable 3 inch diameter salmon patties which were a Lenten favorite, but could never seem to get the recipe right. This could be because whenever I asked Grandpa for the recipe, he’d tell me, “Ohh you see it’s one can of salmon and throw in a little bit of this, scoop of that, and a dash of these…” The quintessential Grandpa meal may have gone something like this. First, he’d start you off with something to prime the palate. Usually a handcrafted fruit salad, and you could tell it was his by the eclectic mixture of both canned and fresh fruit from maraschino cherries to apples and bananas, and by the precision cut in half-grapes he used in it. By the time he stuffed you with that, the pizza was almost done. Oh the pizza. The simple magic he used to make a pizza his own. He would take a $1.99 freezer section pizza and doctor it up with his own special seasoning, add a little extra cheese, maybe some sausage or pepperoni, and ,of course, of course, he never forgot the onions. After the pizza was devoured, he brought out more treats. A strawberry box stuffed with his famous “Willy-Wonka’s”, those chocolate-pretzel-M&M holiday favorites, or a slice of Neapolitan ice cream.
Who’s to say he didn’t solve economic crises?
The man lived as prudent a life as you could live, almost to a flaw. He would save anything and everything. I’m sure many of us have drank from Grandpa’s elegant hand-washed Dixie brand glassware, or been served treats in a cookie dish that was intended for only one use. Or it was the haircuts he used to give his beloved Hilde. He could have taken his fine terrier to a fine elegant dog groomer, but rather used his own set of clippers to trim the dog to his liking, much to the gigglement of Kevin. This prudence was not limited to mere frugality however, but shrewd saving. Grandpa, as Aunt Mare puts it, was a master repurposer. He never saw anything as trash, but rather, viewed it abstractly. It could be an empty crate in anyone else’s eyes, but to Grandpa it was now any number of things: a stool, a container, a stand, a garbage bin, the possibilities were limitless. He was the kind of guy who thought you could attach this to this and make it that, or cut that off, replace it with that and make it this, or re-wire that, tie it off here, attach this bracket, drill a few holes there, screw it in like so and voilà! A brand new toaster.
Who’s to say he didn’t captivate audiences with gripping tales?
Grandpa was a talker, he loved to talk. His stories were legendary. There was the shocker, the bird on the fence, or everyone’s favorite number, 96. And For as many times as we heard it, the one about the Indians and the campfire never got old.
One on one time with Grandpa was more prized than a front row ticket to any event. Michael remembers vividly these fireside chats Grandpa used to give him, that seemed to always start with “Michael let Me tell you” where he would raise his hand (the one without the beer) and give him the wisdom of his life’s experiences. Or, if you were lucky enough like Becky was to go to college two miles down the road and show up and Grandpa’s door after class, and he’d have two stories on the tip of his tongue, and a pizza in the oven ready and waiting for you. Even if you were hundreds of miles away, the man was as engaging to talk to as if he were right next to you. He worked for Illinois Bell for 40 years, and was probably one of their biggest customers. Genevieve remembers the weekly “date night” phone calls she used to get from Grandpa. He’d call at 9:15pm every Thursday, largely because it was free after nine and Grandpa wanted to save Genny the dime, but he was sure to always have plenty of topics of conversation for her. He loved talking to his grandchildren. Dyan particularly remembers one of her weekly phone calls to Grandpa. Grandpa had just turned 90 and had just moved into a new apartment, and she asked, “Grandpa, how do you like your new place? Have you made any friends yet?” to which he replied, “Well, ya see Dy… there’s a bunch of old farts here.” Apparently Grandpa didn’t gel too well with his 70-some year old neighbors.
So I think it’s quite rational to put Grandpa’s mind amongst the most remarkable minds of our generation. It was his mind that was always sharp. His physical body may have started to deteriorate as the years went by, but his mind never did. As aunt Rita remembers, he would have doctors telling him this or that, he needs this surgery or should start taking this vitamin, and he’d riddle THEM with questions. Then he would make up his own mind about the issue. And more often than not, he was right.
He kept his wits right until the end. How did he do it? It could have been his daily routine, one thing in particular I remember was that his bed was always made. “You make your bed, you make your head” he used to say. Or the daily crossword puzzles he loved the challenge of solving, but I think it was something else. A challenge far greater than solving any mathematical equation, philosophical question or social problem. A challenge that demanded much more time, but would return far greater results.
The challenge of patriarching a family that numbered 7 wonderful children, 17 sprightly grand-children, 8 joyous great-grandchildren and countless others he came into contact with throughout his life. Instead of using his mind for any number of social or scientific labors, he dedicated nearly every waking second to us, his family. It takes a lot of time, hard work, and dedication to raise a family so numerous, and Grandpa gave all he had not to some research project or civil service, but to us. His time was ours. He shared it with the ones he cared about the most. We received his guile, his cunning, his wisdom, his know-how. We were lucky enough to be around him for so many years. We were lucky he was so dedicated and enthralled by us. He wasn’t a guy who went out to the bar and drank with his pals, or dug his nose into long novels for days on end, or traveled the world for vain fulfillment. He was a guy who spent every breath he could with the ones he loved. That’s true love. And we in turn, loved him.
Whether he raised you, raised the ones who raised you, or raised the ones who raised the ones who raised you, you cannot argue the impact Grandpa has had on each and every one of our lives. If you shed a tear for him, please, don’t let it fall in sorrow, but rather in solemn joy, knowing you had the benefit of learning from a man who had just as much brains as an Albert Einstein, a Marie Curie or a Jonas Salk, and a spirit unlike any other genius to ever walk this earth.
Me and G-Pa
Jake Berent 
I read this during work, absolutely beautiful.