Digging around in my computer files, I found the eulogy I wrote for Bill’s funeral service. I did so at the request of Fran, his beloved wife. It was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done.
Most important, Fran seemed satisfied. I would speak at her funeral just 3 ½ years later.
Here it is, with a few new edits and trims. (Once an editor, always an editor…)
••••••
How do you describe someone who was an enigma to you for 30 years and one of your best friends for five?
Some would say that it’s the typical parent-child relationship. But my relationship – and my family’s relationship – with Bill was anything but typical.
I have so many memories of growing up with what I describe as two sets of parents. It has been such a blessing, although admittedly I did not always think so.
For years, I referred to Bill as my second dad, a description that always drew quizzical looks and required convoluted explanations. He and Fran redefined what family means to me. And I can’t help but find irony in the fact that a man who knew more about chemistry than I could imagine found family in a way that has no relation to science.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve always needed to express myself through words, to gain acceptance, to be loved. The difference, if there is one, between my biological parents and Bill is that public acceptance and love on his part was not unconditional. Or obvious, at least in the beginning.
Many of you know that Julie and I grew up across the street from Fran and Bill. When we moved into the 22nd Avenue house in Texas City, I was 4, and the Waraniuses had already been there for several years. Julie was born two years later, and Fran and Bill were happy to become godparents to my sister. Little did they know at the time that they would become lifelong “parents” to us and lifelong friends to my mom and dad. Heck, even Frisky became a two-family dog in her final years.
I can’t begin to tell you how much I’ve talked to – and relied on – Fran since I was a child. But to Bill, I was always the kid. And you would think, at least on the surface, that we didn’t have much in common. A chemist and a writer. A talker and a thinker. But later, much later, I realized that we were more alike than either of us thought. We both had wandering minds and an endless desire to solve life’s puzzles – whether they were in a laboratory, or a kitchen, or in observing others to learn what makes them tick.
Several years ago, I met and married the love of my life – Jill – after a complicated courtship that was difficult to explain to my committee of parents at first. When Bill met Jill – no, not when Harry met Sally – he saw that I was finally on the right track. After all, this is a man who fell in love on a first date, and kept dating his wife for more than 40 years.
When Bill met our children, who were even more adamant about being accepted than I was, he didn’t have a choice. They jumped up in his lap and stayed. And a transformation of sorts occurred in Bill; he discovered he enjoyed the physical closeness of a child. He spoke of having long conversations with Emma, of the endless energy of Katharine. When it came to Ben, he just looked and shook his head. And then he smiled.
Several years ago, before our family moved from North Carolina to the Washington, D.C., area, Fran and Bill visited our home for the holidays. We had a wonderful time. He took Jill under his wing and started looking for gadgets to improve our kitchens and our home. And for what seemed like the first time, we actually talked. The subsequent conversations we have had are ones I will treasure.
This past November, Fran and Bill defied the odds yet again to join us for one more Thanksgiving. And during that trip, Bill and I sat in my office at home and discussed the state of affairs in both of our lives.
What I remember most is Bill sitting in the recliner, hands across his chest, talking about the kids and Jill. “You’ve done pretty well, son,” he said just four months before his death. “We’re proud of you.”
Those nine words touched me more than you can imagine. I’m proud to say that I am his "son."
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