My Daughter Reads What His Daughter Can't

Dad as chemist. He worked with other great minds
to develop important antibiotics we still use today.
The back of the photo says:
PHOTO LAB.
LEDERLE LAB. DIV.
American Cyanamid Company
Pearl River, New York
Negative No. 775-3

I wrote something about Dad to hand out at the funeral Mass. There was no way I could have read it coherently without sobbing--to my amazement, Figgy volunteered.

Before Mass, with a nod from the priest, she stepped up to the pulpit [calmly and confidently, in her patent leather slingback heels] in the church I went to for decades. The one where I made my First Holy Communion, my Confirmation. The one where Sis and I walked in May processions for Mary's crowning. The one Mom went to for Novenas. The one where I got ashes--and got married. The one where Mom had me pray for Sis when she had an organic chemistry exam--the one where Dad snored through a sermon or two. The one I walked to alone on May 20, 1981, to fall on my knees and pray through tears after getting the news that my mother died. The one where her funeral was, and my grandfather's, too.

H. did a Scripture reading, and so did my cousin, Linda. I am thankful for these brave people.

Here's what I wrote about Dad. I made copies on paper that Figgy illustrated for him with three angels [all with halos and wings, two holding flowers] and a towering tree. Both of us were tired; we did our work Friday night after returning from the evening wake and before going back for the early morning gathering. I was up making copies till 1 A.M. This is not my best writing, but my best given the time I had. Good night.

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Thank you for coming to remember my grandfather. My Mom wrote this.

There goes a great man. Some have buildings or hospital wings named for them—others, bridges and tunnels. Our Dad leaves behind nothing of the sort, nothing concrete and official like that. What he leaves, he leaves in our hearts.

John Garbarini’s greatness can be measured in his gift for talking and making friends. In the fruits of his sharp memory, which could still perfectly color a picture of his boyhood with his parents and brothers in the Bronx, from the wine made in the basement to the laundry boiled on the stove. He could tell us in detail about high school days in Manhattan, and his mother feeding a homeless man who knocked on their door. His Italian father meeting our mother’s Irish father. His brother’s candy store, and his job minding it, making milkshakes for himself and the cat.

He had funny stories and clever sayings, hilarious plays on words. He would have made a great writer, his memory for details and ear for sounds was so keen, but he followed a path into chemistry, where he made some brilliant inroads of his own.

He loved animals ever since he had bunnies as a boy. He liked the ocean. He liked whale-watching. He loved to garden. He had a compost pile.

His greatness can be measured by the simple things: the bread he baked, the Sunday sauce he simmered, the way our dogs could tell they had the finest friend in him. By his appreciation of the quirky and the witty, the wise and the wry. By his big love for us all.

It can be measured by the kindness he modeled for us. The compassion. The phone calls. Our Dad’s greatness cannot be contained. What he leaves behind is laughter and joy and the ability to connect with other human beings. Honesty, pride and encouragement. The proof of a life well lived, work well done.

His leaving pokes a sharp hole in our own personal universe. But when he arrived in Heaven, it surely enlivened the conversation among the angels.

Dad, may the road rise with you. May you travel safe and sound. Please don’t leave us for good. Please write us a message in the stars, tilt the moon. We will look for you in the ocean’s waves and the whales’ tails.

You will live forever in our hearts.

John J. Garbarini
April 20, 1923—March 9, 2011