This Memorial Day weekend, my family marks the 102nd
anniversary of the birth of Julius Bertram Spiro, who passed away at the age of
90 in 2002. He was the proverbial nice
Jewish boy from Brooklyn, who somehow figured out a way to be prideful without
ever being egotistical. Julius stood
for many values – devoting one’s career to public service, supporting economic
equity, avoiding hypocrisy and dishonesty, loving learning for its own sake, treating
others with warmth and informality, never trying to call attention to oneself,
and recognizing that the smallest among us are the ones who think of themselves
as the greatest.
Julius was an economist by trade who as far as I can
tell never worked a day in the private sector.
Sadly, he spent much of his adult life regretting that he never went
into physics. But when I told him I was
going to law school, he lamented that I should have picked a career in economics
instead, because there was more room for intellectual creativity in his field
than in the law. Perhaps, though, he
was subconsciously revealing his opinion of lawyers, and the egos they tend to
bring to the table. Similarly, he
referred to doctors as “glorified auto mechanics” and looked at the famous right-wing
televangelists like Billy Graham with scorn.
He preferred cantors to rabbis – perhaps because he had plenty of
tolerance for praying and little tolerance for bullshit. While it is true that
he kept kosher in order to honor his own father and enjoyed spending time in
synagogue, he never wore his religion on his sleeve. In fact, he spoke little to me about
religion, other than to point out how hypocritical religious leaders can be.
Julius loved animals and children more than anything
else. He was a big wig in the
Washington, D.C. area Cub Scouts, and tutored students in the University of
Maryland well into his 80s. As an
octogenarian, the last group of folks he wanted to spend time with was old
people. When they got together to speak
about such topics as investments and illnesses, they just depressed him.
Julius enjoyed watching sports, especially baseball
and boxing. Basketball bored him to
tears. He felt it was repetitious.
Julius visited something like 60 countries. India was his favorite, even though he almost
died there due to some form of microbe.
Julius had a particular fascination with astronomy
and at one point even built his own telescope.
He clearly saw this planet and its inhabitants as tiny in relation to
the universe. Yet he was in many
respects a humanist, who had absolutely no stomach for injustice. He made sure that as a little child, I went
to civil rights marches. I’ll never
forget going with him to Resurrection City when I was seven.
Every year at this time, I try to remember Julius
for the way he lived and not for the way he died – with a feeding tube that was
installed just the night before. The
family put him on that tube because his brain was still functioning decently,
and it had always been Julius’ desire to live as long as his brain lasted –
because he wanted to learn for as long as possible about what was going on in
the world. Nevertheless, it broke my heart when during
the day or so before he died, he occasionally spoke to me by referring to
himself as my “son.”
I found out about his death at 5:00 a.m., and
learned the meaning of the word “keening” shortly thereafter. That evening, I attended a meeting of the
Washington Spinoza Society. I figured
he would have wanted me to do something mind expanding with my time that
evening.
One of the things I enjoy most about going to
synagogue is when I stop praying to God and start speaking to Julius. I scrupulously avoid going to any place of
worship in which I don’t speak to him.
My monologue is not a symptom of ancestor worship. It’s just recognition that I wouldn’t know
how to behave as a civilized human being without having been steeped at any
early age in the philosophy of Julius Bertram Spiro. Even though he never spoke well of the
discipline of philosophy – even though he always had more respect for facts
than for speculation – it is precisely his philosophy that made the greatest
impression on me, other than his heart.
I’ve never known a man to have a bigger one. It is ironic that it was his heart that
ultimately gave out in October of 2002.
But this isn’t October. This is no Yartzheit. This is Memorial Day weekend – the anniversary
of Julius’ birth. And so, this weekend,
my family marks the birth and the life of a wonderful father, a doting
father-in-law, the best husband I’ve ever witnessed, and a loving
grandfather. We keep him alive by
pointing out his legacy. And in his
name, we ask that each of you search your souls to remember your own loved ones
on this day whether they were veterans, Presidents, billionaires, or, in the
case of my dad, just a regular guy.
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