One of my dear friends, Rabbi Don Pollock, died suddenly and unexpectedly this week.
http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/wickedlocal-brookline/obituary.aspx?n=donald-j-pollock&pid=154069964&fhid=8784Don was the Rabbi who graciously invited me to speak each year at his Rosh Hashanah/Yom Kippur services—these are the “talks” that I reprinted every Fall on the Message Board. That’s why I am posting this here.
Don’s wife, Betsy—also a dear friend—asked that I speak at the funeral. This was very difficult for me, but here’s what I said:
“About 10 years ago, Don and Betsy invited Hildy and me to spend a day at their house on the south shore of the Cape. Don had Bat Mitzvahed our daughter M. a couple years before, and we had been friends ever since. When we got there, Don asked me if I wanted to go for an ocean ride in his boat.
When we went around to the dock behind the house, I looked at the boat. It was not much bigger than a rowboat, with a body of what seemed to be ancient wood, and a puddle of water splashing around in the bottom. The outboard motor looked like it had last started in the 1960’s. Not being much of a swimmer, I asked myself: are we really going out onto the Atlantic in this? But I trusted Don, and luckily, there were oarlocks on the side, and a set of oars in case all else failed. Don held the boat steady as I got in, and then he stepped in and pulled the starter rope 9 or 10 times with no results, each try followed by a minor adjustment to the carburetor. I looked at him to say: well, how about a margarita on the dock, with the usual seltzer and twist for you? But he was unconcerned about the motor: he smiled with every pull. Suddenly, and I must say, somewhat to my dismay, the motor coughed and then came to life. And out we headed.
On the ocean, we rode in and out of the swells large enough to swallow us whole. Large waves slapped fiercely against the aging gunwales sending spray into our faces, making me wonder what pieces would be large enough to keep me afloat if the whole thing came apart. But the boat held. And in that tiny, wooden dory on the edge of a vast ocean and separated what seemed to be 1000 miles from the rest of humanity, Don and I began sharing stories of our lives with each other. Stories of childhood, stories of family, stories of illness, stories of pain, stories of happiness, stories of life. And with sharing those stories over the years, as it so often does, came love. Many of you knew Don as a gentle, patient, wise mentor. He was. But I also came to know a very different side, his vulnerable side; a side that he shared with me for over a decade. It was this vulnerable side that I most valued, and the side, I believe, from which his other sterling qualities emerged.
But suddenly today, I find myself back in the tiny wooden boat again, miles off shore. The old motor has stalled, the boat is drifting with the ocean wind in and out of the swells, and this time there is no Don. All I have are the oars—and my memories of his love.
But that’s good enough. Stroke by stroke, they will get me home.”
Richard
