Remembering My Grandfather, Leo Levine aka Pop

I haven't posted here in a bit, but for those that couldn't be with us at the funeral, below is the eulogy I delivered this week in honor of my grandfather, Leo Levine.

 July 5, 2012

On behalf of my entire family, I would like to thank you all for coming today.

I’d like to thank my grandmother who put up with him for over 60 years; my mother and uncle who always put their parents’ health first; and to Desi and Ruby who cared for him in his last years.

Let me start by saying that he told me for years, no one should cry at my funeral.  You should have a lot of vodka and whiskey, but no tears.  I’ll try.

So what do you say about the Last of the Mohicans, A true One of a Kind, Uncle Leo to many, Mr. Levine to people he didn’t like, and Pop to me?  Well, I know this…since he had nine lives and died the first time 16 years ago, I have been writing this eulogy in my head for a while.  That said, I only get one chance, so here goes.

My grandfather was from a different time.  He told me stories about times when bread was a nickel and they didn’t have a nickel.  His brother-in-law Smitty became one of his heroes, not only for marrying Renie, his favorite, but also because he could fix shoes and they couldn’t afford shoes.

In some ways, he was my Mickey Mantle.  He was a flawed hero, but a hero nonetheless. Mickey thought he was going to die at 40 because all of the other men in his family died at 40.  My grandfather thought he was going to die at 60 for the same reason.  They both lived their life with the expiration date in mind and determined to have as much fun as possible before time ran out.  He drank too much, just like The Mick, yelled at people, called them fat, but when he smiled and told you he loved you, all was quickly forgiven.  He could knock you down and build you back just as quick.

So a few stories…

One of my earliest memories involves me falling out of a sandbox in my grandparents’ backyard.  They had a patio made of slate tile, I fell face first and was bleeding from either my nose or mouth.  My mother was carrying me up the stairs in front of the house to take me to the hospital or doctor just as my grandfather arrived home. He took one look at me and said, “What the fuck are you doing?  Do I have to stay home and take care of him myself?”  Keep in mind, he was yelling at his daughter…who was holding her bleeding son.  Not an easy guy. 

The next story involves a trip that I took with my grandparents when I was three or four.  We went to California, Mexico and Las Vegas.  I’m not sure why they wanted to take me, but we had a great trip.  When we went to Disney, we came out of the park and they couldn’t find the car.  As they were yelling at each other, I just looked up and said, “Goofy 6” or something like that.  Sure enough, I knew where the car was.  I’m not sure why my parents thought it was ok to send me away with these lunatics. 

 

Then, when we were in Las Vegas, my grandfather and I went to see the show at Circus/Circus.  We got separated and I found someone that worked at the hotel.  I told them my grandfather was lost and asked them if they could help me find him.  I knew where I was.  Looking back, it’s a miracle I made it back from that trip at all.  Maybe my parents were trying to get rid of me.

When I was eight or nine years old, I was sitting in his house on a Saturday or Sunday morning and I was dying to go to Bat Day at Yankee Stadium.  I guess I saw a commercial for it that morning on TV.  I called him at worked and asked if he could come home and take me.  He said that he was at work and practically hung up on me.  I heard the last part of the sentence as the phone was already moving away from his mouth.

Twenty minutes later, he burst through the door like a superhero.  He was like BatMan without the cape.  He said let’s go and we were off.  Now, my grandfather didn’t know much about baseball or Yankee Stadium, including how to get there.  I told him when we got on the Garden State Parkway that we were going the wrong way and he quieted me down saying this was another way.

When we got to the Stadium, the line at the ticket booth was long so he bought two tickets from a scalper.  They were in the same section, but he didn’t realize they were ten rows apart.  I sat on his lap the entire game, with my bat.

When I was 19, I worked for my grandparents for the summer.  At one point, I went up to him and said, “Pop, I have this great idea.”  I told him the idea and without hesitating, he looked at me and said, “Do you think I am a fucking idiot?  I have been in the restaurant business for 50 years.  If that was a good idea, I would have thought of it” and he stormed off.  An hour later, he came back to me and whispered, “Son, that’s a good idea.  We are going to try it.”  Like I said, he knocked you down and built you back up.

And then there’s the first time we thought he was going to die.  I was in college and he had a tumor at the stem of his brain.  It was a six hour operation, we were all gathered at Columbia Presbyterian Hospital and the surgeon comes out and tells us everything is fine.  I am the first one to see him in the recovery room.  He’s laying there, hands behind his head, legs crossed, almost like he’s on the beach.  He motions for me to come closer.  I think he’s going to tell me something profound.  He says, “How the fuck is anyone supposed to get better in here?  That woman is eating dinner, the phone doesn’t stop ringing.  What kind of place is this?”  I looked at him and said, “You’re fine.  I’m going back to school.”

A few years later, I was working for the family full time and we were trying to get a sample of a new product.  I called the company and they said we would have it in three days.  I reported back to my grandfather and he said he wanted it tomorrow and would call himself.  He calls and the same woman that I spoke to answered the phone.  He asks, “What’s your name?”  He then says, “Oh my God, what a coincidence, that’s my favorite name.”  Now, he’s 70 years old at the time and proceeds to say, “Listen, I need this product tomorrow.  I’m 80 years old.  I don’t buy green bananas.”  We had the product the next day.

And when I left The WindMill to start a career in real estate, which he thought was a part time job because I only worked five days a week; he called me and said, “This is bullshit.  I never see you anymore”.  And with that, our Monday dinners were born.  Every Monday for steaks…and some of the best memories I have.

He loved his business and took amazing pride in everything about The WindMill, even wearing the logo on just about every shirt for years.  Only a few people know this, but he was interviewed by Kevin Smith, the famous writer and director, for a segment for Leno that never aired.  During the interview, my grandfather claimed to have invented the crispy chicken sandwich and maybe cheese fries.  It was probably too funny to put on the air.

And when my daughter Avery was born, my 80 year old grandfather slept on the floor as labor started Sunday night and didn’t finish until Monday morning.  When he came to visit on Tuesday, he sat down and said, “This is great.  Now I can go”.  I said, “You just got here.  Where are you going so fast?”  He said, “No…I can die.  I saw the baby, now I can die”.  Three more great-grandchildren later, he got his wish.

My grandfather didn’t offer praise lightly.  He provided unconditional love, but his respect and his praise were earned and not easily…which made it all the more special.

There was no filter on his mouth…ever…and he hated hearing aids.  My mother loves to tell the story about calling and saying “Hi Dad” and him responding, “who’s this?” or “who’s this, Rena?”.

When I was growing up, we lived three houses away and I was there all the time.  We played cowboys and Indians…he played catch with me without wearing a glove which as a kid, I couldn’t comprehend.

I learned how to make coffee, play poker and bet on football games before I was 10 and had a full comprehension of how to use the F word before I started kindergarten.

He dyed his own hair and mustache, sometimes with terrible results.  He danced like he was listening to different music than everyone else.  He was obsessed for a while with Hermes ties, but called them “Her-Mees” and got pissed if anyone corrected him.

He was forever losing his keys so they had a combination lock on the front door of the house in West Orange, 5475.  He told me stories about Newark in the 70’s and 80’s when he ran the bar at Howard Johnson’s that was frequented by both wise guys and cops and how a few times, he was caught driving after having a few too many, but instead of getting arrested, he got a ride home from the cops or a nap at the precinct.

He tried to listen to Springsteen music because he wanted to understand what all the fuss was about, but couldn’t understand any of the lyrics.  He hated Joe Torre because he never smiled; hated Al Gore because he mentioned Tipper too often when he campaigned, and would yell, “Tipper, Tipper, Tipper…who gives a shit about Tipper.”  He thought George W was a liar and interested in getting his friends rich, and complained that my grandmother and her friends were the reason he got elected because they couldn’t figure out the ballot.  And he hated old people on principle alone.

He hated Florida saying that in Florida he was just some old schmuck. In New Jersey, he had his family and his business.  He drove around Long Branch in his red car and everyone knew who he was.

He appreciated those with strong work ethics, had no patience for people he thought were lazy or stupid.  He loved successful people, admired his nephews Gerry, Michael, Alvin, Elliot and Lenny…and always thought that he could have done better…not for himself, but for his family.  He would say, If I had done this…none of us would have to work and I would respond, “Then what would we do all day?”

And as my wife pointed out to me last night, he and my grandmother created something so very special.  My mother and David have carried it on, but it started with Sunday night Chinese food dinners at 28 Waddington, Passover Seders in Howard Johnson’s, Hanukah in West Orange with a million toys and so many other times where it wasn’t important why…just important that we were all together.  Sometimes it was just our branch of the family, but as a kid, it so often included his brothers and sisters, maybe some of their kids…which is I guess why I am so close with many of my extended cousins. What an amazing gift.

And up until almost the very end, he was part of my every day life with daily phone calls…getting pissed at my grandmother if she didn’t give up the phone fast enough.  I’d hear him in the background, “He doesn’t want to talk to you.  He called to speak to me.”  He was more excited to hear about my successes that I was to tell him…and I was pretty excited.

So he gave me a lot of advice over the years…some that I took, some that I didn’t.  But, I will leave you with two things.

First, what does the sign say?  Don’t trust anyone.  I would ask him sometimes if he trusted me.  Sometimes, he would smile… and say no. 

Second, he would always say, “Getting old sucks.  Have fun while you’re young”.  I hope wherever he is today, and I don’t know what I believe, but I hope he’s young, a little mean, a drink in one hand, a cigarette in the other, having a good time.  That’s the guy I will remember..and after the last few years, he deserves it.