Cory, just so you know, to honor your parents, I am wearing the same suit today that I wore to their wedding. I guess that was about half a century ago. Your father and I were both children of parents who had just lived through the Great Depression of the 1930's, and we learned a thing or two about being frugal, and making things last long--like our friendship. Did he ever tell you about the time we walked the 10 miles to Times Square from the Bronx to save the 5-cent subway fare to share a bag of popcorn? Well, I will never forget that day. We shared many adventures like that throughout the years.
Most of you already know me as Butch's oldest BFF, or Best Friend Forever. I am honored by his wife, Maxine, to have been asked to say a few words--something celebratory about the living person, Irwin Alexander Harris, my friend, Butch, who all of us have known, and loved, and now have lost, and will sorely miss.
To put our long and meaningful friendship in context, both his wife, Maxine, and my sister, Linda, were not even born yet when Butch and I became fast friends. As Butch and I, Maxine and my sister, Linda were born less than one week apart.
Butch and I began our journey through life together on our first day of school in September of 1948, at P.S. 67, in the Bronx. I was assigned a desk directly behind him by Mrs. Galuskin, our first teacher, because we were, all of us little boys and girls seated alphabetically. After Harris, Irwin sat Keeperman, Ronald. We kept those seating arrangements for the next 6 years. I sat directly behind him, appropriately, I suppose, because I would remain behind him forevermore.
Seated there in front of me, Butch was an easy target for the mischievous rascal that I was. I was forever armed with a carefully aimed spitball, or paper airplane, and as we grew older, and I more brazen--a pea-shooter. Butch was a good sport and took my incessant horseplay and hounding stoically. Of course, it made me love him all the more to see how he would do nothing, no matter how much I tested him, to abort our friendship. He forgave me everything. He always had a secret, quick smile and a light in his eyes that seemed to say, "I know that you're an incorrigible little putz, but I forgive you, pal."
He was unique in that regard. I can truthfully say that in all the years, throughout all the decades, since we had first met, he never argued with me, he never fought with me, he never spoke so much as a harsh word to me. Never. Our relationship, you might say, was more than unique--it was uncanny.
I swear to you, that as different as our nature's were, or at least, appeared to be, he never took me to task, he never felt compelled to criticize me. Perhaps, there is much we can learn from his example. He certainly knew how to keep an enduring friendship.
I have an hypothesis, and explanation, of his behavior. As crazy as it may sound, I think of Butch Harris as a kind of rabbi, a teacher that I was destined to meet. You see, I believe that the deep bond that Butch and I developed over the years was one rooted not just in our lives, but in the everlasting, as well.
I knew Butch, it seems like forever. I knew his mother, Helen, his father, Herbert, his older sister, Sandy, and when he was born, his brother, Alan. Butch like me, was a middle child. One by one, over the years, I remember each of them passing away, and yet, with each passing, Butch never changed his demeanor, at least not so you could notice.
He kept up his friendly, outgoing, caring, non-aggressive, jovial self. He appeared unchanged, despite the tragedies of the loss of his loved ones. He married Marsha, Cory's mom. She too, was taken. Heroically, Butch still kept his composure. Throughout all this time I stood by, observing him, empathizing with him, as a close friend must, in complete puzzlement and amazement.
Up to that point in my life I had lost nobody. I couldn't imagine how he was getting through all of this grief, managing all of this pain without ever showing it to the world, or at least, to me. How was he doing it? Why was he doing it? I knew him to be a compassionate guy, I certainly felt his pain. I had been feeling his pain for years and years.
And then, when I reached middle-age, I began to lose my family members to death. My wife, of 28 years, at 50 passed first, followed by my father, then my brother, my mother, and my middle son, Ben, who was just 49. And now, Butch himself has departed.
Finally, however, I realize the gift that Butch had given to me. The biggest gift that a friend can give, the gift of eternal, unconditional, unselfish love. For I know now, as I am speaking to you, that Butch did indeed suffer grievously from the loss of his family, but he suffered in silence, so that upon his passing we too, shall have learned not to suffer our loss grievously, but rather, to go on living, to continue caring for one another, appreciating what we have, and what he has given to us: the strength we'll need to face the shadow of death squarely and fearlessly, as he always had.
I have been lucky to know him and to have him in my heart longer than anyone.
Such mazel! What did I do to deserve him?
I have no idea, but I can't wait until I take a seat behind him again, to have him school me once more.
