Jack Borin • Landscape, Acrylic on Canvas, New Mexico, 2010
(in the style of David Balbero)
Todd Weinstein • Pole, Savognin, Switzerland, 2022
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~Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803 - 1882) wrote:
To laugh often and much, to win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children, to earn the appreciation of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends, to appreciate beauty, to find the best in others, to leave the world a little better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch or a redeemed social condition, to know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is the meaning of success.
An Empty Box:
Grandson Jason asks, "Grampa, what's that sheet under that box?"
Jack answers, "Sheet? What sheet? Oh that sheet? Ahhh Jason, that's just a car, it's junk, just a Rolls Royce! But the box ! Ahhh, now there's the important thing!"
And so it goes, an empty box is full of endless potential.
An empty box could sum up who my dad was.
Many of my friends (here) have been through their own experiences of deep loss, so it always confounds my expectations of the human spirit, how they find strength to rush into the all consuming fire that is grief--to help restore others' injured senses when their own hearts are still ash.
Those present to remember my father probably know one of Jack's children, or grandchildren, but it would not surprise me at all if you are here because Jack was your friend.
I am humbled by such showing of support; by the comfort that is possible just from seeing the quiet on your familiar faces--a loving embrace, a warm touch of your hand upon mine.
I want to say, that is all that is necessary.
It is enough. You may not realize how much 'enough' it really is.
The word "shiva" literally means "to sit". There is tremendous power healing really, in just sitting. No words are necessary.
Grief shared is grief divided:
While we never get over loss, we get through it -- together. We are community. I have not come forward for others when there was loss. I lost myself along that path sometimes, some where. But now I know to be there. Even to sit. than not al all.
I appreciate the kind words and guidance helping us through this labyrinth of grief. All of us feel a profound man has left this world.
The irony of course, of my father's passing in the middle of the Jewish holiday of Sukkot, (Chol Hamoed) is not lost on us: How my father would have loved the changing colors of the leaves outside his window.
Sukkot is a time of transition: like life, it is reminiscent of the Temporal -- of our precarious dependence on, and in the natural world--of man's humility and simplicity before God. (most of all)
(Sukkoth recalls historical efforts to transition from mortal dark to immortal light, building temporary shelter, in transitory winds in hopes of sustaining precarious promise.)
The building of the Sukkah that my father did every year, and opened to all in the neighborhood, and beyond, is indeed a metaphor for the life and the HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT:
On my dad's 90th birthday I sent him a child's book called, THE GIVING TREE. When I read the story, I broke down and cried because nothing exemplified what my father's character more than this story's main character-- a tree, the main character on which this story is based.
It is a story of a sturdy, deeply rooted tree which grows tall and strong, deeply rooted in the earth where it receives nourishment, so that it could provide endless resources for the family whose yard it grew in. The young family loved their tree and were joyful because of it: The tree's leaves provided a palate of beauty with its seasonally changing colors; Shading the children from the hot sun; it's branches -- stretched out arms--a playground on which the children of the family fashioned a swing to play and laugh on for years.
And when a drought came upon the land, and the farmer needed to move up river to find new fertile soil, he came to the tree and asked to cut down its trunk, and fashion a boat from its trunk to sail upon the river enabling him to fish so he could once again feed his family, and sail to new land.
And when the farmer's children grew tall and strong themselves, and moved away, the old farmer returned to his tree--finding only what he had left: The man sat his tired body upon its stump, saying to his beloved tree; "Old friend, Here I am, and here you are--nothing but a stump, and though you still provide me a seat for comfort, I come back to ask favor from you once more:
My home is cold, winter's claws will soon grasp me, and the old wife and I will not survive without heat. We need your stump for firewood. The old man carried his beloved stump home cradled in his arms, and with tears, cut the last of the willing tree's bounty to warm his hearth.
---That's my father. Selfless. Generous to a fault. Always sacrificing, freely, willingly, for all those in need at his expense, without reservation, without adulation. He sits with others with quiet strength. He has wept a thousand times putting out the fires of other's hearts.
Surrogate father to many.
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When I was little I never knew what my dad did for a living, though it never dawned on me to ask him.
I saw hats all over the he's, and he wore many....
Builder, architect, draftsman, civil engineer, General Paton's cartographer, ice carver, mason, mischief maker, commercial materials developer, CHEMIST, soldier, Pied Piper of Huntington Woods, puppeteer, and chief disciplinarian who needed only to use his stink eye to get us back on track....and he had that down to a science.
I heard the famous story many times how his mother, my grandmother Anna, would remark how the little boy "Jackey" was a budding artist who might have some talent.
So, his two aunts took Jackey on a trolly to downtown Detroit to buy him a big box of Crayola Crayons for his bar mitzvah. And he never stopped drawing since. It took him a day just to read the unusual names of the crayons he'd never heard: Burnt Umber; Raw sienna, Crimson Rose; Indigo Blue...
He turned into an award winning water colorist and had a stint as a medical illustrator while visiting his brother Morrie at U of M Medical school. They were fantastic anatomical renderings! Fellow medical students put in their orders!
Later, when he became adept at oil painting, and started to copy some of the great masters' works from the DIA, my brother-in-law Ron quipped, "Oiy! He's a Master's worse nightmare!"
And so, when my dad painted fields of haystacks in the fashion of Van Gogh and Picasso, and the landscapes like Cezanne,
I thought he was a famous artist! (Like Picasso)
My father was really an enigma: He encouraged us in a backwards sort of way. He had two endearing expressions he used to do that:
The first was, "Why are you bothering with that?"
The other was, (waving his hand dismissively),
"Ach! It's been done before!"
Well, maybe some things have been done before, but everyone needs an opportunity to try a first experience for themselves---and maybe, improve on an old idea.
...And we all know that nothing motivates us to action more than an opportunity to disprove discouragement!
And later, when we began to learn on our own and work on projects, we'd find a library book or two, or an antiquated ruler or a set of mechanical pencils left over from Cass Tech, that he'd leave, lying around in plain view for us to find, without another word.
And occasionally, he'd peek around the corner to check on our progress.
He designed our costumes for Purim and Halloween, carpooled us to school, he had a workshop that produced homemade toys to order, he was the entertainment for our birthday parties, the quintessential kibitzer, breakfast maker:
And so, I thought my dad was a chef!
He left us with exquisite photographs whose subject matter was that which he loved most: People:
He loved family life so much so, he tried to get it all on film. He wanted to record every milestone, every event. And sometimes he'd remember to put film in the camera.
I thought he was an archivist!
He made bedside calls when we were sick, he'd stay up all might and watch us until we were better and had only two Bufferin in his entire medical arsenal, but those actually made us better.
I thought he was a doctor!
He built tree forts, and fish tanks; he sang along to La Bohem and Barber of Seville, took over our school projects for which he received more B's than As, (should have done them myself); He made us appreciate Shakespeare and Red Skelton; love Walt Whitman and Winslow Homer; Emerson and Topogiggio, and watch Edgar G. Robinson movies. He built Sukkahs every year; He wore a dashing maroon, quilted silk dinner jacket every Shabbat evening and sang the Kiddush off tune:
And I thought he was a movie star!!
[he looked like a movie star too]
He drove everyone around in old Model Ts; he bit us, he squeezed us, he pinched us, he chased us and scared us right side up with things he'd put on his hands and animate just to show his enthusiasm and love for all us kids.
When other kids in school brought in their rabbits or rocket ships for SHOW AND TELL -- I brought Jack. (I hoped he’d scare the teacher with the animated monkeys he put on his hand!)
He brought home blueprints from his office and we'd unroll them and spread the spreading the papers across our linoleum floor. We'd lay down on our bellies and study them together: He taught us how to read a "Plan View", and a "Side View", and what dotted lines, double lines, and what numerals and arrows meant; and how to transpose scale--and which direction doors open.
He said, "If you want to build something good, you must always start with a strong foundation and everything else will fall into place.
He said, "Most things require perseverance and training, artful skill, mathematical knowledge, accurate measurements, careful assessments, precision, and balance-- all of which I have...of course..." He continued, "There will always be inherent risks in anything you do, but even so, (he marveled at how) humans, no matter what the risks, will take those to task-- because without risk, we can't hope to achieve anything worthwhile."
"Start with a strong foundation, a strong constitution, anticipate, accept, and respect the forces of nature before you assess risk."
I'm not sure he was speaking only about buildings.
Jack lived a life of transitions: he witnessed technological innovations that rivaled Star Trek-- He saw wooden telephones and gas street lamps give way to Super sonic travel, Skype, and celestial landings: He saw heaven and hell on Earth too; He lived through historic civil unrest, political upheavals and a world at war: a world "gone mad" he said.
Once, I asked him why he went to war.
"Why did you go? Why did you carry a gun that might risk taking a life-- something that is against all tenets of Judaism?"
And he answered; "I didn't go there to kill, I went to save as many lives if I could help so. I went as a cartographer--I had the ability to read land-- topography; I could tell where mines had been buried, and keep the boys away from those fields, and maybe, some of those boys came home because of me."
And I knew he was a hero.
Jack also saw walls he never thought would come down, tumble-- and unimaginable, unprecedented peacetime possibility; He saved lives, not just human ones, and gave us life-- and through it all, he was the consummate protector: He was our 'Giving Tree'.
He loved nature; and water, and painting boats: He loved the freedom of sailing on the open seas and oceans. He had a cap for that, too.
I thought he was an admiral!
He was an avid reader of history, traveler of countries, admirer of peoples and cultures, a student of ideologies:
He had infallible techniques of inquisition: He knew every where we went, everyone we saw, everything we did and every note we wrote in school, and exactly HOW that fender got its dent!
I thought he was a spy!
He was smart as a sage, moral like a saint, and you never wanted to lose his respect. Yet, he was relentlessly forgiving. (This I know!)
My father lived in reverence of the teachings of our Torah and Talmudic precepts.
Jack was always trying to repair his buildings, fix machines, heal our colds, and mend our broken hearts. But today, he broke ours --leaving us. A big part of me has died with him, and a big part of him lives on in all of us, in all of his descendants.
Jack did not make a living, he made a life.
He influenced so many young lives, especially in our neighborhood with all his hobbies and sincerity. I still hear from so many kids around the country, now grown, who became what they are today, influenced by him, professionals, who love what they do. This --- was his gift to them.
I have one thing to say about PARENTS;
When we are little, we love them unconditionally;
When we come of age, we judge them;
When we become parents ourselves, we begin to understand them:
When they get old, we Forgive them.
And when they are gone, we remember them, by honoring them through our own good deeds and example.
ack Arthur Borin- (Yaakov Eden Baruchin, ben Shmuel) (Zion Zachor L'tzion)
My father--
Our captain--
Your soldier--
God's child--
He has returned to your paradise God, so please watch over this angel. Please take care of my father as he so kindly took care of all of us in life:
I think when God [Hashem] asks Jack how he liked his life run on Earth, he might answer, "Well God, Ahhch! It's been done before--but thanks for the opportunity to experience it for myself, and hopefully, I might have made some improvement on an old idea."