So, first off, I want to thank you for coming out today to show your support and to mourn with us. It means a lot. And I want to curse you for staying at home and never returning our calls to fulfill a dying man’s wish. It means a lot.
Second, I want to thank you, on my father’s behalf, my mother’s behalf, and my own, for helping make this terrible process less terrible than it could have been. Scott’s survivors, myself included, will remember that. I want to curse you, on my father’s behalf, my mother’s behalf, and my own, for making this terrible process more terrible than it had to be. Scott’s survivors, myself included, will remember that, too.
To those of you who knew my dad, for however long, and cared for him, and were receptive to what he could give, we owe a debt of gratitude. To those of you who associated with my dad, for however long, and were careless, and rejected what he could give, we owe you something, too. We owe you something awful because that’s what you deserve when you mistreat a man, a person with weaknesses long predating an Alzheimer’s diagnosis, a person with dignity even after his brain tumor tried to deplete him of it.
Some of you had a relationship with my father for longer than I did. Most of you didn’t. Regardless of that, and which part of this opening addresses you, there are some truths about my father that I want you to know, and if, like me, you already know them, I want you to leave this place remembering them. I want you to carry them with you as the marks my dad left on this earth begin to fade, while the mortar between the bricks he chose crumbles, and the gardens he kept go to seed, and his favorite songs garner less air play, and his few prized possessions become sediment of a future rock.
Scott Ritter had full pockets. His pants pockets were always full of coins. His shirt pockets were always full of pens. Wherever he went, he was ready to pay with exact change or sketch a picture to illustrate a story.
Scott Ritter loved to laugh. He loved to crack a joke. Even if you didn’t get it, you wanted to laugh along with him because his face, which was once much fuller, conveyed such cherubic joy it was hard to resist.
Scott Ritter was reliable. He would do what he could do and prided himself on his attendance record with his various employers throughout his career.
Scott Ritter was capable of showing great affection towards cats. I saw him do it on many occasions when I would visit him in the basement. He would be at the drafting table with his headphones on, drawing something, or else dialing his way through an automated menu to pay bills over the phone, or else watching the nightly news, and Sweetie, our Main Coon mix, would be in his lap. He’d be petting her as gently as you’d ever caress a baby. That says a lot about a person.
Scott Ritter loved to shoot the breeze—with anyone and everyone. There wasn’t a hostess, waitress, cook, cashier, pedestrian, driver, ticket-taker, usher, attendant, sales rep, foremen, laborer, neighbor, stranger in line, postal worker, custodian, secretary, principal, vice principal, teacher, plumber, HVAC tech, carpenter, glazier, contractor, lead man, student, boy or girl, with whom he wouldn’t engage. He would acknowledge your presence. He’d pick up on some distinctive about you, your eyes, how your name was spelled, whatever. He was glad you were with him.
Scott Ritter could not throw a ball. He couldn’t ride a bike. No one taught him, so he couldn’t teach me. But he taught me how to take an interest in my surroundings and how to sing in false seto. I grew up knowing I was adored, and he didn’t. That’s why he took happiness where he could find it.
Scott Ritter could sneeze and sneeze he did, loudly. Impossibly, concussively loudly. Like, after he sneezed and the adrenaline diluted and your heart rate decreased, you wondered if that sound was natural, was an earnest reaction to foreign particles in his nostrils or some sort of wry joke. Regardless of context: in fine dining establishments, in movie theaters, in churches, in waiting rooms, he killed the vibe, disrupted the sense of anticipation, or disturbed the peace. If he were here with us, he’d interrupt me. I wish he could.
Scott Ritter had dreams, a lot of which never came true. But a few did. And for those dreams that did come true, he was enduringly grateful. He was grateful for his college friends, to be one of the gang after so many years of unpopularity. He was grateful for Lake Michigan, to set aside the volatility of alcoholic parents or the worries of adult life and bask in the northern sun, dig his toes into the whistling sand, and cool off in the boundless fresh water. He was grateful for a good meal. As a card-carrying member of the clean plate club, he complimented many a chef by eating every last morsel of whatever dish was laid before him. He was grateful for the grandchildren, for the chance to build with Legos again and to make a toddler squeal with delight by snatching them up and tickling them. He was grateful for the company. He was grateful for the help.
For those of you who improved his life, we’re grateful. For those of you who didn’t, I’ve said enough. I pray you get all that you deserve.
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