Eulogy - Final Draft

If you were ever the recipient of one of Scott’s emails, you know he was loquacious. We’re about to prove the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

It’s been a few years since my dad was at his best. He’d been slipping, mentally and then physically, for the last 7 or 8 years. He knew it, and so did anyone who interacted with him. But even though it’s been a while since Scott could carry on the way he did in his prime, his relationships endured. My father was loyal. By being here, you all are reciprocating that loyalty. So, first off, I want to thank you for attending to show your support and mourn with us. It means a lot. Second, I want to thank you, on my father’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. 

Thank you for caring about my father, for caring for him and being receptive to what he could give back. We owe you a debt of gratitude. He spent the end of his life as many of us do: in great need. You helped meet those needs. We could do no more.

Having addressed everyone else, I’ll come to the subject of my eulogy: Scott Ritter. Some of you had a longer relationship with my father than I did. Most of you didn’t. Regardless of how far back you went, there are some truths about my father that I want you to know. 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, as the mortar between the bricks he chose crumbles, the gardens he kept go to seed, his favorite songs garner less airplay, and his few prized possessions become sediment in a future rock.

Scott Ritter had full pockets. His pants were saddled with coins. His shirt pockets were stuffed with pens. Wherever he went, he was prepared to pay with exact change or sketch a picture to illustrate a story. Our favorite restaurant lined the tables with white paper on which dad drew, calculated, or enumerated most Saturdays for a decade. At meal’s end, he would slam down a fist full of change and pick through the pile until he could leave the perfect amount in the receipt tray. Sifting through his possessions, we unearthed hundreds of pens and thousands of coins. We collect what we prize.

Scott Ritter loved to laugh. He loved to crack a joke. He amused himself by injecting witticisms into conversation like a forecast of scattered darkness by nightfall. Even if you didn’t get it, you wanted to laugh along with him because his face, which was formerly much fuller, conveyed such cherubic joy it was irresistible.

Scott Ritter was steady. Although he wasn’t quick, little could slow him down. He rarely missed a weather forecast or a Letterman monologue. When he couldn’t read the paper on a given weekend, he socked it away to read on vacation. He was a prodigious putzer, spending hours picking weeds cross-legged in the lawn. He never failed to answer the phone even in a meeting. Scott prided himself on his attendance record with his various employers throughout his career. Sick days were as frequent for him as leap days are for the rest of us.

Scott Ritter was always concerned there wouldn’t be enough photos of him. As the son of a photographer, he placed a high value on capturing moments for posterity. He would passively lament that, as the man behind the camera, he’d be left out of the albums. To alleviate that worry, we took a lot of photos of him. Adding to those, I uncovered a tranche of pictures from his youth that he had brought with him from Queens to Eau Claire to Manhattan, Kansas to Hollywood, Florida to Ohio to St. Louis. We brought a sampling of them with us today. Please look them over. May they symbolize his better days.

Scott Ritter showed surprising 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 a mother caresses her baby. That says a lot about a person.

Scott Ritter could sneeze and sneeze he did, loudly. Unbelievably, concussively loudly. Like, after he sneezed and your adrenaline diluted and heart rate decreased, you wondered if that sound was natural, was an instinctive reaction to foreign particles in his nostrils or else some sort of wry prank. 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 was a magician. He made time disappear. He would leave to pick up a gallon of milk and be gone for two hours. He would transmute a trip to Best Buy into three. Running errands became all day affairs. My mother was ever incredulous when he returned and asked where he had been. The answer was always exactly where he said he was going. As someone who accompanied him on those jaunts, I saw behind the curtain. He browsed. He compared prices. He took circuitous routes through stores. More than anything, though, he talked.

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, leadman, student, boy or girl, with whom he wouldn’t engage. He would acknowledge your presence. He’d pick up on some distinctive attribute about you, your eyes, how your name was spelled, whatever. He’d observe it aloud and pull you into an exchange. He was glad you were with him in that moment, sharing a tiny portion of reality together.

Scott Ritter could not throw a ball. He couldn’t ride a bike. He was an atrocious driver. 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 falsetto. I grew up knowing I was adored, and he didn’t. That’s why he took happiness where he could find it.

Scott Ritter was practically minded. He was not fussy. He had no brand loyalty. He knew how to stretch a dollar. He bought in bulk. His favorite snacks were generic. He always poured a second bowl of cereal to sop up the milk remaining from the first. In advance of every gift-giving occasion, he requested meager gifts like surge protectors, printer paper, and jewel cases. Going back to 2007, the lists were titled: Scott’s Semi-Realistic (at best) dream list. Which leads me to my next observation.

Scott Ritter was our Eeyore, a lovable melancholic figure whose resilience overpowered his well-earned pessimism. My wife, Megan, always quick with a conversation starter, once asked my father as we were celebrating his special day, “What was your best birthday?” He hardly paused. “I don’t know, but I can tell you what was my worst…” He didn’t have an easy life. He didn’t have a good life for a few stretches. But he never wanted to forfeit it. He survived his last 24 days without a meal. He never gave up on life or on the people who lived it with him. 

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. Fond memories were his treasure, buried but exhumable. 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 his grandchildren, for the chance to build Legos, piece together puzzles, and make a toddler squeal with delight by snatching them up and tickling them. He was grateful for the company. He was grateful for the assistance. He was grateful for the time.

Speaking of the time, I’ve about taken enough of yours. I’m looking forward to hearing from you, swapping stories about Scott, or Critter or Ritterini as you may have known him. So, I’ll close with a final story and the truth it taught me. 

When I heard the word “tumor” on the morning of June 2nd, I nearly laughed. Another medical professional jumping to the furthest conclusion. True, if you met my father for the first time in late May this year, you would have thought something was seriously amiss. But that was explicable by another diagnosis: Alzheimer’s. He had been diagnosed years before. That was the cause of his dementia. I was operating on the assumption a person could only have one grievous illness at a time.

But facts will disabuse you of fictions if you’re willing to suffer them. You can have a disease that slowly eats away at your brain and a disease that quickly fills your skull. So, the two months following the tumor’s revelation taught me about mutual exclusivity. One doesn’t necessarily rule out another, nor do four necessarily rule out one more. In certain cases, a plurality of factors can contribute to a singular outcome or opposites can coexist. Your father can relish his last dinner out even if he doesn’t understand what’s wrong with him and is worried about where his words have gone. He can exit a moving vehicle in a frenzy, not recognize you when you arrive on the scene, and still reach out to hug you when he returns home safely. A person can die a death like my dad did and have led a life we can celebrate. We can be joyful and grieving. We can be happy and sad simultaneously. So today, we can cry and we can smile. That’s what we’re here to do.