A year without Marshall Zakarin

Today is the one year anniversary of losing my dad, Marshall Zakarin. He died on Thanksgiving morning, a holiday he notably never liked. It is shocking to me that it has already been a year, and equally shocking that this year feels more like a decade. I think about him every day. But today, on this weird day that I don’t know quite how to mark, I decided to revisit the words I shared at a memorial service at his synagogue the week after his death.

A little context first. My dad, never the easiest personality, made things a little tricky by leaving us on a holiday. We could not bury him until Sunday - which felt like forever - but were missing important people who were away for the holiday weekend. So we had the memorial service a few days later in the place he loved best with all the people he would have wanted to have. These were the words I shared that day. They still resonate with me deeply, so please allow me to share them with you. And by sharing these words hopefully I am also sharing a bit about the man who was, and always will be, my dad.

On Sunday, I talked about Marshall Zakarin the storyteller. I also talked about how everyone had a story about Marshall. Something I have come to understand even more deeply these long days after his death.

Today, I want to do things a little differently. Today is about Marshall, but it’s also about both of my parents, and what this community meant to them. But I will start by talking about my dad.

Marshall Zakarin used to joke…

Well, let me stop there.

Because I suspect that there is no one in this room that wasn’t subjected to a Marshall Zakarin joke. They were long, winding, and often careening in directions that might have been a bit inappropriate. He loved to tell a good story. He was often trying to get me to laugh at his jokes, but usually all I could do was channel my inner Arlene Zakarin and say, with one eyebrow raised…

Marshall.

But he used to joke that he was going to get business cards printed. They were going to say, Marshall Zakarin: curmudgeon, troglodyte, and available for babysitting.

I wish he had. Because that really would have captured the essence of my dad. Kind of grumpy, of very strong and plentiful opinions (so you know I come by that honestly). I think you all know that my kids referred to him as Grumpa. He was resistant to all things technology - you should see what his first texts looked like, lots of open space with some random characters, and sometimes a word thrown in. The first time he texted with an emoji the four of us celebrated his technological success. And the only time he would really get mad at us was when we tried to give him technical assistance.

But his heart would melt as soon as he saw a little kid. He would play chess at various locations, and his very favorite opponents were the littlest ones - kids who were just learning to play. My curmudgeonly dad would sit and patiently teach them the rules, guiding them to think instead of rush, and praising them when they started to understand the complexity of the game. He would call me on his way home and tell me all about his newest chess buddy. 

The thing I have heard over and over again from so many of you was that Marshall was a presence. Linda Guber noted that no one needed to use his full name. He was Marshall. Just his first name, and everyone would know who you were talking about. Kind of like Madonna. He would have been tickled to hear that. My mother, however, would have raised one eyebrow and said… please don’t encourage him.

My parents joined this shul shortly after I was born. They built a life, and a community, here. My father davened regularly, both of my parents sang in the choir, and Saturday night minyan became a central part of their social life. They went for countless dinners with friends after havdalah. A little over nine years ago, after one of those dinners, my mom had a medical event on the way home and never regained consciousness. Their last event together was with their friends, this community.

And this community held him after my mother died. People really showed up for him, checking in on him, continuing the Saturday night dinners, inviting him for holiday meals. I saw that as a real act of love, one that endured for the nine years he survived my mom. You got him through losing his wife and then his sister just four weeks later. You got him through hip replacements and battles with lymphoma. You got him through the height of the pandemic. And you all endured countless and often repeated stories about his grandchildren, the people he loved most in the world, and loved to talk about most in the world. Ari and Benjamin, I just can’t say this enough. You were his heart.

And this community got him through this final stage of his life, including being with us on Sunday for his burial, and being with us today. In spite of all of his physical challenges, and my multiple years of fussing at him to move up to MA, he never wanted to leave. He just didn’t want to leave this community. Because you were his, and he was yours.

I want to end this with a little love letter to Temple Beth Torah. I will miss both of my parents more than words can describe. But I feel them here. I almost physically feel my memories of my childhood here - my dad feeding me M&M’s to keep preschool me happy during Shabbat morning services, leading junior congregation, my bat mitzvah, being the first woman to serve as gabbi in this congregation. And eventually my auf ruf, and then bringing my own children here. Thank you for making a home for my parents and for me. Thank you for being here for my parents during some really hard times. Thank you for welcoming me and my family back here with love at this profoundly sad moment.

And most importantly… thank you for putting up with Marshall Zakarin’s jokes.

I miss you dad.