A Eulogy for My Hero

Good morning Friends, Family, and Neighbors.

Thank you for joining us today to

remember our dad, Jim Curran.

About a month ago I picked up my dad from the rehab hospital after his first

amputation surgery. He’d been away from home, alone, for three weeks.

I was waiting outside by my car when the ruckus from inside began. I heard

a lot of laughing, and in the middle of it, a deeper voice delivering the final

punchline. The sliding doors slid open and five nurses and physical therapists

were surrounding a wheelchair with Himself sitting and smiling ear to ear.

His right leg was gone from the knee down, he had lost some weight and was

clearly exhausted.

“Nevermind,” he said when they got within earshot of me and the group

quickly got it together. I don’t know what my dad said or did, but each one of

those nurses and therapists came up to me and told me how much they were

going to miss him.

While they were busy saying nice things, my father got busy putting himself

into the car so he could get out of there and home to his wife. Upon one leg, he

hopped and shuffled around, slid into the passenger seat, turned to his new friends,

and gave them an Atlas flex. 

It. Was. Glorious.

We got home, pulled into the driveway where he was greeted by the rest of

the family. In the hustle of us kids getting his wheelchair ready and his belongings

out of the car, we somehow missed our mom sneak outside and around to dad’s

open passenger door. Lisa, Mike, Kathy, and I were standing with the tailgate open

when we look and find the two of them MAKING OUT.

Not a kiss, not a hug, THEY WERE MAKING OUT IN THE DRIVEWAY. And when

we (happily) told them to get a room? They told us to take a hike and my

Mom flipped us the bird.

That’s the kind of people who raised us. They loved each other first. They were

an undivided team when it came to their family. They had their own unique

ways of forming bonds with us kids. For dad and me, it would happen in the car

rides to dance class. 

From 1977 - 1990, every Tuesday through Friday, he drove me to Galipeau

School of Dance. Instead of dropping me off and coming back later, he stayed and

watched through a tiny window from the waiting room, silently cheering me on.

He was the kind of dad who knew exactly how hard a triple pirouette was.

It was a fifteen-minute drive each way and it was those minutes I’d unburden

myself. I’d ask his opinion on things, I’d update him on the neighborhood gossip,

talk about school, horses, progress on the latest fort being built. I’d complain

about Patrick. I’d talk about religion and life, my dreams and ambitions.

He would listen and cheer me on, “Yes, go for it! Of course, you can! What have

you got to lose? All you can do is your best.” And sometimes there was,

“I don’t know, Squirt. That’s something you’ll have to learn yourself. Worth a try.

Maybe next time, and, it’s going to be okay.” 

His bartender’s ear and Irish tongue made everything seem manageable.

When you walked away from a conversation with him, newly unburdened,

you’d realize he had given you just enough to see it through without ever
telling you what to do.

I’d like to share some of my dad’s famous pieces of advice and the

values he lived by:

• Honesty is the best policy
• Be kind
• Stay out of it
• Do your best
• Try again
• You sign-up, you finish-up (apologies to my 8th-grade softball team)
• Always root for the underdog
• A good joke can heal all wounds
• Measure twice, cut once
• Listen before you speak
• Don’t get caught
• Get your oil changed regularly
• Always invite the neighbors

Losing my dad hasn’t really sunk in yet. If experience matters and I like to think

it does, the hard stuff is coming. The quiet days ahead will let our loss settle

into the places we’ve temporarily filled with food, laughter, and being together.

That’s when the hard part hits.

I am focused today not on my own grief, but the beauty of this moment.

To think of all the people who have taken time to reach out and share a story

with us about what our dad meant to them. The stories are often new to us and

from those whom we see every day and those whom we've not seen in decades.

“Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak

Whispers the o'erfraught heart and bids it break.” 

William Shakespeare

The impact he had, the help he offered, and the home he opened up to all,

that is the legacy our dad leaves behind. One of kindness. Of helping your fellow

man and doing what you can with what you have. To leave this world a better place

for having been part of it, that’s the best we can hope for in this life, and surely

Jim Curran has shown us the way.

Thank you for being here, for understanding how special he was. He meant

something different to us all, but I think we can all agree that we shall not see his

like again. 

As I was leaving my father's side for the last time, he offered his daily advice,

as though we'd see each other again very soon. It was two o'clock in the morning

and I'm pretty sure we knew we'd not see each other again in this lifetime.

I offer you the same advice, “Be Careful Out There.”

Thank you for being here with us today.