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Eulogies for
Si
Martin Wakesberg:
To Dad: 2/25/08
It feels very strange to be standing here
today talking about my dad. So many times he has stood in this very spot
speaking so eloquently of all the family and friends who have passed
before him. He was always the go-to guy whenever a close family member or
friend needed someone to speak words that could do justice to the memory
of that person. Words were my father's life and he would use them
eloquently.
Life! How do you distill a man's
life into a few minutes? Where do you start? What to include or what to
leave out? Perhaps a shtetl, in 1913, Kielce Poland? As a young boy of 8,
crossing the Atlantic on the steamer to America, so full of hope and
enthusiasm? As a boy living in the south Bronx or later as a young man
moving to the "upper" Bronx with his family. As a loving older brother to
his two younger brothers Joseph and Irving. As a man who had the wonderful
good fortune to have two terrific women in his life, married 50 years to
his wife Alice, our mother. And later, having a second life with Sandy, a
woman he knew even before my mother, and spending 17 years in her loving
company, longer than many marriages. As a father to two children -- my
sister Carol and me. And a wonderful grandfather to four boys who always
looked up to him with reverence and respect. He would kvell about
all their accomplishments, major or minor, attending all their college
graduations, celebrating Peter's wedding, Eli's marriage, inheriting his
three great grandchildren. And my kids, Joel, whose emails were always
such a source of pleasure for their detail, and my eldest, Joshua who
remained in NYC after college with whom he shared a very special and close
relationship, often discussing politics and literature over dinner at the
local restaurants. All of his grandchildren were very special to him, and
he loved you all very much.
I will leave it to others to
describe their own relationships with my dad from their own point of view,
as a friend, a business associate or as a relative. My memories are as a
son and can best be shared anecdotally, perhaps the best way to capture
the spirit that reveals the essence of the man that everyone seemed to
know and love.
I once asked my dad, not too long
ago, what is the secret, your secret, having lived so long and so
well. He always seemed to bounce back from one situation after another. I
imagined he would make some profound statement as to his love of his job,
of music, of writing, theater, poetry, Shakespeare. Instead, he looked at
me and simply but seriously said, "the secret is, I have never taken a
nap!" This is true. I was initially amused by his answer, although later
realized, of course he never took a nap! He had too many things
to do. Too many friends, plays, movies to see. Too much to do. A nap!?
Not his style.
His style was simply to live. He
didn't try to dissect what he was doing or should do. He followed his
instincts and simply did what he believed was right. Several years ago
following his 90th birthday, I asked about his plans for retirement. He
was truly shocked that I would even consider that possibility. It
occurred to me as it does now, as I, too, approach retirement, that what I
saw as odd I now view as wisdom and am truly grateful that I had the good
fortune to share that with him.
These memories make me smile when
I think of my dad. Of course he could be a very determined, some might
even say, stubborn man. Perhaps most people didn't quite see that side of
him. Alongside my mom, he appeared so even, and thoughtful, less
emotional than certainly the Fein side of the family. But he did have a
stubborn streak that could be quite forceful. For years, my sister, Sandy
and I suggested that he use a hearing aid. His answer was simple but
firm: "Absolutely not. People will just have to talk louder!" And that is
just what they had to do, often to the dismay of the neighbors.
And I remember as a kid I would
look forward to our Saturday morning walks, accompanying him to his
tailor, walking down Pelham Parkway to White Plains Road, then to the
Chinese laundry and perhaps finally to Snowflake bakery to get a seeded
rye. I recall those moments vividly, just being with my dad who seemed to
me larger than life!
Or perhaps those late nights both
he and my mom spent playing canasta with Muttl and Trudy Gildin. Anyone
who knew that group would know the incendiary nature of those people in
the heat of a game. They would all be yelling fiercely. Well, not all -- my
dad never raised his voice. Friends like that they don't make anymore.
His enthusiastic support for the
state of Israel and justice for not just Jews, but all Americans was truly
inspirational. Although not a religious man, he was a devout Jew in his
own way. For many years he devoted his life through the Farband Labor
Zionist Order and worked diligently for the establishment of a
Jewish state. Though we rarely went to synagogue and I didn't start Hebrew
school until the ripe old age of 11, I was proud to be Jewish.
But it's the recent times that I
have valued the most, whether sitting with him in his hospital room, or in
his home, or out to dinner. I would spend hours talking to him about his
life and his loves and his passions. I often asked him about his life, and
he would regale me with details of long-ago events, so clearly focused I
was often transported to another time and place. He spoke his words as
eloquently as he wrote them.
Our conversations would go from
politics to literature, to history, to the theater and to concerts and
most often movies. How important it was for both my parents to relocate
from the Bronx, as others were moving out to the suburbs, to one block
from Lincoln Center, literally the center of his cultural universe. He was
able to enjoy his Lincoln Center until the very end, and went to concerts
so often I told him not long ago that he was out having fun more than I
was!
And there was always something
new to learn from my father,
Like how he met my mother, vivid
memories he enjoyed telling over and over. Or how he knew Sandy from their
early socialist days. And his love for both of his brothers. He recently
told me that he would phone his late brother Joe every week without fail
over the past years. I expressed some skepticism about that, surely he
must be exaggerating, but he refused to concede. "Every week" he asserted,
and that was the end of that. Or the joy he would often tell me, in
reconnecting with his brother Irving and sister-in-law Florence and so
looked forward to their visits together.
But simply watching him work was
the true joy. He was as determined an artist as I have ever seen and would
immerse himself in his work completely, even mastering the computer and
giving up his beloved typewriter. Well, almost mastering the computer. I
also remember those late night phone calls pleading with me to help him
find the missing AOL icon on his desktop. We were both equally grateful
for Joshua's proximity and his willingness to help fix his computer.
But he would stare at that screen
and just write, later in his life concentrating on poetry and prose and
finding on-line journals to publish his works. At 90 he was selected to be
poet of the month on poetic voices.com. When he told me they asked
him to send a short bio I said, make sure you mention that you're 90,
thinking that would add some interest. "No," he said, "the work will stand
on its own." He had no need to embellish his product. And how proud he was
to have the esteemed Bloomsbury Review publish one of his book
reviews!
I am truly lucky to have lived
long enough to learn to appreciate my dad not for who I though my dad
should be, but for whom he truly was, an inspiration for both my
sister and me in how simply and fully he lived his life. The true joy of
living. And the youthful spirit he had right up to the end. His pleasure
of the company of his friends at the Mahler Society, all relative
Youngsters who enjoyed his company and constantly recharged his energies.
It was not just those around him that made him feel young, he was simply
young. And special.
He died peacefully and quietly at
home surrounded by family and friends. Not more than fifteen minutes
before he died I spoke to him on the phone and asked him how he felt. In a
tired voice he forcefully answered, "better!" He felt better.
Better than what I asked. Better than before, he said. He later closed his
eyes and went to sleep. We should all be so lucky.
When my father spoke at my uncle
Joe's funeral, he quoted Horatio's final words about his dear Hamlet,
words that seem to me the most fitting parting to him now.
Now cracks a noble heart. Good
night, sweet prince,
And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!
Carl Selkin
(son-in-law)
What makes it so
improbable that Si is gone is that he always snapped back from whatever setback
fate dealt him.
It was like there
was some magical re-set button that he could push and he'd be restored. Of
course, if it was his computer that needed to be re-set, he'd have to call in a
grandchild or two, or if really desperate, Martin or Carol.
But what were
some of the re-set buttons to his life? Young people and children first and
foremost. He adopted people and they adopted him. Our friends, Sandy's friends,
their families and friends. It took a village to raise Si. And he naturally and
inevitably became every kid's grandpa Si.
Another button?
Travel. After Alice died and Carol had spent a week or so teaching him the fine
art of boiling water, she convinced him to visit us in France and tour the
country. He resisted, Carol insisted. Every day he spent with us he looked for
and found new and wonderful things to see and taste. We watched him coming back
to himself, and after that trip, he began traveling again and going to the fine
restaurants he always loved and collecting the matches and menus which I am sure we'll
find in some closet or other, with extensive commentary.
Theater and
Music. More buttons. In that magic closet are playbills comprising a history of
New York theater. He remembered every play he ever saw, I think. After his heart
attack, a concert made him whole. It was his favorite, Beethoven (not Mahler,
contrary to popular impressions). He told us how he leaned into the music,
anticipating every note, looking to the melodic future unfolding.
He always did
that, looked forward, leaned into the future. He was always current--both in the
sense of time AND in the sense of being electric. His love of literature and art
was uniquely passionate and astonishingly comprehensive. He read everything,
knew every artist's work, and instilled that passion in his kids, his
grandchildren and his friends. Sandy says it was his insistence that got them
out to museums and concerts. Some people his age don't buy green bananas--a
couple of weeks ago he ordered his subscription tickets for 2009!
Another button,
politics and world events. He was weak but he could get very impassioned over
the latest round of democratic debates. Our friend Ruth said something to him
the other day about his resistance to change, maybe it was because of our
efforts to get him to accept going to a rehab facility or a nursing home. His
response: "How can you say I'm resistant to change, I voted for Obama."
One more reset
button: Sandy. What luck that they found each other again and had seventeen
years together. They were each other's best friend, constant companions,
soulmates. Everyone close to Si is grateful for their incredible relationship.
It really was a second life, or maybe a second and a third.
We'll miss Si,
but he's given us all so much, so many memories to help us fill in this
temporary empty space. What more could we wish for?
Peter Selkin
(grandson)
A poem by Si Wakesberg:
INCANDESCENCE
This old volcano, uneasy while at rest,
Small fires scorching subterranean ground
Its hidden passions darkly, deeply stressed,
Its raw emotions tensely, tightly wound
Has felt the flow of lava in its earth
Hot, turbulent and wild, as if its fire
Roaring from down below announced new birth
Of secret stirrings and obsessed desire.
Like burnished rivers of flame flowing
Cascading orange cuts a mountain road;
Was there a city here? Is there grass growing?
Was this a peasant’s last and lost abode?
How in my heart volcanoes thunder
Erupt in fires that flicker in the night,
How life’s become a dazzling source of wonder
How incandescent when you hold me tight.
("Incandescence"
was published in the
January 2008 edition
of
abovegroundtesting.com.)
Josh Wakesberg
(grandson)
On the eve of my grandparents' 50th anniversary back in 1989, when I was a mere
prat of nine years old, I was called to the podium to say a few words, and the
only thing I could think of was to say, "I love you grandma and grandpa." it's
nice to know some things never change, and that sentiment echoes today.
I came to the City in 1998, and ever since then, I got together about once a
month to have lunch or dinner with my grandfather. We were never at a loss for
things to talk about, whether it was the politics of Ralph Nader, or literature.
So in 2004 when I told him that I was taking summer courses at the Jack Kerouac
School Of Disembodied Poetics in Boulder, he was overjoyed. And even though it
wasn't Keats or Yeats or Shakespeare, it was still a room in that "big house of
Literature."
Josh reads a poem by Si Wakesberg:
Memorabilia
Yes, I have lived a long life;
tapestry of interlaced histories
hanging in the parlor of my mind
to which I point with pardonable pride:
"There's where I sat in that restricted chair
listening to Mrs. Coombes reciting for all time
the triangle of John, Priscilla, and poor Myles,
so that it stuck like flypaper against my brain."
And here--perhaps a few years later, as I stood
before the monument mute in the morning sun
reading the eternal promise that began, "Fourscore..."
somehow is mixed with sonnets Shakespeare wrote.
I heard the music of the English poets
sounding across a changing countryside
and saw, in my mind's eye, the younger Keats
writing his odes in secret, letters to Fanny,
thinking of Chatterton in death unfulfilled.
There have been nights when the western wind
sang softly through the wavering palm trees
in plangent tones, of forgotten pioneers
waking to Whitman's cymbal-crashing words
as he stood defiant at the bridge of time.
How these words have roared within my heart:
tornado-words, tempest-words, hurricane-sounds
often diminished to whispers soft against my ear.
I heard sad guitars under a lonely moon,
green dreams in forests under oak and sycamore,
old Yeats spun webs to snare the unsuspecting heart.
O words--musical words--silkspun words--English words
that haunt the mind across the span of years
untarnished by the roil of war and waste,
words that to the sessions of sweet silent thought
bring back one's youth when all the world is old.
("Memorabilia" was
published in "poeticvoices.com," which may no longer be online.
It dates from January '04.)
Gene
Fendrick
A Tribute to Si
I heard the sad news about Si late yesterday afternoon. My deepest condolences
to you and your family.
After being so privileged to have known Si for the past 17/18 years, I feel a
deep sense of loss-but also a deep gratitude that he was so much a part of my
life for so long and, in a real sense, will continue to be.
His life and mine became wonderfully intertwined -- as the years went by, he
became a kind of 2nd father to me -- and a real friend. His counsel, which came
from a very deep wisdom and kindness was always available to me. And there were
times he really helped me through some personally quite troubled times in my
life. He was always someone you could confide in; someone who deeply cared for
people and whose warmth and positive spirit gave me and my family -- including
the Swiss branch of it -- (Francesca, Mandi, Marta -- all who loved him very
much) so much.
His humor and joie de vivre also helped me to endure the “slings and arrows”
(please note, in deference to Hillary Clinton’s concerns about plagiarism, I
duly acknowledge that Shakespeare is the source of the previous quote) of life.
And speaking of Shakespeare, how much I owe Si for introducing me to so much
great literature. Sure, I’d read Shakespeare before, but his passion for the
Bard and for literature in general was infectious and helped encourage me to
explore more deeply Shakespeare and, among others, Aldous Huxley.
And music -- one of the joys of knowing Si was discussing the many worlds of
classical music. We shared our love for it every time we met, and it was Si who
encouraged me to seek out the music of Faure and to explore the little known
treasures of Haydn’s piano trios.
Like all of us, I shall miss Si very much in many ways, but his kindness,
generosity, optimism, and love of life, despite all the “slings and arrows” will
always be an inspiration to me and a reminder of how good people can be and what
is really important in life.
Kent Kiser
A Tribute to
Si Wakesberg
Si
Wakesberg was a man of culture, class, and letters. He was the undisputed poet
laureate of the scrap industry. He was a consummate storyteller. And, of course,
he was the quintessential New Yorker. To me, he was a friend and an
inspiration—on how to enjoy life, how to remain vibrant and engaged all of one’s
days, how to treat people, how to be oneself and enjoy being oneself, and, of
course, how to be a great journalist.
I met Si almost 18 years ago when I started working for Scrap magazine at the
Institute of Scrap Recycling Industries. When we met, he was already 76—an age
when most people would be long retired. But not Si. Here was a man, I learned,
who didn’t have to work at all but who chose to keep working and writing. Maybe
it was his love for the scrap industry. Maybe it was his desire to be
productive. Maybe it was his need to tell stories. Whatever the reasons, I
marveled at his vast knowledge, his zest for work, his cultured personality, and
his stellar reputation. Everywhere he went, everyone knew Si Wakesberg. He was a
man who had earned, and who deserved, respect.
Over the years, we started working closer as we spent time together at industry
meetings and as I began editing his articles for Scrap. Editing Si in those
early days was daunting. He had been a journalist for almost 50 years before I
joined Scrap, so how could I presume to improve his writing? In truth, it was
kind of like editing God. But I persevered, and he was always patient and
accommodating with my edits. Slowly, he took me under his wing, an older and
wiser writer sharing his wisdom with the newbie. I felt then, as I feel now,
that it was a great honor to work with him, to learn from him, and, most
important, to get to know him.
One way I got to know him was through a series he wrote for Scrap in the 1990s
titled “Si’s Excellent Adventures”--and excellent they were. It was my good
fortune to edit that series, and I learned about his life and experiences
through that wonderful collection. In one, he recalled visiting a shabby scrap
operation, only to be led into the owner’s decked-out, showcase office that had
real masterpiece paintings hanging on the walls. He wrote about meeting
celebrities, traveling the world, testifying on behalf of the industry, his
relationships with the industry’s innovators and leaders, and his own career
hijinks (such as his two-year stint as an advertising salesman).
As we entered the 21st century, Si decided to write profiles of senior statesmen
in the scrap industry. So in 2002—at age 88—he forged ahead with this ambitious
series, which carried him across the country to meet and interview his subjects.
Once again, I was awed by his work ethic, his refusal to slow down, and his
desire to tell the story of the industry he loved. For this series, Si penned 26
amazing stories over five years—writing even as his health started to fail him.
Now, Si’s pen and his computer keys are silent, and we are all left to face a
diminished world without him in it. Fortunately, we have our memories of Si to
bring warmth to our hearts and smiles to our faces. One of my favorite memories
was the time Si boldly accompanied Bob Garino, Bert Garino, and me to a rock
concert near Chicago, where he stood for more than two hours, 10 feet from the
stage, body to body with people a quarter his age, and he had a smile on his
face the whole time. There were also countless dinners where he would hold court
with his fabulous recollections, which he would always begin by wagging his
finger and saying, “Lemme tell ya a funny story….” I remember he had the most
elegant handwriting of any man I know. I remember he always wore a sport coat or
suit and looked totally put together. And I remember how I would always
introduce him as a legend in the industry, and he would always wave me off,
refusing to believe his own press clippings.
Now, looking back over Si’s life, I can only say that we should all be so lucky
to be like him—a 94-year-old who lived independently, retained all his
faculties, got around on our own, remained productive and creative to the end,
and enjoyed a life enriched by loving family, friends, and his wonderful
companion Sandy Fendrick. What’s not to like about that? While I do have a heavy
heart about his passing—for I will miss him dearly—I also am happy that he lived
life so well, which is cause for celebration.
One final note: Si’s last article for Scrap magazine will appear in our next
issue, coming out in March. It is a reflection on his interview series with
senior statesmen in the scrap business. You could say that series was his way of
paying final respects to the industry he loved, a way of looking back through
the life stories of his compatriots and saying a big “Thanks.” And I find it
fitting that not even death can stop Si Wakesberg from getting his work
published.
Kent Kiser
Arlington, Va.
Feb. 24, 2008
Kent Kiser is publisher and editor-in-chief of Scrap Magazine, a publication of
the Institute of Scrap Recycling Industries, Inc.
In
Memoriam: Si Wakesberg
as posted on the
Recycling Today Blog.
2/29/2008
Simon “Si” Wakesberg, a veteran journalist and one of the longest-tenured staff
members of the Institute of Scrap Recycling Industries Inc. (ISRI), died in late
February at the age of 94.
Wakesberg, an award-winning poet and writer, was born in Poland in 1913 and
emigrated to New York City at age 8. He lived in New York the rest of his life.
Wakesberg earned a degree in liberal arts-social sciences at The College of the
City of New York and a master’s degree in English at Teachers College of
Columbia University.
His debut as a recycling journalist came in 1942 when he became editor of the
Daily Mill Stock Reporter. He later worked for the Waste Trade Journal and the
Daily Metal Reporter, where he interviewed and got to know scrap industry
leaders and staff members of the Institute of Scrap Iron and Steel (ISIS) and
the National Association of Recycling Industries (NARI), ISRI’s predecessor
associations.
In 1958 he was hired by NARI as secretary of its metal dealers division and
secondary metal institute, later assuming the role of commodities vice
president. In those roles, he founded NARI’s commodity roundtable programs in
1975, an event that now attracts hundreds of scrap traders to meetings in
Chicago each fall.
When NARI and ISIS formed ISRI in 1987, Wakesberg became New York bureau chief
of ISRI’s Scrap magazine, a position he held until his death. For Scrap, he
wrote commodity market reports, coverage of industry events, profiles of senior
statesmen in the industry, and recollections of his career through a series
titled “Si’s Excellent Adventures.”
Aside from his work for recycling trade publications, Wakesberg wrote both
poetry and prose for many magazines.
In his personal life, Wakesberg married Alice Fein in 1938, and they had two
children—Carol and Martin—as well as four grandchildren and three
great-grandchildren. Following Alice’s death in 1989, Si found happiness with
lifelong friend Sandy Fendrick.
“Si was an institution at ISRI and will be missed by all of us who had the
privilege and honor to work with him and get to know him over the years,” says
ISRI President Robin K. Wiener.
Donations in Si’s name can be made to the Jewish National Fund, the New York
Public Library or the Central Park Conservancy.
Friday, February 29, 2008
New York Times: Paid
Notice: WAKESBERG, SIMON
WAKESBERG--Simon, 94 on February 22, 2008. Beloved husband of the late Alice
(Fein). Loving father of Martin (Ellen) and Carol Selkin (Carl). Devoted
grandfather of Peter (Bonnie), Eli (Elizabeth), Joshua and Joel.
Great-grandfather of Andrew, Lynn and Elizabeth. Dear brother of Irving and the
late Joseph Waksberg. Uncle to many loved nieces and nephews. He was devoted to
his companion of 17 years, Alexandra Fendrick. Writer, poet, and journalist,
lover of the arts and friend of Israel, he was still employed by the Institute
of Scrap Recycling Industries. Service Monday 12:45pm at The Riverside, 76th
Street and Amsterdam Avenue.
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