David Harris Memorial
From David's brother Godfrey
There were five eulogies at
David's well-attended funeral. We did 75 programs and we didn't have any extras.
The speakers were, in order, Michael, Andrew, Lilli, Marcus, and me. Michael
spoke at great length about David's upbringing and how unappreciated he was by
our parents
and yet the many hidden talents he exhibited throughout his life. Andrew talked
about his "older brother" and their many adventures and Lilli about his
willingness to help put toys together. Marcus told a number of stories about
David's visits to London, his knowledge of rugby, and the way the Welsh mates
appreciated David's interest in sport. Here, for better of worse, is the written
form of the eulogy I delivered:
I learned this week how differently we are affected when different people pass from our lives. You wouldn’t think it would take 70 plus years for me to realize what many of you have probably long appreciated, but knowing something intellectually and feeling something deeply are two very separate matters.
I now fully accept the fact
that the death of an acquaintance is a shock and a stern reminder of the
fragility of life; it helps you to assess the time you may have left and things
you still want to do. The loss of a friend, on the other hand, is the loss of
someone with whom you have had close but selective contact. We can remember
their special virtues and how they touched our lives, but we really only keenly
feel the loss of a friend on those occasions when something occurs that
might have initiated contact with them once again.
The death of parents, I now accept, means that you are finally on your own. When our father, Alf Harris, died in 1986, we still had our Mother on hand to provide the same shield against the outside world that had been part of our lives since birth. It was a familiar anchor that David, Michael, and I could rely on. But when Vicky Harris passed away, I, for one, realized that I no longer had someone in my life with which to share the unconditional joys of my successes and the unrelenting pain of my disappointments. How many times since July 2008 have I read an article, talked on the phone, seen a movie, heard some gossip, or did some business that I wanted to share with her? Dozens, I would guess. And each time this has occurred, I catch myself and then smile at the thought of how much she would have enjoyed the interchange. In those moments, her memory remains fresh and the legacy she left continues to contribute to my life.
But the passing of a sibling is different again from the loss of an acquaintance, a friend, or a parent. Losing brother David last week yielded entirely new insights on my feelings into the nature of our relationship; Scott’s invitation to speak today helps me articulate it. Losing a brother, I now realize, takes away a totally different aspect of my life. A brother, such as David, owes you nothing and expects nothing in return. An acquaintance seeks connection, a friend may have an agenda, and a parent needs to be appreciated as the years go by. A sibling, however, seems to have no expectations from their relationships with their brothers or sisters. A brother isn’t owed anything, and doesn’t anticipate getting anything. As a result, he can be totally honest in what he tells you and how he expresses himself because he has literally nothing to lose. People who want nothing and expect nothing are rare. People who always provide the unvarnished truth to you are rarer still.
For me, David was that: The constant bearer of the unvarnished truth. He was the reason that people have come to use the term curmudgeon more and more when describing someone a little bit churlish in his demeanor, always irascible in his attitudes, seldom shy to offer an opinion on anything and everything, never wont to guild a lily or paint a rosy picture in any discussion. In short, David was a brutally honest, absolutely frank, decidedly direct curmudgeon. As such he was loveable. You always got what you asked for if you engaged his mind. He suffered fools badly (as do all the Harris brothers), and had no patience whatsoever (another Harris trait). He was as profane as he was profound. That is what I will miss the most — his total detachment, his honest appraisals, his fearless assessments, his unvarnished opinions, his off-the-wall ideas, his deep knowledge, and, of course, his outrageous political views, all expressed in the shorthand of swearwords—both British and American.
In short, he was the only person I know who didn’t give a rip about whatever anyone thought about his thoughts.
The next time you are looking for the right word, the politically-correct phrase, the polite compromise, the balanced solution, think of how David would have handled the situation. He would have sought to cut the bull, wipe away the fog, clear the air, tell it as he saw it. Boom. In your face. Tough. But you always knew where you stood, always had it straight. How good is that. Plenty good. That was David Harris. That’s the voice I still hear in my head as I speak to you now. He would have smiled and said: PRETTY GOOD.
Thank you.
Godfrey Harris
December 29, 2010
Return to David's Memorial Page
January 4, 2011