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Jan Ziolkowski, Remarks at Interment

2023

Words are fragile but strong. The spoken, dew beneath morning sun, melt into vapor. The written, letters etched into inscriptions, endure. The durability, at first counterintuitive, explains Horace's boast that an ode was his monument, more eternal than bronze. Old-time Romans, like older Americans, often got it right. This paradox of frailty and durability, with its conjoined twin of mortality and immortality, calls for loving care in every noun and verb we touch. Like various other breakables, words matter. For our species, for our family, they stand as testimony and destiny. Today we have lost the dialogue we could conduct live with Dad until December 2020, with Mom into January this very year. Their favorite expressions, warm accents, still hang in the air, her near-imperative "You will be interested," his endearment "buddy" on the phone. Both individuals abide, beloved, with and within us, yet the conversation has shifted forevermore. In mind and heart, I talk to them even now, but boy do I wish I had asked and said more while they could speak back. The supremely simple "Thank you" and "I love you" top the list of regrets about things unsaid. (Millennials, heed the advice, if you want an easy Father's Day gift.) Mom and Dad met young in a college town and fell in neverending love. The municipality remains, no question, but major faces and features have disappeared. Only family legend, fading, tells of Miss Vickery, Irene and Olga. College grew into university; buildings and personalities vanished that rendered community familiar. As in their cherished Princeton and Berlin, the lone constant is change. Yet however much this place has altered, Mom and Dad have returned home. True, they were always, together, zu Hause. Their union had bizarre inevitability, Yetta daughter of the sole Pole in Lincoln and Talladega County, Ted son of the only one in Montevallo and Shelby. Never mind how the paternal pair stood (forgive the pun) poles apart, with physical

Jan Ziolkowski, Remarks at Interment Theodore Joseph Ziolkowski & Yetta Goldstein Ziolkowski, Montevallo Cemetery, Montevallo, Alabama June 4, 2023 Words are fragile but strong. The spoken, dew beneath morning sun, melt into vapor. The written, letters etched into inscriptions, endure. The durability, at first counterintuitive, explains Horace’s boast that an ode was his monument, more eternal than bronze. Old-time Romans, like older Americans, often got it right. This paradox of frailty and durability, with its conjoined twin of mortality and immortality, calls for loving care in every noun and verb we touch. Like various other breakables, words matter. For our species, for our family, they stand as testimony and destiny. Today we have lost the dialogue we could conduct live with Dad until December 2020, with Mom into January this very year. Their favorite expressions, warm accents, still hang in the air, her near-imperative “You will be interested,” his endearment “buddy” on the phone. Both individuals abide, beloved, with and within us, yet the conversation has shifted forevermore. In mind and heart, I talk to them even now, but boy do I wish I had asked and said more while they could speak back. The supremely simple “Thank you” and “I love you” top the list of regrets about things unsaid. (Millennials, heed the advice, if you want an easy Father’s Day gift.) Mom and Dad met young in a college town and fell in neverending love. The municipality remains, no question, but major faces and features have disappeared. Only family legend, fading, tells of Miss Vickery, Irene and Olga. College grew into university; buildings and personalities vanished that rendered community familiar. As in their cherished Princeton and Berlin, the lone constant is change. Yet however much this place has altered, Mom and Dad have returned home. True, they were always, together, zu Hause. Their union had bizarre inevitability, Yetta daughter of the sole Pole in Lincoln and Talladega County, Ted son of the only one in Montevallo and Shelby. Never mind how the paternal pair stood (forgive the pun) poles apart, with physical distinctions between Big and Little Boppa being least. Such different Europes! In multiple regards our parents likewise could not have been more unalike. Dad, a professor, crafted meaning by plying fingers across keys, but not his father’s ivories. He gave QWERTY a pounding, to stock shelves with publications forged from intellect and passion. He loved novels and, foreseeing this moment, presented a teenaged me (picture that!) with Thomas Wolfe’s Look Homeward, Angel. Meanwhile, Mom handled another helm, steering everyone, especially Gretchen, Jan, and Eric, but eventually grand- and greatgrandchildren too, making (in multiple senses) family. A docent, she curated, culling newspapers, mailing clippings to furnish help and afford joy. Somehow, mysteriously, the duet worked. In their household, romanticism, upperand lowercase r, era and aura, held sway. Teachers, they took the macrocosm, read it, imparted it. Lately their cosmos and culture have undergone, with dizzying rapidity, evolution, devolution, revolution. But traditions last. In our kin, as humanists, we nurture beauties of precarious pasts and presents. Despite geographic dispersion, we form a oneness, a people of the book united by delights and devotions, languages, literatures, histories, arts, and religions. These fascinations, our inheritance, bring solace, as we perform melancholy alchemy, weird sisters who mingle Bama’s and Boppa’s ashes with soil from their own fathers’ native lands. The homecoming befits this Alabamian couple. So too the facing headstones: flat-edged tablets bookend three-dimensional lives that henceforth we can envisage in imagination alone. Dad, once a trumpeter, contemplating treble clef on a plaque he designed, hears Bach. Mom shares German from their treasured Goethe lyric. Soon a grassy blanket shall be drawn over her. That color, her favorite, of nature, gardens and ginkgoes, he will wear also, a final green coat from her. Above it all, underneath it all, beyond it all, they have each other. They still have us too, as we them, now marking an end, but never to words and loves remembered.