Posted by Neil Rice Ayer, Jr. on January 28, 2003:

Personal Remarks at the Funeral of Neil Rice Ayer by Neil Rice Ayer, Jr. How ironic it is that the most appropriate person to stand up here and talk to us today is not here to do so. I am sure most of you have a strong memory of my father addressing a crowd. His strong voice had a reassuring quality and his stories made us feel that we were a part of something essentially good and meaningful. I try to imagine what he would say and what he would do. He would be more concerned about his grieving friends than for himself. He would ask me, "Neilie, what are we going to do to cheer everybody up?" And he would do everything possible to make us feel welcome and to lift our spirits. Recently, he told me how proud he was of his friends and family and what a privilege it was to be associated with such a fine group of people. As I look around, I realize that no one of us here knows everyone else, but that he would know each of us by name. I'm sure he would stand up here and thank each person who was a part of his life. And there are many such people who are no longer with us, but I believe he is now with them. My father was a man of vision and action. Sometimes we helped, sometimes we could only watch. To bring the ancient game of polo back to Hamilton; to improve the facilities of the hospital; to construct a challenging course, safe for both horse and rider. We moved the old links of pipe across the polo field; we painted six hundred yards of sideboards; we watched him address the envelopes and write the greeting for three thousand fund raising letters; we loaded the railroad ties and the cedar logs into the truck; we dug the post holes and weeded the water jump. My father was a determined man. Many years ago, we were to visit our cousins in Wyoming. We arrived at the airport to find our flight cancelled. (This was before air travel became so easy and dependable.) Not only were we still going to go, we were going to get there when we were expected to. He got us a flight to Chicago and a bus to Cheyenne and still managed to arrange my haircut along the way. I remember the raft trip down the Snake River that he organized. Occasionally, the guides inflated a small canoe to provide some added adventure, apart from the two big rafts. My father manned the stern and another young man sat in front. As we made our way down the river, suddenly the small canoe was caught up in a whirlpool. The stern of the tiny craft sank below the water line. For one brief, horrible moment, we thought that he would swallowed by the river. But then his jaw clenched, his eyes fixed, and his strong arms began to paddle with ferocious determination. Soon we were drifting peacefully down the river, laughing about the whole affair. How many times he would fight his way back from the brink. My father was a lucky man. Last year he told me "You know, I should have been dead three times by now, so I consider the continuation of my life to be an unexpected gift. I have been lucky all my life, in every way, and have never really had any problems. I have done more than one might expect to do in a lifetime. I don't know how much time I have left, but if my time is up, I will have done enough." My father had a way of finding a positive side to even the most troublesome occurrences. Often he would say "Well I'm just not sure if that isn't the best thing that could have happened". He refused to cry over spilt milk. He would say, "Well, it isn't the end of the world, and besides, there isn't a damn thing anyone can do about it." My father valued quality and effort over prestige and accomplishment. He often relayed his own father's message that he didn't care what we did, so long as we did it well and so long as we tried. This ethic enabled him to appreciate men and women from all backgrounds and to create opportunities by which they might achieve beyond their perceived capabilities. Once I was having trouble with my seventh grade English assignment. The verse read: "Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear. Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air." My father said it meant that there are many people and things of great character and value that are not given a chance or are, in some other way, unable to reach their potential. Therefore, we are to not waste our own talents, and we are to give the other fellow a chance, as well. These are only my personal memories. Each one of us here has his own set of impressions. Collectively they paint a richly colored portrait, yet they cannot depict the entirety of this man's life, much less the vast dimensions of the innermost self. I could say that I knew him; someone else might say they knew him more. But it would be like two snails arguing about who had seen more of the ocean. In the end, we can only know ourselves. So today is, really, our day, not his. His day was this Thanksgiving when he willed himself out of bed to join the hunt. His day was at Groton House when the winning teams galloped around the stadium jumping course. He had many, many days. But today is our day to be thankful for whatever good things he gave to us and to forgive whatever wrongs he may have inflicted upon us, as he has thanked us and forgiven us. Today is also a good day to try to understand something more of life. It is a chance to be in the company of the many souls who revolved around and interacted with my father. It is a day to understand that ultimately it is people who are important. A book without a reader is no more than paper and ink, devoid of meaning. So people are the vessels of experience and wisdom. When a person passes from this life, we try to understand what they embodied and to hold onto that essence in some way. The funny thing about the secrets of life is that they are not secret. They are, in fact, laid out in front of us each day, as they are today; we have only to see them. As these words arise from silence, come into fullness, then return to silence, so do our lives. I quote Joseph Campbell: "There is a Buddhist ideal of participating willingly and joyfully in the passing sorrows of the world. Wherever there is time, there is sorrow. But this experience of sorrow moves over a sense of enduring being, which is our own true life." "I've lost a lot of friends, as well as my parents. A realization has come to me very, very keenly, however, that I haven't lost them. That moment when I was with them has an everlasting quality about it, that is now still with me. What it gave me then is still with me, and there's a feeling of immortality in that."

admin