It’s been a hard week.
My father-in-law, Leo August, died on Monday. He was also my housemate for the past eight years. He missed his 102nd birthday by just 12 days. So yes, it’s sad—but not tragic. He lived a full, long life, and up until a couple of months ago, he was still mostly independent.

His mind remained quick. I swear MSNBC fueled him. He’d watch and then mutter at meals, “Do you know what he did today?” He was Voldemort, and could never be named.
Maybe outrage is underrated as a cognitive tool.

What made Leo stand out—especially at that age—was how he refused to become a bitter old man. He didn’t dig in or harden. He stayed open. He adapted. He grew.

Literally, too. He was proud of his backyard garden, always tending to his tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers, and scallions. Not exactly farm-to-table, but close enough to brag about to anyone who visited. He moved at a slow pace, but he stayed engaged.

That’s not to say he didn’t have opinions. He had plenty—and he wasn’t shy about sharing them. He’d grumble that Bob Dylan can’t sing, and he never quite understood why Mick Jagger insists on dancing like that.

He texted, followed the news on his phone, and listened to podcasts. At one point he asked me how to speed up the playback. I told him to slow down instead. He didn’t.

He adopted my teams and became a committed Yankees, Giants (to his dismay), and Knicks fan. And just last Friday, he was still pumped and smiling when the Knicks crushed the Celtics and was looking forward to taking on the Pacers.

And about a year ago, he was invited to the White House for Memorial Day. Breakfast with President Biden. They chatted for about 20 seconds before Leo quipped, “Mr. President, I’m the only one here older than you.”

But more than anything, Leo loved his family and all our friends who got to know him, too. That was his center. His bond with his granddaughters, their partners, and his great-grandchildren was deep, real, and everlasting.

This is the eulogy I delivered for Leo on Wednesday.

Leo was not a religious man, but he had deep roots — in family, in community, in tradition, and in this country. His Jewish identity wasn’t about ritual. It was about people. About belonging. About standing with others and doing what’s right.

He was the embodiment of what Tom Brokaw wrote about — the Greatest Generation. He served this country with quiet courage. He was there at Iwo Jima when the iconic photo of the flag raising was taken. Later, his ship was struck by a kamikaze. And like so many from that generation, he rarely spoke about it. You had to ask. And even then, he’d wave it off, as if it was no big deal. But it was.

He was wise, maybe not in the academic sense, but in the way that truly matters. He understood life. He understood people. And he carried that understanding with humility and kindness.

He had a beautiful temperament. Never bitter. Never a curmudgeon. Even as he aged, he remained thoughtful, fair, and full of calm strength. Those qualities feel rare these days. Maybe they always were — but even more so now.

He was deeply American in the best sense of the word. He cared about this country. He believed in decency, in democracy, in doing the right thing even when it wasn’t easy.

You didn’t have to be like him to feel seen by him. That was one of his gifts. He listened. He paid attention. He made space for others.

His granddaughters, their partners, and his two great-grandchildren – Payton and Shane – were the joys of his life. Even as his health declined, a smile and a laugh and a kiss from either one of them lit up his day. I don’t think there was anything in his life — with the possible exception of a birdie — that gave him more joy than Payton’s pitter-patter running into the den to say hello or helping him push his walker around.

In his quiet way, he taught us how to live with grace. How to age with kindness. And now, how to say goodbye with love and respect.

He never wanted a spotlight. But today, we give him one. Because he earned it.

And he’ll always be with us, in our choices, our character, and our care for each other.

You were my best first mate. I love you, Leo, and I miss you already.

I know for sure his memory will be for a blessing.

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