[Congressional Record Volume 143, Number 8 (Tuesday, January 28, 1997)]
[Senate]
[Pages S709-S712]
From the Congressional Record Online through the Government Publishing Office [www.gpo.gov]
TRIBUTES TO SENATOR PAUL E. TSONGAS
Mr. KENNEDY. Mr. President, last Thursday, January 23, many of us in
the Senate and House of Representatives attended the funeral service in
Lowell, MA, for our outstanding former colleague in the Senate, Paul E.
Tsongas, who died on January 18. The service was extremely moving, and
the eloquent eulogies by his friends and his three daughters were
powerful tributes to Paul's extraordinary life and career. I believe
that these tributes will be of interest to all of us in Congress, and I
ask unanimous consent that they may be printed in the Record.
There being no objection, the tributes were ordered to be printed in
the Record, as follows:
Funeral Service for Paul E. Tsongas, Transfiguration Greek Orthodox
Church, Lowell, MA, January 23, 1997
eulogy by former senator warren b. rudman
Niki, Ashley, Katina, and Molly, family of Paul Tsongas,
former colleagues from the Congress, distinguished guests,
Gov. Wald, friends: I appreciate this opportunity to be with
you today, to tell you all how proud I am to have called Paul
Tsongas my friend. How fortunate I am to have called him a
friend, a colleague, and a man who became a very large part
of my life. To celebrate his life and to recognize the
tremendous purpose and courage with which he lived is why we
gather here today. Paul as we all know was a soft-spoken man,
of tremendous charm, and wonderful wit. He was one of the
most decent, compassionate human beings you would ever want
to meet. So when people talk about him, the words
``tenacious'' or ``determined'' have not often been the first
that I used to describe him. But I am here to attest that I
have never--not in the foxholes of Korea, not in the halls of
Congress--never met a more determined, or more courageous man
than Paul Tsongas. Another son of this Commonwealth,
President John F. Kennedy, concluded his Pulitzer Prize-
winning book, ``Profiles in Courage,'' with this marvelous
statement, which applies to our friend, Paul, and I want to
share it with you this morning: ``Without belittling the
courage with which men have died, we should not forget those
acts of courage, with which men have lived. The courage of
life is often a less dramatic spectacle than the courage of
the final moment, but it is no less a magnificent mixture of
triumph and tragedy. A man does what he must, in spite of
personal consequences; in spite of obstacles, and dangers,
and pressures.'' And that is the basis of Paul--human
morality. In whatever arena of life one may mast the
challenges of courage, whatever may be the sacrifices he
faces, each man must decide for himself the course he will
follow. The stories of past courage can define that
ingredient, they can teach, they can offer hope, they can
provide inspiration, but they cannot supply courage itself.
For this, each man--and I would add parenthetically--each
woman, must look into his own soul. Paul Tsongas met the
challenges of courage, solidly, and squarely. And he asked us
to do the same. He asked that we each look into our soul, and
find the best within ourselves. To find our courage, and to
help us do so, he led us by example. Time and time again fate
threw enormous obstacles and road blocks in his path, but
each time, Paul looked within his soul and responded with
courage, determination, and driving purpose. I often marveled
at Paul's resolution and strength as we traveled this country
for the last four years. I wondered what made him persevere.
After all, having faced the condition that would've caused
most men to lead a more guarded existence, Paul ran for
president. But after I came to know him better, I have
realized what motivated him. In short, Paul has an intense,
profound, and enduring love for his family. Ashley, Katina,
and Molly, I'm here today not only to mourn your loss and to
celebrate your dad's life, but to affirm that which you
already know, you were his inspiration and his motivation. It
was out of love for you that your father found the courage to
persevere, and to succeed. He wanted the best for your; for
your generation. And he was willing to fight and to overcome
great hurdles so you too might have the chance to achieve
your dreams. Paul looked for the best in people. He asked us
to put aside petty differences, and shun the path of least
resistance. He asked that we, as a generation, pay our own
bills. He implored our government's fiscal irresponsibility,
because Paul Tsongas--like Thomas Jefferson--felt it was
immoral, and I heard him use that word so often, immoral, for
one generation to bind another, because it refused to live
within its means. We will leave here today, saddened by his
passing, inspired by his life, enriched by his friendship. We
truly give thanks to the Almighty for this marvelous life.
eulogy by brian j. martin
My family. My city.
Those were the two things that Paul Tsongas cared about
most in the world.
That's probably not news to anyone here, but it is
important to remind ourselves of that fact, because it is the
essence of the man we are remembering here this morning.
It is not a complicated concept, In fact, it is beautiful
in its simplicity. Many of us
[[Page S710]]
share this philosophy, but few of us live it as well as he
did.
His family. His city.
His family grieves today, but they also know they have been
blessed to have had a husband, a father, a brother, an uncle
and son-in-law like Paul.
I would like to say to Nikki: You are one of the strongest
women I've ever known. You have my utmost admiration and
respect.
You and Paul lived the greatest love story I could imagine.
No book, no movie could tell a better one.
I would like to say to Ashley, Katina and Molly: You
probably think the pain you feel today will never go away,
but trust me, it will. In its place you will have wonderful
memories of all the happy times you spent with your father.
They will bring you great comfort, and inspire you every day
of your life.
His family, his city.
Lowell is my city, too, and I have to admit I was worried
for it when I heard Paul had died.
What are we going to do without Paul?
Then it hit me.
Paul's greatest gift to Lowell was not the National Park,
the Lowell Plan, the Boott Mills, the arena or the Spinners.
It wasn't bricks or mortar, an organization or even a
baseball or a hockey team.
It wasn't his influence or his ability to bring people
together to make things happen.
Nor was it the great credit and recognition he brought to
the city of Lowell through his public service in Washington.
Although I must say, he did make us proud to be from
Lowell.
At one time, when people asked me where I was from, I'd
say, ``Boston,'' or ``Massachusetts.''
Now I proudly say, without hesitation, ``I'm from Lowell.''
And when they ask me, ``Where's that?'', I tell them, ``Next
to Dracut.''
Paul's greatest gift to his family, to his city, and to all
of us was himself.
He inspired us.
He gave us a shinning example of how to live our lives to
the fullest, and to make a difference.
He taught us what was truly important in life . . . what
our priorities should be. Nobody knew how to stop and smell
the roses better than Paul Tsongas.
He also showed us how to be brave.
His ability to deal with adversity was truly amazing. He
taught us never, ever to give up.
Paul has motivated me, he has inspired me, and most
importantly, prepared me to carry on his vision for Lowell. I
can't wait to get started.
And I'm not the only one who feels this way. Because of
Paul Tsongas, there are many others in this city who want to
continue his work, to make Lowell one of the best cities in
the country.
Some people say we'll never see his like again. But people
probably said the same thing when Franklin Roosevelt or John
Kennedy died.
It is true that there will never be another Paul Tsongas,
but there's always someone to pick up the torch and carry on.
``We all will die someday,'' Paul wrote. ``And on the next
day, the sun will still be shinning somewhere, the rain will
still be falling somewhere, and the moon and stars will still
be in their place. The earth is timeless, not those who
inhabit it. . . .
``And eventually, the next generation will have its term at
the helm.''
Perhaps someone right here in this church will someday
become a city councilor, a congressman, a senator, or even
president, because he or she was inspired by Paul Tsongas.
Today, when I look around the city, I don't despair or
worry. I think of Paul fondly when I see things he has done
to make Lowell better . . . and then I look to see what I can
do to make it better still.
So Paul, don't worry about a thing. We'll pick up the ball
. . . we'll finish the game.
We'll fight hard, and we'll win. Just like you.
And you know, I've got a funny feeling that you knew all
along that we would.
I'll miss you, old friend.
I love you . . . and I thank you.
eulogy by dr. tak takvorian
There are moments . . . there are moments when the future
is open. There are moments when all the preparations in life:
the education, the retirement plans, the hopes and the dreams
are laid aside, and something happens that is fundamentally
unplanned; something happens that we cannot control, and we
are left with no notion of what comes next.
A frightening moment. And yet this moment represents
something that is a fundamental gift, an amazing thing, a
positive moment, a creative moment, a moment when we have no
choice, but a moment when the future is open to us.
It is a moment when not our plans, but maybe some far
deeper sense of who we are can take control, sustain us and
make the future happen.
At such a moment, success is measured not by health, but by
the depth of our very own soul and conviction, by how deeply
we laugh and how deeply we hurt and by confronting the crux
of who we are.
That moment has come and gone for Paul Tsongas, and in it
we have witnessed his success and we see our own
vulnerability. It seems as though he would always be here,
and yet how more precious is the fleeting gift. None of us
wants it to happen this way--not cancer and not in our youth.
Maybe a heart attack, if it has to be, but not the big C. It
is unnerving how much we presume it cannot happen to us.
And yet Paul met that moment--his moment--his defining
moment--with courage, with determination, with good humor and
a smile--always that self-effacing, Mona Lisa grin,
infectious in its breadth and optimism, contagious in its
enthusiasm and conviction.
I remember the first time we met; my job was to describe
radical new treatment for a failing situation. I found him
hiding in the waiting area under a pile of newspapers--which
was to become his familiar insignia.
In my nervousness in the presence of such a great man, I
was wordy in my speech. He listened intently, but it was
Nicki who asked the questions. With an intensity rooted in
conviction he simply said, ``Let's do it.'' No debate. No
challenge. No discussion. Just a commitment and resolve to
battle on.
He did set down the rules, though. In exchange for being
the model patient, he wanted an equal partnership, an honest
relationship, the best that medicine could offer, and nothing
less than a total commitment from me, including a promise to
laugh at his witty jokes!
I knew then and there that I was in the presence of a one-
of-a-kind, special guy, and I dug in my heels and braced
myself for the ride of a lifetime, only now ended. We bonded
then and there, and I joined the community of friends who
benefited from his aura.
I want to tell you a story about one of my heroes of all
times. He happens to be Jeremiah, but he could have been Paul
Tsongas. One day he carried a clay pottery flask into a
courtyard, explaining to all who had gathered that they were
doing wrong in the sight of God. He then smashed the pottery
to the ground to demonstrate what God was going to do to
them. The priests had him arrested, beaten and put into the
stocks overnight.
And in the morning they took him out of the pillory, and he
should have gone home, and he should have licked his wounds,
and he should have been quiet. But not my Jeremiah. He turned
on them, hurling further insults, and when questioned why he
was inviting more punishment, Jeremiah cried out: There is a
fire shut up in my bones, that is so powerful that I am weary
from trying to hold it in. There is a fire shut up in my
bones, that is so powerful that I am weary from trying to
hold it in.
A fire shut up in his bones. Something to live for that was
more important than anything else in the world. An authentic
center. A core. A fire in the bones that will make you fully
alive in a way that you have never been and you will never be
any other way.
Paul Tsongas was my Jeremiah. Paul Tsongas had an authentic
core and knew that fire in his bones. He had a passion and
courage for life that was more powerful, more important than
anything else in the world and we were all witness to that.
Although I knew him personally but 14 brief years, I am the
richer for it because I came to know the essence of the man.
I came to know the courage of the man combating his cancer
and confronting his own mortality.
I came to know the courage of the man who signed onto
experimental and dangerous therapy when the bounds of
conventional medicine had failed. The courage of the man
whose initial hopes for cure were dashed, repeatedly, only to
fight the battle again and again and again. The courage of
the man who often said he would re-choose a life with cancer
rather than forego the lessons of these last fourteen years.
In the last years of his life, rather than dying day by
day, predictably he chose to live day by day. In his
proximity to death for many a year, he never lost sight of
his own priorities, and they encompassed a far more expansive
view of life than most of us could ever have, in which even
the trivial took on importance. In his proximity to death, he
remained selfless and he never stopped giving.
And rather than retreat behind the mask of self-pity and
involution he reached out with that extended warm handshake,
always volunteered, which was empowering, creating a mutual
healing bond, charged and energized in its commonality.
His illness gave him an entitlement to speak out freely on
all issues, without political encumbrance. It was the
obligation of his survival, and he defended it with a moral
imperative. His was a ``return to a journey of purpose''. But
to cancer patients everywhere it had an even more universal
message.
In fact, in a life rich with accomplishments, his most
unique contribution, which humbly even he did not fully
realize, may have been his role as consummate messenger to
countless others living with cancer. He was their model for
cancer survivorship.
He was a model of courage, empowering them to fight their
own malignancies and to find that strength to do so within
themselves; a model even to me, his doctor, when I broke my
neck in the surf and needed guidance and encouragement to
move on. He showed them how far one could go and that they
too, even in the shadow of cancer, could go for their dreams
and never abandon their beliefs. Win or lose, no dream is too
large not to be pursued at any risk, compared to the risk of
life itself.
He did not compose his life or construct his life or
carefully plan or reason it out or discipline it or calculate
how to advance within it--he just tried to live it. He just
tried to find that authentic center, that core of who he was
and to live it for all it was worth, no matter what the
consequences.
[[Page S711]]
The man seemed bigger than life due to the enormity of his
ideas and accomplishments, but what remains are the memories
of the essence of the man. Cancer did not kill his spirit,
his humor, his shy warmth, and these are the gifts that we
will have forever. It was his quiet, unforced, completely
natural, sincere love and joy of humankind that attracted us
all to him, and he never let us down. He loved people. He
loved children. He loved his family and friends. He loved
this town. He loved this country and what it might become. We
all felt safe in his intellect, loved in his heart and ample
in his company.
An authentic core. A fire in the bones that could not be
extinguished by cancer.
He never came to age and walk on safer ground and treasure
the memory of what he had accomplished, but therefore time
will never dim for him what others lose or never find or
never even seek. He possessed life with so much more, when
ill-health, and not the vision, deceived him.
In closing, let me quote from the poem Ulysses by Alfred
Lord Tennyson:
. . . Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world,
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down;
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
My belief is that our only hope is to have a lot more
heroes. A lot more heroes of mythic proportion, a whole lot
more men like Jeremiah, Ulysses and Paul Tsongas, who are
willing to live life fully and authentically. His life
challenges us to live life from the very depths of who we
are, with a love that grips at our guts, tugs at our hearts
and with a . . . was my patient, my friend, and my hero, Paul
Tsongas.
May God in His wisdom give us the strength in our similar
journeys and keep ever illuminated the inspiration that he
was for us.
eulogy by f. michael kail
The very things that made Paul Tsongas different--unique--
as a politician made him special as a person. And that is
what I would like to share with you today. This is not meant
to be sad, Niki asked that it not be sad. And I don't think
Paul would mind if this made you secretly smile a little.
To begin with, there is what the press is fond of calling
the ``self-deprecating,'' or as one paper put it ``self-
depreciating'' humor. I remember a birthday party for Niki in
the mid-1980s. Paul looked great, but his hair was definitely
not all the way back from the chemotherapy. Niki was
beautiful, but had misplaced her contacts and was forced to
wear some old, very non-designer glasses. Towards the end of
the evening Paul rose, to propose a toast to Niki, whom he
asked to rise as well. He looked at her and then turned to
the guests, all of whom were waiting expectantly for some
memorable words. Paul did not disappoint. Gazing into Niki's
glasses and then rolling his eyes up to his bald head he
said, ``I am sure, seeing us standing before you tonight, you
can understand the true meaning of ``Love at first sight.''
Of course, there's the legendary directness and the
competitiveness. It showed up not only in the uphill
campaigns and the senior swimming meets, but everywhere. One
night we were at a particularly boring show and Paul
buttonholed me to talk in private. At the time we each had
two children. Without any preliminaries he asked, ``Are you
and Wendy going for three.'' I said, ``We've got the Jeep and
the Chevy and our oldest child is only nine, why do we need .
. .'' He cut me off, with a really withering look and said,
``No, are you going for another kid.'' Without thinking, or
asking what business it was of his, I said ``Yeah, are you?''
He shot back, without a moment's reflection, ``Sure.'' But
for that conversation there might never have been a Molly
Tsongas or a Katie Kail.
And then there is the extraordinary sense of timing, the
daring and the luck. I don't only mean in deciding to run as
a Democrat for a House seat in a district that had been
Republican for nearly a century or risking that same seat,
after it had become safe, to challenge the only African
American in the Senate, or seeing an opening when a sitting
President's poll numbers were in the stratosphere. I mean
even in board games. There was this Trivial Pursuit grudge
match between the families on New Year's Eve, 1984. Both
teams were on the verge of the winner's circle, but we were
up first, and victory was clearly in our grasp. Our question:
``How many colored squares make up a Rubik's cube?'' Our son,
Tommy, who was 6 whispered 54; I ignored him, did some quick
calculations, and said 128. Tommy was right. Paul pulled the
card with the Tsongas question. I was hoping for ``Name Alex
Haley's third novel'' or ``Where was Sky King's ranch'' or
``What emblem is in the center of the Pakistani flag?'' But,
no. I could not--and still cannot--believe the question he
had drawn: ``What is the address of the White House?''
When I think of these stories and others I have heard they
do make me think of Paul Tsongas and the lessons of his life:
Follow your instincts; Ask the tough questions; Listen to
your children; Take what you do seriously, but not yourself;
and And never give up.
Paul Tsongas was a one of a kind. And we will miss him more
than words can say.
eulogy by dennis kanin
I first met Paul a quarter of a century ago at the
Middlesex County Reform Caucus. I was a delegate from
Cambridge and he was one of three candidates vying for two
slots on the reform ticket for County Commissioner. That was
the first time that I had the chance to vote for the man
whose campaigns I would manage, whose House and Senate
offices I would run, who would become my law partner and
dearest friend. I voted for the other guys. They were friends
of mine and I didn't know Paul. But I redeemed myself when
the race went to a second ballot. That was after I asked the
three of them who they were supporting for President that
year. My two friends hemmed and hawed and told me--
correctly--that one's personal choice for President had no
relationship to running a county. When I asked the stranger
from Lowell, he didn't bat an eye and answered matter-of-
factly ``John Lindsay''. Although I was no Lindsay fan (and I
suspect Paul was his only supporter in Massachusetts that
year), with those two words, Paul won my vote--and more.
It was a defining incident--a window into the personality
of Paul Tsongas. I was soon to discover that this was the
most centered and secure person I have even known--at peace
with who he was. Perhaps that's why he was so honest,
sometimes so painfully honest as we on his young staff used
to grumble. We failed to grasp that it was that politically
reckless candor--that refusal to evade when faced with tough
questions--that was Paul's hallmark and his greatest
political strength. Voters felt instinctively that even if
they didn't totally agree with him they could trust him--and
they were right.
Two years later, I had signed on to run Paul's longshot--
and I mean longshot--candidacy for Congress. I came up to
Lowell for a first strategy meeting the week Ashley was born
and she was all Paul wanted to talk about. A democratic state
committeeman from Lawrence was meeting with us and when Paul
said he had been in the birthing room with Niki as Ashley was
born, the committeeman said ``That must have been
disgusting''. I still remember Paul's reply ``Actually Jake,
it was the most beautiful experience of my life.'' Even then,
his family was his focus.
Although I had worked in many campaigns up till then--I was
in my late 20's--I had never met a politician quite like
Paul. When he made a decision, he did it quickly--some would
say impulsively--and was willing to take big risks. When he
ran for the Senate in 1978 he first considered the idea on
April 30th of that year and announced his candidacy 18 days
later. He was simply undaunted by the most formidable of
odds. So when he sat down on the couch in my office at Foley,
Hoag at the end of 1990 and said ``I have a crazy idea . .
.'' I knew I was in trouble. Those five words were the
starting signal for one of the most underfinanced and
improbable presidential campaigns in history. It seemed like
a crazy idea then. It doesn't now.
We all have our fears but Paul seemed to have so few. I
will never forget that terrifying night in 1983 when we
crossed the Allenby Bridge between Jordan and Israel, on
foot, alone, in pitch blackness--something no civilian had
ever done and lived to tell--because Paul didn't want to miss
a critical meeting with Prime Minister Begin in Jerusalem the
next morning. I still remember King Hussein waving us good
luck as we left his palace for the bridge and Rich Arenberg
and I trembling as we walked across in single file behind
Paul using him as a shield to protect us--his aides--against
sniper fire while he just chuckled at our timidity.
Paul was tough but he was also remarkably gentle and
caring. In our 25 year history together, I can't remember
when he truly lost his temper. I'm not counting when he
played softball or charades. And even in the hours of his
greatest adversity, he wanted to know how you were doing. A
few months ago I was suffering from a couple of ruptured
disks--not one of your major ailments--and Paul kept asking
how I was doing when he couldn't even get off the bed. But
that's how he was.
Paul saw the value in every situation, no matter how bad it
might seem on the surface. Two weeks ago yesterday when
we talked to him about the lack of success with the first
shunt procedure, he smiled and said ``What do you mean it
wasn't successful? I'm here aren't I?'' When an
interviewer asked him about his cancer back in 1984 Paul
said that if hadn't had it, he would never have come to
fully appreciate so much of what was staring him in the
face--the beauty all around us that we take for granted.
In reading his book Heading Home the other night, I found
this passage describing the most poignant lesson he drew
from his adversity. He wrote: ``After the children were in
bed, Niki and I would talk about the pleasure of being
together like this. We had experienced the power and the
glory, the excitement and glamour of national politics . .
. But in the next room asleep were what gave us true joy.
And we had each other . . . the cancer had
[[Page S712]]
caused me to understand what truly made me happy and what
counted.''
I think it is important to remember that Paul had always
tried, even before he learned he had cancer, to balance
family and career. As it was, he rarely went on the usual
circuit of Washington cocktail parties and trade association
receptions because he wanted to be home with Niki, Ashley,
Katina, and Molly. We on his staff who had no kids or failed
to share his priorities found this maddening--and Paul knew
it and didn't care. But the cancer did crystallize his
feelings further and he found, as he put it, that ``the
family was where I fulfilled my human aspirations. The Senate
had become an obstacle to that.''
Paul found his happiness--real happiness--planting flowers
in Kittredge Park or being out on the boat at the Cape with
Niki and the kids or sitting around a Thanksgiving dinner
with his family and close friends or watching Ashley play
rugby or Katina at hockey or Molly dancing.
His values seemed old-fashioned to some but I don't think
Paul Tsongas ever felt emptiness from the day he married
Niki. A few weeks ago, someone at the hospital asked Paul how
he was doing and he replied ``fine . . . as long as Niki's
only three feet away''. While he was strong for others she
was his strength, whether it was campaigning for him around
the country or caring for him through their long and
courageous struggle together.
Paul told Carol Beattie, his nurse at Dana Faber that he
had accomplished what he wanted most his remarkable 13\1/2\
years since he learned he had cancer--to see his daughters
grow up. I would add that they didn't just grow up; they grew
up to be people with the same kind of values and decency and
caring as Niki and Paul. That is quite a testament.
Senator Kennedy called Paul a profile in courage and he
surely was--a profile in both personal and political courage.
His presidential campaign epitomized both those qualities.
Paul had won 10 primaries and caucuses to Bill Clinton's 13
when he decided to drop out. He knew that if stayed in, he
could deny Clinton the nomination and assure himself the role
of a kingmaker at the convention. But that was not the
purpose of his candidacy. Paul had run because he believed in
something. While he lost the Presidency, he had won something
that was for him far more profound. He had changed the debate
about the future of his country and about its ability to
confront the federal deficit. That, too, grew out of his
experience with cancer and his determination not just to know
his children but to secure their future and that of their
generation--what he called ``the obligation of my survival''.
It took courage to run in the first place, risking ridicule--
and it was there in the early days. It took courage and
integrity to insist that a candidacy of principle could not
compromise on principles. Now the issues he raised in 1992
are at the center of America's public discourse. He lit the
way.
I have often thought that I didn't have living heroes but I
realize now that I was wrong. Paul was my hero. I wish I
could have told him that before he died. What I did tell him
was that I loved him and what a good friend he was but I know
that in that I am not alone. For so many others across this
city that he helped to rebuild, across this state that he
loved and served so well, across this land that he awakened
to a new reality, and across the generations to come whose
freedom from unsustainable debt will be his legacy; they have
lost a good friend as well.
eulogy by ashley tsongas
Our father's love for us was fundamental to our lives. You
don't question the existence of the ground you walk on or the
air you breathe, and we never doubted the existence of our
father's love. Even in the middle of a four-hour car ride,
when the incessant sound of snapping gum and the muffled
screams of smaller, weaker children emanating from the back
seat had begun to wear on his nerves, and it became
abundantly clear that he didn't like us too much at tha
moment, it would never occur to us that we had been ejected
from our position at the center of his universe.
And then further down the road, when we'd exhausted
ourselves and drifted into sleepy silence as a Red Sox game
crackled on the radio, he'd reach back and touch each one of
us and we'd be reminded how much we loved him too.
I'm having trouble realizing he's gone. During the events
of the last couple of days I keep wondering at the absence of
a keynote speaker, expecting my dad to walk in at any moment.
It's hard to believe the man who offered to fax me a copy of
his less-than-impressive college transcript when I was
stressing about my grades is no longer going to offer me
academic solace. And at rugby, it won't be the same without
my dad in the sidelines armed with apple cider and blind
admiration.
And with the absence of my father, who treated me as a
person with legitimate ideas from as far back as I can
remember, I know that I wil now have to push myself to come
up with real answers instead of easy ones. But these things
and countless more were merely expressions of his love for
me. And though my dad's no longer here, his acts of love over
the last 22 years have created a kind of momentum that will
carry me through the rest of my life.
eulogy by katina tsongas
When confronted with the possibility that he might not live
to see us grow up, my father became concerned about our
future and valued the time which he was able to spend with
us. His realization of his own mortality shaped the way in
which he lived his life with us, but he did not allow it to
dictate how he lived. He was able to live in the present
while always providing for our future.
Each time he defeated his illness he made the best of the
time he earned. We lived the last 13 years in a way which was
normal, and that normality is what made them so great and
what gave me so many great memories. But these memories were
not forced; they were not created by my father as a way to
ensure that he would not be forgotten. The memories I have of
the last 13 years are memories of a father who loved me and
made the best of the time he had. He never let anything get
in the way.
In thinking about my father in the last few days, I have
realized what an extraordinary man he was. I have never been
able to understand what it was exactly that inspired those
New Hampshire campaigners to work day and night for a cause
which was less than promising. I know now what it is they
saw, and it remains with how many lives he touched and how
many people grew to love him. I only wish that I could have
realized how great he was when I was still able to tell him.
My dad's ability to live a normal life at home is what now
makes it possible for me to see him as the amazing man that
he was, but remember him as my father. Dad, we just wanted to
tell you that we are going to be okay. You've made our city,
state, country, world and home better and more importantly
you married an incredible woman who is the best mother we
could hope for. We miss you so much, and we're going to miss
you every day for the rest of our lives. We love you, Dad.
eulogy by molly tsongas
One day in fifth grade, my principal announced over the
intercom that all the fifth-graders should report to the
playground. We followed orders and made our way outside,
where I was stopped dead is my tracks by the most humiliating
sight my 11-year-old eyes had ever beheld. There was my dad
handing out trash bags to my skeptical classmates and
encouraging them to participate in picking up all the trash
scattered around the playground.
If I wasn't mortified enough, he had packages of Oreos and
Fig Newtons as our reward--two per person. As if any
respectful fifth-grader ever ate Fig Newtons. I scurried to
pick up every piece of trash and shove every Fig Newton down
my throat to end this fiasco as soon as possible and send my
dad on his way.
Looking back, I realize that I was not surprised to see him
do this. I did not even question him. But I know that he was
just trying to get me involved in keeping my school and city
clean, that I had a place to be proud of and I would not
allow others to do the job for me. Through bringing me around
to the developments on the arena, the ball park or even the
making of a new Market Basket, he made me realize someone as
normal as my dad could make a difference if they just get up
and do it. This spirit of his is something I will always
remember and hopefully lead my life by.
However, in the long run, the politician or the man of
Lowell is not who I am going to miss. I'm going to miss my
dad and the way he always ate his English muffins with butter
and jam, or how he'd wake up at 8 o'clock and swim across
Schoolhouse Pond, or water Kittredge Park, or seeing him
excitedly jump out of his chair during charades, or how he'd
take us to some random field to play baseball, or how he'd
tell me that I was a good kid. I'm even going to miss him
helping me make my bed or trying to pick up my clothes from
the bathroom floor.
No matter how many times I reassure myself that he had a
wonderful life, he did a lot of amazing things, some of which
I've just realized, nothing can make me stop wishing that my
dad was here right now.
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