[Congressional Record Volume 145, Number 144 (Thursday, October 21, 1999)]
[Extensions of Remarks]
[Page E2164]
From the Congressional Record Online through the Government Publishing Office [www.gpo.gov]




              HONORING THE MEMORY OF MR. LEONARD S. RASKIN

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                          HON. KAREN McCARTHY

                              of missouri

                    in the house of representatives

                       Thursday, October 21, 1999

  Ms. McCARTHY of Missouri. Mr. Speaker, I rise today to honor Leonard 
S. Raskin, whose death on October 18 is an incalculable loss to his 
loving family and cherished friends, and to our community. Lenny loved 
life and was undaunted by its challenges. Even as cancer claimed more 
and more of him, he did `` . . . not go gently into that good night . . 
. (but) . . . raged against the dying of the light. . . .'' His 
incredible strength and will to live emulate these words of courage 
written by Dylan Thomas to his dying father. Lenny adopted me into his 
life, and as my friend, reinforced in me the belief that anything was 
possible to accomplish if you just tried hard enough and were good 
enough. I knew even if I failed he'd still be there for me; so true was 
his love. Lenny loved his family and friends with a passion even death 
cannot diminish. Mr. Speaker, please join me in expressing my deepest 
sympathy to his devoted wife of 50 years, Sarah Raskin, his eldest son, 
Phillip E. Raskin, his only daughter and my dearest friend, Maryl D. 
Raskin, his youngest son and daughter-in-law Garry N. and Susan Raskin, 
and his beloved grandchildren, Kaley and Sydney Raskin. I ask unanimous 
consent that the following material be included with my statement. The 
poems, ``Adios'' by Naomi Shihab Nye, and ``Reading Aloud to My 
Father'' by Jane Kenyon; works Maryl shared with me which reflect upon 
life as we reflect upon this wonderful man's friendship and love. Thank 
you, Mr. Speaker. Adios, Lenny.

                                 Adios

     It is a good word, rolling off the tongue no matter what 
     language you were born with.
     Use it. Learn where it begins, the small alphabet of 
     departure, how long it takes to think of it, then say it, 
     then be heard.
     Marry it. More than a golden ring, it shines, it shines.
     Wear it on every finger till your hands dance, touching 
     everything easily, letting everything, easily, go.
     Strap it to your back like wings. Or a kite-tail. The stream 
     of air behind a jet.
     If you are known for anything, let it be the way you rise out 
     of sight when your work is finished.
     Think of things that linger; leaves, cartons and napkins, the 
     damp smell of mold.
     Think of things that disappear.
     Think of what you love best, what brings tears into your 
     eyes.
     Something that said adios to you before you knew what it 
     meant or how long it was for.
     Explain little, the word explains itself. Later perhaps. 
     Lessons following lessons, like silence following sound.
     Naomi Shihab Nye.


     
                                  ____
                       Reading Aloud to My Father

     I chose the book haphazard from the shelf, but with Nabokov's 
     first sentence I knew it wasn't the thing to read to a dying 
     man:
     The cradle rocks above the abyss, it began, and common sense 
     tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light 
     between two eternities of darkness.
     The words disturbed both of us immediately, and I stopped. 
     With music it was the same--
     Chopin's Plano Concerto--he asked me to turn it off. He 
     ceased eating, and drank little, while the tumors briskly 
     appropriated what was left of him.
     But to return to the cradle rocking. I think Nabokov had it 
     wrong. This is the abyss.
     That's why babies howl at birth, and why the dying so often 
     reach for something only they can apprehend.
     At the end they don't want their hands to be under the 
     covers, and if you should put your hand on theirs in a 
     tentative gesture of solidarity, they'll pull the hand free; 
     and you must honor that desire, and let them pull it free.
     Jane Kenyon.



     

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