Harold Norman Glauber

Harold Norman Glauber of Monsey and Saugerties, NY died Tuesday, May 30, 2006 at Benedictine Hospital. He was 76. He was born in the Bronx on March 4, 1930, a son of the late David and Irene Gottfried Glauber. Raised in the Bronx, after attending City College, Mr. Glauber worked with his father at a foundry. For many years Mr. Glauber was a salesman for women's sportswear in the New York City garment center. He retired when he was 68. A member of the Woodstock Jewish Congregation, he has maintained a Saugerties residence for many years. Surviving are his wife, Sandra Cohen Glauber; one son Gary Glauber and his wife Deborah Cerar of Bedford; four daughters Barbara Katz and her husband Harry of Briarcliff, Lauren Kolman of Hollywood, FL, Julie Powell and her husband David of Springfield, NJ and Jennifer Segal and her husband Aaron of Mt. Kisco; six grandchildren Zane and Graham Glauber, Emily and Michelle Katz, Rachel and Joshua Powell; and his beloved dogs Samantha and Ollie. Graveside services were conducted on Wednesday, May 31, 2006 at Montrepose Cemetery, Kingston. Rabbi Jonathan Kligler officiated. Memorial contributions may be made to the Kehillat Lev Shalem, Woodstock Jewish Congregation, 1682 Glasco Turnpike, Woodstock NY 12498. Shiva will be observed at the residence on Wednesday and Thursday. May his memory be for a blessing. ---------------------------------- A Eulogy for My Father – 5/31/06 Thank you for coming today to honor the man that was my father. The poet W.H. Auden said that “Death is the sound of distant thunder at a picnic.” You hear it in the distance and you never expect the storm actually to come. It’s always a shock, a surprise, when it does, and eventually it comes for us all. First off, let me apologize. Even as a writer, I’m aware of the limitation of words, their inability to capture the true essence of things, particularly when it comes to relating the various aspects that make up a life. In cases like this, words are a poor substitute, marks on a page that cannot hope but to approximate portions of what, in life, was so rich and vivid and inexpressible. My father was a humble man. Born in the Bronx, a first generation American and the only child of two Hungarian immigrants who had come here chasing their own dreams, Harold experienced first-hand the life of the working class. Born into the depression era, he never knew financial prosperity. His father David worked in a cast-iron foundry, his mother Irene was off working too. Harold spent a majority of his younger years raised by kindly neighbors, who took him in as his own parents worked hard to get by. Harold was popular in high school. He was a member of the glee club and allegedly showed good promise as a baseball pitcher, perhaps even getting a tryout for a minor league organization. He was not able to serve his country because a case of rheumatic fever as a child had damaged his heart. So he stayed behind as others went overseas to war. He went to City College and studied business, while working for his father’s firm, but ventured out into sales shortly after graduating. He made a career for himself in New York’s garment center, holding a series of jobs that had him traveling to near and far places, selling ladies’ blouses and sportswear for a number of different firms over the years. By age 24, he married the woman who would become my mother. She was five years younger than he, an attractive and popular girl pursued by many. But it was Harold who won her over with his great charm and humor, and they wed in September of 1954. Less than four years later, I was born. Two years after that, my sister Barbara followed. The family moved from the Bronx north to a garden apartment in Yonkers. Ours was a typical suburban childhood, a fairly uneventful one at that. Our parents were members of the local temple and socialized with neighbors. My dad was part of a community bowling team – he even had his own bowling ball and personalized bowling shirt. It was something he took pride in doing fairly well. Our young mom and dad tried to do their best as parents – not having had ideal role models of their own. Harold continued to work hard selling and traveling, but without much success. The family often felt that financial strain, enhanced further by the pressure to keep up with others in the area. It was a growing source of contention. But there also were happy times. I have fond memories of a trip we took when I was very young to Nova Scotia. We didn’t go on fancy vacations as a rule, maybe up to a lake in the Adirondacks or to the beach over a weekend. Often both parents were working, and there wasn’t much time or opportunity for extended traveling. Instead, there were family visits. My mother’s family is very large and there were big visits with family circles of many relatives. My father’s mother lived in Rego Park, Queens, and socialized with other Hungarians. We visited there often, and I got to hear my father speaking this intriguing language that I never truly understood. Still, with friends and distant relatives, there was a strong sense of bonding, of shared meals and good times. We moved into our own home, not so far from where we had been living in Yonkers, and this was another source of pride for Harold. Even though my parents often were in debt, they wanted to maintain a nice home and keep up with their suburban neighbors. For Harold and my mother, it was their version of the American dream, wanting to give my sister and me a better life than they had had, with privileges beyond what they had known. For instance, I was sent to a private college, and while I did take out student loans, my parents funded the majority of my undergraduate education. My father continued to have jobs at different firms in the garment center and again, there wasn’t a lot of financial success. That financial pressure strained my parents’ relationship. There were lots of arguments and also health issues. My father would commute into the city everyday with a few others from the neighborhood who worked in the garment district. Each morning he would walk to Hall Place, climb the ramp to the overpass and meet them on Central Avenue en route to taking the Thruway downtown. One morning in 1972, the men he would meet in that white van noticed Harold wasn’t there. They investigated and found him passed out on the ground on the side of the hill, where he had collapsed a few minutes earlier. That incident led to his having open heart surgery at Montefiore Hospital in the Bronx. It was a long and complicated operation, hours upon hours, to replace and install an artificial valve in his heart. It literally changed my father’s life. While it granted him additional life, it also instilled in him all sorts of fears about what he could and couldn’t do. For years, he felt hesitant and limited, wondering if he could do things he wanted without any further detriment to his health. It put additional strain on matters at home, and likely played a large part in the eventual separation and divorce of my parents. By the time I graduated college and came back to forge the start of my own career, their marriage had come apart. My parents separated; the house was sold. Before moving forward, let me tell you one thing I’ve skipped over. For my fifth birthday, I got a pet dachshund puppy we named Nosey. While I loved that dog, I was far too young to care for it properly. The bulk of that responsibility fell to my father. That was the start of a lifelong love of animals for Harold. Prior to that, he had only had tropical fish. Dogs were a whole other level. He communicated well with animals and gave them unconditional love, and they responded in kind. After Nosey, there was a golden retriever named Corky, and again, same story: my father loved that dog. He wasn’t very good about training or disciplining the animals, but there was an unmistakable bond there. When the divorce occurred, the general consensus amongst friends was to worry about Harold. How would he do alone? Would he manage? Well, the happy news is that he not only got by, but he thrived. He soon met Sandy, and together they found a love and a happiness he hadn’t known before. His time with Sandy and her daughters gave him a true second chance at life, and he seized that opportunity. He finally got to travel. He and Sandy have visited places that he had never been before. In recent years, he has tried new types of cuisine and has gone on several enjoyable trips and cruises. He even got the chance to be a parent again with Jennifer. He loosened up some, became more open to change, to different things and people. He eventually retired from working and started to enjoy life more. He still had health issues, but took an active part in training and exercise, he lost weight and watched his diet carefully to prolong his life. He also rediscovered his love of animals. First there was Layla, the dog that truly was the love of his life, and more recently, Ollie and Samantha. He was generous with his love for pets. He also loved his children and his grandchildren. He loved to read. He loved to travel and to eat good food. He loved socializing with his good friends, several of which have come today to honor him. He loved certain sports teams, notably the Mets, Jets, Rangers and Knicks. From him, I learned to root for the underdog, an important lesson in life, and one that I pass along to my own children. He also loved corny jokes and bad puns. There was constant wordplay and certain catch phrases attributed to him. Talking on the phone to my sons, he would ask them: “Is your father around or is he a square?” They often cringed at such cornball humor, but I have news for them. It’s genetic and hereditary. As I get older, I find myself resorting to more and more cornball humor. So, a message to my boys: it’s in your genes, and it’s as unavoidable as looking over the dinner check and asking “Who ordered the roast beef on rye?” Harold has left a legacy of love and great humor, of generosity and warmth. He learned to live with his fear, in some ways to deny it, and in other ways to overcome it. Lately, he seemed very happy with his life. There were good things going on, and he really seemed to enjoy himself. In 1972, he was given a heart valve that would last perhaps 20 years at best. That valve lasted for 34 years, far longer than anyone might have expected. In the paraphrased words of a watch company, it “took a licking and kept on clicking.” While Harold never really knew great financial wealth, he was rich in other respects. He had a loving wife and family, pets who loved him, children, grandparents, friends and more. In things that matter deeply, he was a very rich man indeed. He will be greatly missed, but he leaves us with a legacy of happy memories and good feelings that shall immortalize him forever. I had a special bond with him and I remember how he loved to hear me sing and perform Cat Stevens’ song “Father and Son,” one of my dad’s favorite songs, made even more special when a son sang it to his father. His body is gone today, but his spirit will live with me forever. He gave me life and I will be grateful for all he taught me and continues to teach me each and every day of my life. I will miss his corny jokes, his good humor, and his father’s love. But he leaves a bountiful legacy for me and my own children that we shall cherish forevermore. In closing, I’d like to share a poem that reflects this sentiment that I’m sure my father would share if he could today. It’s by Melinda Sue Pacho and it goes like this: Do not stand at my grave and forever weep. I am not there; I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow. I am the diamond glints on snow. I am the sunlight on ripened grain. I am the gentle autumn’s rain. When you awaken in the morning’s hush I am the swift uplifting rush Of quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and forever cry. I am not there. I did not die. God bless you Harold Glauber. I thank you for the time we had together and know that your memories, your love, your effect on all of us, will last for lifetimes to come. Gary Glauber