When my son Seth was little, he couldn’t say “Papa,” so he called my father Bapo. By 1980, this studly cowboy was known to everyone as Bapo. Since my father always called my mother “Bertie,” Seth followed suit—which led my mother to remark that they sounded like a couple of old horses.
Jody tells the story of the ground floor suite
When Dad built the house, I made sure it was wheelchair accessible, with a ramp, a first-floor bedroom, and a handicap-friendly shower. He swore he’d never use them. When I suggested that maybe a future girlfriend might need the space, he scoffed, “Then she wouldn’t be my girlfriend.”
But in the last months of his life, as climbing stairs became more difficult, he reluctantly moved into the first-floor suite. His greatest fear was that his COPD and reliance on oxygen would leave him bedridden, wasting away. He made it clear—he wasn’t willing to take that chance.
I asked him to give me two weeks to come up with a plan. Three days later, I returned with one.
“They run horses to death, don’t they?” I asked.
He nodded. “Yes. What do you propose?”
So we turned his house into a law office. We hired a 68-year-old attorney who wasn’t quite ready to retire, a legal assistant who could cook, another assistant who loved to clean, and a 23-year-old male assistant who lived in the house, drove Dad around, and kept him entertained. The office even doubled as a daycare for his goddaughter’s middle school children, who became special assistants.
Dad and his personal assistant wrote a daily email chronicling the office shenanigans, which gained a loyal following around the world.
On May 22, 2004, Dad died in New York on his way to the opening of the World War II Memorial in D.C., recreating a train trip he had taken in 1940. He passed from a bleeding ulcer after enjoying a dinner of sausage, sauerkraut, and scotch.
His last stand was everything he wanted—fun, filled with laughter and high jinks, and a true testament to living life his way.
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