THE SPEECH JOY GAVE

Today, people will tell us not to mourn. They'll say, "Celebrate his life."

And while my dad would absolutely want us to celebrate...

He would also absolutely want us to mourn.

Because, let's be honest... if there was ever a day that should be all about Johnathan Weinrich... it would be today.

He'd want every ounce of attention.

He'd want the tears.

He'd want the laughter.

He'd want you to raise a glass in his honor.

He'd want you talking about him at parties, around the dinner table, at family gatherings, on lazy Sunday afternoons, or over coffee on a sunny morning. He'd want people swapping stories from The Chronicles of Johnathan Weinrich.

He'd want the ladies talking about how handsome and charming he was.

He'd want the men talking about what a man's man he was... a loyal friend... someone you could always count on.

And most of all...

He'd want us together.

Because that's where he came alive.

 

As a little girl, I looked at my dad and his brothers as the South Bronx version of the Bee Gees...

...except they didn't sing...

...they were Irish and German by birth, but Puerto Rican by association...

...and somehow all had incredible hair.

We even had our own Andy Gibb... by way of my Uncle Jeth.

But enough about them...

Dad wouldn't want me wasting his time talking about anybody else.

Let's get back to the main event...

Johnathan Weinrich.

 

Growing up, I was completely captivated by my father.

He was tall.

Handsome.

Those piercing blue eyes.

He had a presence that filled every room before he ever said a word.

He was funny.

He was brilliant.

He could be sophisticated one minute and street-smart the next.

He was somehow the perfect combination of class, intellect, charm, toughness, humor... and just enough mischief to keep life interesting.

He was unconventional.

Some people might even say... inappropriate.

They're probably not wrong. But one thing for sure, he was Never boring.

 

Let me tell you what it was like to be Johnathan Weinrich’s daughter.

Some of my favorite memories with my dad didn't happen at amusement parks or on fancy vacations.

They happened at Gillespie's.

Yes... the neighborhood bar.

I was eight, nine, ten years old, sitting there with my dad until the wee hours of the morning during summer vacations.

While everyone else was enjoying their drink of choice, I was drinking Shirley Temples with extra cherries.

His friends would slip me dollar bills, hand me coins for the jukebox, and treat me like I was just one of the guys.

And that's exactly how my dad made me feel.

Like I belonged.

He made me feel important.

Whenever I told him about my basketball games or my baseball stats, he'd light up with pride. Then he'd tell everyone in the bar about them. By the time he finished telling the story, I wasn't just doing well, I was headed for the Hall of Fame.

And I loved every second of it.

Looking back now, I realize those times at Gillespie's gave me a unique perspective. One I certainly wouldn’t get at summer camp.

Those summers, inappropriate, unconventional – and ‘social services’ worthy are probably some of my favorite memories with my father. They were filled with late nights, Yankees games, parties, laughter…OH… AND the stories!

 

One of my father's greatest gifts was storytelling.

Now...

Rarely were those stories told with facts.

Instead, they were told through the lens of Johnathan Weinrich.

Which meant they were colorful...

dramatic...

slightly embellished...

and occasionally based on events that may or may not have happened at all!

The stories I'll share today have been carefully selected...

Mostly because many of the others would be wildly inappropriate for a church.

 

One of my favorite stories isn't actually one my dad told...

It's one he inspired.

As many of you know, my daughter Olivia absolutely adored her Pa-Pa.

The two of them share the exact same flair for drama.

And they both suffered from the same condition...

Believing the other could do absolutely no wrong.

One evening, when Olivia was a sophomore in high school, I thought she was asleep upstairs.

Suddenly I heard her yell.

Then I heard footsteps racing down the stairs.

She burst into the room, holding her laptop like she'd just uncovered the greatest discovery in history.

She had found an old newspaper article...

...about her Pa-Pa.

Now, as a mother, my mind immediately started racing.

Maybe it was about an award.

A scholarship.

Some heroic act.

But...

We're talking about Johnathan Weinrich.

It was about trouble he'd gotten into as a freshman in college.

The kind of trouble that made the local newspaper.

As I stood there trying to figure out how I was going to explain all of this...

Olivia completely ignored the article.

She looked at the picture and said,

"Mom... just LOOK at him...

He's SO handsome!"

That was all she cared about.

When I told my dad the story, he threw his head back with that unmistakable laugh.

Then he asked,

"Do you still have the article?"

He paused...

"...Do you still have the picture?"

Then he giggled and said,

"I just love that girl.

That's my girl."

 

Another favorite story came from my Uncle Jeth.

As many of you may or may not know, my father finished high school in Calgary.

Now, if you knew my grandmother Annie...she was tough

For her to send her oldest son from the Bronx all the way to Canada

Well that alone tells you everything you need to know.

Apparently, before my father's arrival, there was very little crime.

People would start their cars on cold winter mornings to warm them up before work.

Then...

Johnathan Weinrich arrived.

Suddenly there was a spike in car thefts.

Eventually, the police put two and two together.

You see...

My father decided he shouldn't have to walk to school in the freezing Canadian winter.

So, he'd borrow a warm car...

Drive it to school...

Park it neatly outside...

And leave it there and attend a day’s worth of education.

Only my father could somehow make grand theft auto sound like practical reasoning. And by the looks of it, my grandfather didn’t quite do the job he was assigned by Grandma Annie.

 

Honestly...

The stories never stopped. He spoke of:

The tiger he wrestled in a Bronx garage.

The stories of when he was the muscle for a bail bondsman jumping roof to roof of NYC apartments.

The mural that supposedly stretched an entire city block of him karate-kicking through a wall of bricks.

As a little girl, whether it was true...

Didn't really matter.

Because when my father told a story...

I believed every word.

 

So today, I'm asking something of everyone here.

Please...

Keep telling the stories.

Tell the ones I know.

Tell the ones I don't.

Tell the ones he told you.

Tell the ones you lived together.

Pour those stories into my ears...

Into Jonathan's...

Into Olivia's...

Into Sophia's and Mariah's...

Into every single person who loved him.

Because every time we tell one...

He lives a little longer.

 

Dad...

My heart is broken.

I already miss “hearing” your voice.

I miss your laugh.

I miss hearing, "Joy..."

right before one of your unbelievable stories.

But the beautiful thing about being your daughter...

is that so much of you lives in me.

And, don’t worry…

We’ll keep telling your stories.

We’ll keep laughing at them. I’d say we’ll embellish, but they are perfect just as you told them.

I love you.