Eulogy I read at the memorial of my father, Jeffrey Young (1955-2023)
I took this photo of my Dad in Fall 2019 for my therapist. I had just started seeing her and she suggested that bringing in photos of the people I talked about could help. I took the opportunity to photograph each member of my family. When I look at this photo now I think about how much our relationship changed in the three years since then.
Taking his portrait in our house was, I remember, the most time we had spent one on one in a long time. It was challenging to take his portrait, more intimate than I was comfortable with. I photographed him seated at the piano in the living room, because that was where I was most used to seeing him. His piano practicing and singing could always be heard throughout the house. When I spoke about him to my therapist I explained the block in our relationship. Never seeing eye-to-eye with each other, butting heads constantly. Occasional flare-ups then long periods of me being stubbornly closed off to him. I spoke about how he was hard of hearing from all the years of playing loud music on stage, although he was in denial about it. He always had a hard time hearing my voice, and made me repeat myself each time I spoke. He’d walk in my room. say. You good? Id say yeah. He’d say huh? Id say YEAH. This bit of friction in our daily communication was too frustrating for me to overcome, and so most of the time I found it easier not to speak to him.
A few months after I took the photo, COVID happened. Then we were all forced much closer but we retreated into our respective caves at home. My mom had her studio, my brother had his backhouse studio, my dad had the piano in the living room, and I had my bedroom. He’d play piano and sing his own songs all day.
I was focusing on my art classes, which had all gone to zoom. I could hear him singing new songs about the quarantine lockdown and Trump.
Each day id hear him revising the lyrics to the songs he was working on. He developed a whole album in the course of the first few weeks of lockdown. This was the first time I witnessed my dad’s creative process. I was in my room also trying to process the same thing, the pandemic, in my visual art classes.
I couldn’t stand listening to my dad everyday. I memorized the lyrics to all his songs by brute force, simply by hearing him practice them through the walls each day. I couldn’t focus in my room or stand to listen to him anymore. I was jealous of my brother, who had a soundproofed room on the other side of the yard. I dreamed of my own space where I could be in peace and not have to listen to him play piano and sing, and that was why I decided to build the shed.
Right when I finished the shed was when the first symptoms of his cancer showed up, August 2021.
Because of covid restrictions, we were only allowed to go in and visit him at the hospital one at a time. This was terrifying to me. I realized I had never had to be in a room with my dad one on one. Our first few hospital visits were awkward and brief.
Then his hospital stays became more frequent and it was harder to ignore the effects of his illness changing his body. Our hospital time became more routine and comfortable. The hospital rooms provided, for the first time, a quiet space for us to talk in. I didn’t have to constantly repeat myself so he could hear me. Our conversation flowed, maybe for the first time. We would watch nba games together and talk during the commercial breaks.
During one of my visits I asked him about growing up with Mabu, his brother. He told me that Mabu was the one who got him into playing music. they were in a band together. I asked if he had held onto any of their old recordings. He said, pass me my iPad. And he started playing their first album- released when they were in high school. the name of their band was Mabu’s Madness. He quickly turned it off, he was embarrassed by it. I made him play the entire thing. It sounded like a real funk band. I couldn’t believe he had never mentioned it to me.
When I went home I searched Mabu’s Madness and found it strange that it was on streaming services. Most of my dad’s albums weren’t even on streaming, how did this one from the 70s get on streaming ? I did some research and found that their small release had become some rare coveted soul-funk record by crate diggers. Original vinyl records were selling for hundreds of dollars online. a record label had repressed their LP a few years ago, and that’s why it was on streaming services
I excitedly brought my findings back to my dad at the hospital. I read him a blurb about the record I found online.
“Another insanely rare and highly coveted soul-funk gem from the tiny Maple label, which …punched way above its weight when it came to '70s R&B…[Johnny] Brantley is again behind the board for this 1971 one-off, which was led by drummer/singer/arranger Brad "Mabu" Young; it's full of funky surprises… M-Square sells for hundreds of dollars if you can find it, but you probably can’t”
I showed him the vinyl reissue with the fancy colored vinyl.
He wasn’t impressed. He just said, some people only like shit cause it’s obscure.
This showed me how much more there was to learn about my dad. His last few months in the hospital we talked more than we had in previous years combined. His long illness offered a long goodbye, a long time to break down the walls between us.
In January, he was in the ICU for a few weeks and came down with pneumonia on top of everything. He was placed on a breathing machine which forced his lungs to breathe with a mask that covered his mouth and nose.
This seemed like the very end at the time. My mom my brother and I sat around him and said our goodbyes. He was still conscious but his huge breathing mask made it hard for us to hear him speak. The thing keeping him from dying was also keeping him from saying his last goodbyes. He would try to speak to us, using what little energy he had to squeeze out the words, but he had to keep repeating himself, the friction in speaking made him go quiet. a frustration all too familiar. This was the worst way for him to go, I thought.
I went to visit him in the hospital by myself a days later. he was still on the breathing machine. it was too hard for us to converse. we watched the Andy Griffith show. I asked him if he could write something on the cover of my journal. I handed it to him and he sat there for a few minutes thinking before putting pen to paper. His hands were so shaky he could hardly hold the paper. 15 minutes later he handed it back to me…
It says
“I’m here
I succeeded
I know that
Hope springs eternal”
I’m here , I succeeded , I know that
Hope spring’s eternal.
Which is how he signed off all his emails.
And he drew this eye. I’m still figuring out what it means.
He ended up leaving the hospital and entering hospice at home. I am so happy that we got another month with him at home. And I am so comforted by his last message. I’m here I succeeded I know that. I’m so glad he knew that.