Donald Miller Higgins

(Editor’s note: Maybe it’s a little odd to post the eulogy I gave for my Dad last week. But if you’re visiting this site and trying to understand what I’m all about, you should meet my father. Besides, it’s Valentine’s Day, a good time to share thoughts about someone you love.)

If you have to go to a funeral on a Saturday morning, this is a pretty good one. Full life, happy guy who was loved by so many, a peaceful passing with his children holding his hand … does it get better than that? I’m tempted to say … OK, that’s a wrap. I think we’re done here and drop the mic. But …

On behalf of my sister Sally and my brother Richard, truly from the bottom of our hearts, thank you all so much for being here this morning. Our Dad would be so embarrassed by this. He was never one for the spotlight. His way was always the quiet, understated one-liner that left one half of the room doubled over in laughter and the other half asking, “What did he just say?”

That’s one of the things we loved best about him. At 91 years, Dad lived a big and very full life, but through it all, he would rarely talk about himself unless you asked him. And even then, talking about himself usually made him a little uncomfortable. All these years later, I have come to understand that kind of humility is endearing, but as kids it could be a little frustrating for us. That is why we absolutely ate up the stories our Mom would tell us about Dad. Especially the legendary tale that Dad had once stolen the town school bus – at age 10 – and drove it around for a few laps of downtown Essex. Dad was always – always! – very tight-lipped about this, but the look on his beet-red face, 40 years later, 60, even 80 years later, confirmed to us that it was all 100% true.

As far as any of us know, that escapade was the only lawless act in Dad’s life. As the son of the town doctor, Dad knew that his actions were a reflection on Dr. Higgins’ reputation. I remember a few years ago, after Dad visited us in London, a time when my own kids were flopping around the dinner table wreaking havoc as little kids do, Dad sent me a list of 10 Rules at the Dinner Table his father must have banged out on the typewriter – likely in frustration – sometime in the 1940’s, and presumably rigidly enforced. The rule that stood out most for me was “No dungarees at the dinner table!” My Dad sent that to me as a laugh at his upbringing, a loving letter, not a criticism of my parenting skills. (I don’t think.)

Dad, like so many others of his generation, was a product of the Old School. Some of the rules were written, like Rules at the Dinner Table, but most Old School rules are unwritten. So, with our Dad as a Poster Child, I would like to suggest that Old School has four foundational pillars:

1. A sense of humor is essential. And it is best when it is self-served and not at the expense of others. Our parents were among the funniest people ever, and the laughter was loud and loving and usually good-natured, never mean-spirited.

2. Love before hate. As a teenager, I remember complaining loudly about how much I HATED algebra. Dad once quietly pulled me aside and said, “Hate is a very strong word, Jon. It’s the second strongest word in the English language. The strongest word is love. You should only use the word hate when referring to the New York Yankees.”

3. Character and personal integrity. Doing the right thing. That’s easier to do when you’re already on The High Road. In simplicity and in the uncomplicated, there is beauty and elegance and truth. Dad’s allegiance to integrity extended to all areas of his life. This is why our father was resolutely, dare I say defiantly proud of the fact that his favorite ice cream flavor was vanilla. Always vanilla. Pistachio, Dad? Chocolate chip? “Nah. Not for me. Vanilla is an essence,” he would always say.

And, #4. Others before self. Every Super Hero has his Super Power and my Dad’s Super Power was his humility.

For a moment, try to put yourself in my Dad’s shoes and imagine this:  The year is 1960. You are the father of two newborns, with another baby on the way. Your older brother – your best friend – dies after a long illness. Then months later your mother dies, it is said, from a broken heart. Then your father, your absolute rock, he dies suddenly. All this actually happened. My Dad lost his brother, his mother, and his father – each separately and within the same year. We can probably all agree that is almost unbearable. It is certainly devastating and unspeakable in its sadness … and my Dad really didn’t speak about it.

And it was from this experience, I think, that forged a humility and selflessness in my father that was his essential core value.

When something so sad occurs that is so inexplicable and it happens not once, but three times, one gets the sense there are things in life you cannot control, you cannot understand but still you must carry on.

That’s Old School. That’s why he stuck with the NY Football Giants in the ‘70s. Why he was a diehard Red Sox and Brown Lacrosse fan. Why he loved the work ethic, durability and quiet leadership of a guy like Eli Manning and the selfless team play of the UCONN women’s basketball team. Why he was passionately, constantly, the loving, wonderful force behind our family. Always.

The thing to remember about Old School Rules – there is nothing “old’ about them.  They endure. Just like the legacy of the women and men, like our Dad, who embodied them.

Thank you and God bless.