This post was written by Pete in memory of his father.
On July 21st this year my dad died. For me, my dad was a dependable, comforting presence in my life. He taught me to ski, play tennis and bridge. We shared a love of Star Trek and science fiction books, chocolate and salami, and following the Tour de France. He showed me a way to live in which one could be both physically and intellectually active and alive, enjoying a wide range of human capabilities.
I learned to ski when I was about 3 years old. I would stand between my dad's legs and he would hold me up as we went down the hill. As my balance developed, I'd go on my own and inevitably fall over. He'd be there encouraging me to use my own power to get up, struggling until I learned how to stand up and only coming over to help if I seemed completely helpless, probably crying my eyes out. My dad was like that for me throughout my life: A support that I could lean back on while encouraging me to develop my own sense of independence, knowing that if I got stuck I could count on him to help me.
He was 91 years old. Another way to think of it is he had spent more than 33,000 days on this planet. That's pretty amazing. I wanted to share a few photos, some stories, and a few remembrances of him.
He was born in a small town in the Tokay region in northeastern Hungary. It's called Sárospatak.
He had two brothers and a sister. Jeno is the tall one in the back. In front of him is his brother Victor. The older girl is his sister Magda. The boy on the far left is his brother Laszlo (or Leslie). The small girl in front is my mother's sister, Vilmi. My parents are distant relatives and their families visited each other from time to time.
As a young man he entered the Hungarian Army's war college and studied to be a military engineer. He would complete his studies and serve in the army during World War II. As you can see, he cut a pretty good figure in his formal military uniform.
He would be captured by the Russian Army near the end of the war. He spent about two years in a prisoner of war camp in the Soviet Union, mainly Siberia. After being released, he went back to Hungary and would eventually leave for Germany to find his family, where they would live for a few years before immigrating to the United States. This picture is from his US immigration papers.
My dad, his parents, and two brothers ended up in St. Paul, Minnesota. My dad and his brother Victor began working a variety of jobs helping to support the family. During this time, Jeno also was attending evening university courses. He graduated with a degree in finance and landed a job with the Internal Revenue Service, where he would work for more than 25 years.
My mother Csilla was also born in Hungary, and her family would immigrate from Hungary to Brazil after WWII. Somehow my dad was able to convince my mom to visit him in Minnesota. (I believe he received a bit of help from my grandmothers with this, but I'm not exactly sure.) During one of these visits, his irrepressible charm and good humor won her over. They got married in 1957.
It looks like the party after the wedding was fun.
Within a few years they would start having a family. Here's Jeno with my brother Paul. I love the steel-framed baby carrier. It doesn't look too comfortable, but my dad doesn't seem to mind. I'm not so sure how Paul feels about it, though.
Here he is with my sister Denise. Behind him is one of his violin cases. He was a professional musician, member of the musicians union, and played in the St. Paul Civic Orchestra. He played often and with great pleasure with friends in string quartets and quintets because he appreciated chamber music. These groups were frequently invited to play in churches of all denominations and also at the synagogue. In his retirement, arthritis would keep him from playing the violin, so he decided to teach himself to play piano (using the piano he bought as a "gift" for my mother's birthday).
Up until the last few years of my dad's career, he always wore a suit and tie to work. When I was about 7 or 8 years old, I came across his IRS identification card. Not knowing what the IRS was and having a vivid imagination, I thought maybe my dad was a secret agent of some kind.
My dad's family owned a small cabin on a lake in the woods of Minnesota, where they spent time every summer. Here my dad is trying to convince me not to be afraid of the water. I don't think it worked too well.
In 1972 our family moved to Las Vegas. Here we are standing in the backyard of our house, my mom and dad, my brother Paul, and my sisters Denise and Csilla. I'm the short guy in the red shirt.
Every weekend during the winter we'd drive about an hour in the mountains outside Las Vegas to a tiny ski hill. During the remaining months, we'd play tennis on the weekends and often weeknights after my dad got off work. Here we are proudly displaying our new racquets. I had the same wood-composite racquet model used by the Argentine champion Guillermo Vilas.
He loved to ski, having learned as an adult in Minnesota. He taught all his kids, and once we were accomplished skiers, he would teach anybody else that wanted to learn. Here he his, posing in a some kind of goofy manner, with my cousin Peter Lessmann. Peter is a commercial airline pilot so he was able to visit my parents regularly. I think as my dad got older he became less serious, especially when someone was taking his picture.
Years later Peter's brother, Daniel, would visit my parents. Daniel, too, would go skiing and get a few lessons from my dad.
My dad was a ferocious bridge player. But his skill, arrogance, competitive nature, and impatience could be difficult to deal with. At times he couldn't understand how his partner could make a mistake and would scream at them. His accent made "stupid" sound like "shhtoopid,"as in, "How could you be so shhtoopid!" It could be unnerving to be his partner. Kristina was willing to learn to play bridge so that we could play with my parents, but she refused to be my dad's partner.
Once my parents retired, they'd take the time to travel. Here's my dad in the Italian alps. They rented a car and drove throughout Italy. This picture may have been taken along one of the routes of Giro d'Italia bike race.
Kristina and I had the good fortune of traveling with my parents in Hungary, Czechoslovakia, and Switzerland. Here I'm with my parents in Sárospatak, the town my dad was from.
And here's my dad in the courtyard of the house where his family lived for few years before the war. In reality, it's a bit more than a house, it's a castle. In fact, it is a castle that was owned by the Rákóczi family, some of whose members were leading politicians of the country in the 17th century. My dad's family rented one of the two wings from the owner who had fallen on difficult financial times. After my dad got out of the Russian POW camp in 1947, he returned here looking for his family only to discover that the state police (Hungary was now communist) had taken over the building as their regional offices. It was incredible to see the place. One wing had been turned into a museum and included a few articles of my grandfather's (who was a priest).
Here I am standing with my parents along the banks of the Danube in Budapest. That's me on the left, the tallest one with hair. It was clearly a long time ago.
The reason we were visiting Switzerland was to attend the wedding of my cousin Veronika Lessmann. Here's my dad with Veronika (back to the camera). This was easily the most elaborate wedding we've attended. It was also tons of fun.
Another time, Kristina and I had the opportunity to visit New York City with my parents. We rented a two-bedroom apartment on Central Park South. We had a great time enjoying the pleasures of New York, including attending a performance of Don Giovanni at the Met with a stellar cast (Byrn Terfel and Renee Fleming). My dad would become somewhat obsessed with opera, amassing a vast library of hundreds of recorded performances on DVD. In this photo he is standing on the subway platform in midtown Manhattan waiting for a train, obviously not too happy that someone (probably me) is taking his picture.
Jeno's warm-hearted nature was evident, though, when he was around little kids, especially his grand kids. Here's my dad with his oldest grandson Spencer and my brother Paul at breakfast. I love how my dad, while holding his toast, casually gives the bottle to Spencer. The pictures captures three generations, all of whom enjoy gustatory pleasures.
These are some happy and proud grandparents!
Here's my dad with his second grandson Sacha, my sister Csilla's first son. Sacha's given name is Aleksandor. He's named after my paternal grandfather, and the spelling of his name is in honor of my dad.
My parents would take trips to visit my sister Csilla and her family when they lived in San Diego. Here's a young Sacha enjoying breakfast while my dad had his coffee.
It's nice to see my parents looking so happy in the sunshine at the coast.
Here are my parents with three of their grandsons: Spencer, Jeremy, and Sacha (from left to right).
Here's my dad with his granddaughter Abigail. This photo was taken at our house in San Francisco one Thanksgiving.
My cousin Veronika and her husband Martin moved from Switzerland to San Antonio, TX. During this time they had two children, Michelle and Stefan. While they lived in the US they came to visit my parents on a few occasions and my parents would go visit them in San Antonio.
Here's the whole gang a few years ago during a Thanksgiving at our house in San Francisco. My parents, me and my three siblings plus spouses and their kids are all pictured.
Once retired, Jeno took up bread and pasta making with a passion. It allowed him to marry his fascination for gadgets with his love of food. He worked with a scientific precision that produced regular, delicious results. Here he is with his grandson Erich, one of his trusted pasta assistants.
My dad is with his beloved pasta maker and some of his ethereal pasta.
My dad loved chocolate. A few years ago, his doctor told him that with his good health he could eat all the chocolate he wanted. He took it to heart and would buy copious amounts at the Trader Joe's and eat it every day. Here he is in the early '80s with a box of Mozart chocolates he received as a gift. He's letting us know that he's not too eager to share his loot.
Of course he also loved ice cream, especially gelato. Pictured along with my dad are my Aunt Vivian, Uncle Les (my dad's brother), and my mom. This picture was taken in a gelateria in North Beach in San Francisco.
As kids we often joked that my dad's somewhat rotund and stocky frame made him appear like the Buddha. Of course, we had in mind that chubby, Chinese laughing Buddha figure. Here he's posing with a Japanese Buddha at the tea garden in Golden Gate Park in San Francisco.
After a certain point, my dad got too old to ski or play tennis much, but he and my mom remained active. They worked out at the gym regularly and for a while they learned and practiced Tai Chi. In fact, my folks went to the gym most days up until died. My dad would cruise around with the use of his walker, inspiring many. Here they are some years ago at Lake Tahoe on a Tai Chi retreat.
My dad even tried inline skating. I love these pictures because he's over 70 years old when he does this, he's wearing both knee pads and wrist guards, and he's using his ski poles that are probably 50 years old.
Oh yeah, and he's sporting some great tennis shorts.
At the end of my dad's life he was suffering with a great deal of pain due to nerve damage in his hands and feet, along with other ailments related to aging. He could have bouts of pain that were so acute they left him shaking and moaning. And yet, his sense of humor and general well-being were still evident. It's no surprise, then, when I look at these pictures of him being just a bit goofy. Here he's peering around my sister Denise.
Denise's husband, my brother-in-law Todd, is helping my dad roast some chickens on the barbeque: a couple of hams with a couple of chickens. Note the upright fowls.
That's a flower he's sitting in.
My brother Paul, me, and my dad are sitting on the couch in Las Vegas. I'm not sure why we are wearing the berets, but it's obvious that the fruit doesn't fall far from the tree.
This is a classic pose of my dad in his later years: reclining at home with a book, hand upraised in greeting or goodbye. He wore gloves most of the time to help alleviate the nerve pain he experienced.
In July of this year, Kristina and I were heading back to the Bay Area when my dad was admitted to the hospital. We were in the high desert of Nevada when I learned that he had died. I felt sad for not being there, for not being able to say a final goodbye and to tell my dad that I loved him. The landscape, somewhat lonely and desolate reflected how I felt. But it also brought pleasant memories of driving through scenery just like this while on many family ski trips.
I loved my dad and respected the man I know he was. Having endured WWII, a prisoner of war camp, and being forced by circumstance to immigrate, I admire how he maintained his sense of humor and humanity without any bitterness.
He was far from perfect and could be temperamental, reserved to the point of withdrawal, impatient, opinionated, and exceedingly stubborn. But he was also extremely generous, loyal, protective, dependable, forthright, good-humored, and loving in his own way.
I'm sad that he died, but glad he no longer has to suffer. I'm sure there will be times when I miss him more than others and that's okay. He'll always be with me in some way until I die. And when I think about him, I'll remember him skating off down the street. He was my crazy dad and I loved him.
On July 21st this year my dad died. For me, my dad was a dependable, comforting presence in my life. He taught me to ski, play tennis and bridge. We shared a love of Star Trek and science fiction books, chocolate and salami, and following the Tour de France. He showed me a way to live in which one could be both physically and intellectually active and alive, enjoying a wide range of human capabilities.
I learned to ski when I was about 3 years old. I would stand between my dad's legs and he would hold me up as we went down the hill. As my balance developed, I'd go on my own and inevitably fall over. He'd be there encouraging me to use my own power to get up, struggling until I learned how to stand up and only coming over to help if I seemed completely helpless, probably crying my eyes out. My dad was like that for me throughout my life: A support that I could lean back on while encouraging me to develop my own sense of independence, knowing that if I got stuck I could count on him to help me.
He was 91 years old. Another way to think of it is he had spent more than 33,000 days on this planet. That's pretty amazing. I wanted to share a few photos, some stories, and a few remembrances of him.
He was born in a small town in the Tokay region in northeastern Hungary. It's called Sárospatak.
He had two brothers and a sister. Jeno is the tall one in the back. In front of him is his brother Victor. The older girl is his sister Magda. The boy on the far left is his brother Laszlo (or Leslie). The small girl in front is my mother's sister, Vilmi. My parents are distant relatives and their families visited each other from time to time.
As a young man he entered the Hungarian Army's war college and studied to be a military engineer. He would complete his studies and serve in the army during World War II. As you can see, he cut a pretty good figure in his formal military uniform.
He would be captured by the Russian Army near the end of the war. He spent about two years in a prisoner of war camp in the Soviet Union, mainly Siberia. After being released, he went back to Hungary and would eventually leave for Germany to find his family, where they would live for a few years before immigrating to the United States. This picture is from his US immigration papers.
My dad, his parents, and two brothers ended up in St. Paul, Minnesota. My dad and his brother Victor began working a variety of jobs helping to support the family. During this time, Jeno also was attending evening university courses. He graduated with a degree in finance and landed a job with the Internal Revenue Service, where he would work for more than 25 years.
My mother Csilla was also born in Hungary, and her family would immigrate from Hungary to Brazil after WWII. Somehow my dad was able to convince my mom to visit him in Minnesota. (I believe he received a bit of help from my grandmothers with this, but I'm not exactly sure.) During one of these visits, his irrepressible charm and good humor won her over. They got married in 1957.
It looks like the party after the wedding was fun.
Within a few years they would start having a family. Here's Jeno with my brother Paul. I love the steel-framed baby carrier. It doesn't look too comfortable, but my dad doesn't seem to mind. I'm not so sure how Paul feels about it, though.
Here he is with my sister Denise. Behind him is one of his violin cases. He was a professional musician, member of the musicians union, and played in the St. Paul Civic Orchestra. He played often and with great pleasure with friends in string quartets and quintets because he appreciated chamber music. These groups were frequently invited to play in churches of all denominations and also at the synagogue. In his retirement, arthritis would keep him from playing the violin, so he decided to teach himself to play piano (using the piano he bought as a "gift" for my mother's birthday).
Up until the last few years of my dad's career, he always wore a suit and tie to work. When I was about 7 or 8 years old, I came across his IRS identification card. Not knowing what the IRS was and having a vivid imagination, I thought maybe my dad was a secret agent of some kind.
My dad's family owned a small cabin on a lake in the woods of Minnesota, where they spent time every summer. Here my dad is trying to convince me not to be afraid of the water. I don't think it worked too well.
In 1972 our family moved to Las Vegas. Here we are standing in the backyard of our house, my mom and dad, my brother Paul, and my sisters Denise and Csilla. I'm the short guy in the red shirt.
Every weekend during the winter we'd drive about an hour in the mountains outside Las Vegas to a tiny ski hill. During the remaining months, we'd play tennis on the weekends and often weeknights after my dad got off work. Here we are proudly displaying our new racquets. I had the same wood-composite racquet model used by the Argentine champion Guillermo Vilas.
He loved to ski, having learned as an adult in Minnesota. He taught all his kids, and once we were accomplished skiers, he would teach anybody else that wanted to learn. Here he his, posing in a some kind of goofy manner, with my cousin Peter Lessmann. Peter is a commercial airline pilot so he was able to visit my parents regularly. I think as my dad got older he became less serious, especially when someone was taking his picture.
Years later Peter's brother, Daniel, would visit my parents. Daniel, too, would go skiing and get a few lessons from my dad.
My dad was a ferocious bridge player. But his skill, arrogance, competitive nature, and impatience could be difficult to deal with. At times he couldn't understand how his partner could make a mistake and would scream at them. His accent made "stupid" sound like "shhtoopid,"as in, "How could you be so shhtoopid!" It could be unnerving to be his partner. Kristina was willing to learn to play bridge so that we could play with my parents, but she refused to be my dad's partner.
Once my parents retired, they'd take the time to travel. Here's my dad in the Italian alps. They rented a car and drove throughout Italy. This picture may have been taken along one of the routes of Giro d'Italia bike race.
Kristina and I had the good fortune of traveling with my parents in Hungary, Czechoslovakia, and Switzerland. Here I'm with my parents in Sárospatak, the town my dad was from.
And here's my dad in the courtyard of the house where his family lived for few years before the war. In reality, it's a bit more than a house, it's a castle. In fact, it is a castle that was owned by the Rákóczi family, some of whose members were leading politicians of the country in the 17th century. My dad's family rented one of the two wings from the owner who had fallen on difficult financial times. After my dad got out of the Russian POW camp in 1947, he returned here looking for his family only to discover that the state police (Hungary was now communist) had taken over the building as their regional offices. It was incredible to see the place. One wing had been turned into a museum and included a few articles of my grandfather's (who was a priest).
Here I am standing with my parents along the banks of the Danube in Budapest. That's me on the left, the tallest one with hair. It was clearly a long time ago.
The reason we were visiting Switzerland was to attend the wedding of my cousin Veronika Lessmann. Here's my dad with Veronika (back to the camera). This was easily the most elaborate wedding we've attended. It was also tons of fun.
Another time, Kristina and I had the opportunity to visit New York City with my parents. We rented a two-bedroom apartment on Central Park South. We had a great time enjoying the pleasures of New York, including attending a performance of Don Giovanni at the Met with a stellar cast (Byrn Terfel and Renee Fleming). My dad would become somewhat obsessed with opera, amassing a vast library of hundreds of recorded performances on DVD. In this photo he is standing on the subway platform in midtown Manhattan waiting for a train, obviously not too happy that someone (probably me) is taking his picture.
Jeno's warm-hearted nature was evident, though, when he was around little kids, especially his grand kids. Here's my dad with his oldest grandson Spencer and my brother Paul at breakfast. I love how my dad, while holding his toast, casually gives the bottle to Spencer. The pictures captures three generations, all of whom enjoy gustatory pleasures.
These are some happy and proud grandparents!
Here's my dad with his second grandson Sacha, my sister Csilla's first son. Sacha's given name is Aleksandor. He's named after my paternal grandfather, and the spelling of his name is in honor of my dad.
My parents would take trips to visit my sister Csilla and her family when they lived in San Diego. Here's a young Sacha enjoying breakfast while my dad had his coffee.
It's nice to see my parents looking so happy in the sunshine at the coast.
Here are my parents with three of their grandsons: Spencer, Jeremy, and Sacha (from left to right).
Here's my dad with his granddaughter Abigail. This photo was taken at our house in San Francisco one Thanksgiving.
My cousin Veronika and her husband Martin moved from Switzerland to San Antonio, TX. During this time they had two children, Michelle and Stefan. While they lived in the US they came to visit my parents on a few occasions and my parents would go visit them in San Antonio.
Here's the whole gang a few years ago during a Thanksgiving at our house in San Francisco. My parents, me and my three siblings plus spouses and their kids are all pictured.
Once retired, Jeno took up bread and pasta making with a passion. It allowed him to marry his fascination for gadgets with his love of food. He worked with a scientific precision that produced regular, delicious results. Here he is with his grandson Erich, one of his trusted pasta assistants.
My dad is with his beloved pasta maker and some of his ethereal pasta.
My dad loved chocolate. A few years ago, his doctor told him that with his good health he could eat all the chocolate he wanted. He took it to heart and would buy copious amounts at the Trader Joe's and eat it every day. Here he is in the early '80s with a box of Mozart chocolates he received as a gift. He's letting us know that he's not too eager to share his loot.
Of course he also loved ice cream, especially gelato. Pictured along with my dad are my Aunt Vivian, Uncle Les (my dad's brother), and my mom. This picture was taken in a gelateria in North Beach in San Francisco.
As kids we often joked that my dad's somewhat rotund and stocky frame made him appear like the Buddha. Of course, we had in mind that chubby, Chinese laughing Buddha figure. Here he's posing with a Japanese Buddha at the tea garden in Golden Gate Park in San Francisco.
After a certain point, my dad got too old to ski or play tennis much, but he and my mom remained active. They worked out at the gym regularly and for a while they learned and practiced Tai Chi. In fact, my folks went to the gym most days up until died. My dad would cruise around with the use of his walker, inspiring many. Here they are some years ago at Lake Tahoe on a Tai Chi retreat.
My dad even tried inline skating. I love these pictures because he's over 70 years old when he does this, he's wearing both knee pads and wrist guards, and he's using his ski poles that are probably 50 years old.
Oh yeah, and he's sporting some great tennis shorts.
At the end of my dad's life he was suffering with a great deal of pain due to nerve damage in his hands and feet, along with other ailments related to aging. He could have bouts of pain that were so acute they left him shaking and moaning. And yet, his sense of humor and general well-being were still evident. It's no surprise, then, when I look at these pictures of him being just a bit goofy. Here he's peering around my sister Denise.
Denise's husband, my brother-in-law Todd, is helping my dad roast some chickens on the barbeque: a couple of hams with a couple of chickens. Note the upright fowls.
That's a flower he's sitting in.
My brother Paul, me, and my dad are sitting on the couch in Las Vegas. I'm not sure why we are wearing the berets, but it's obvious that the fruit doesn't fall far from the tree.
This is a classic pose of my dad in his later years: reclining at home with a book, hand upraised in greeting or goodbye. He wore gloves most of the time to help alleviate the nerve pain he experienced.
In July of this year, Kristina and I were heading back to the Bay Area when my dad was admitted to the hospital. We were in the high desert of Nevada when I learned that he had died. I felt sad for not being there, for not being able to say a final goodbye and to tell my dad that I loved him. The landscape, somewhat lonely and desolate reflected how I felt. But it also brought pleasant memories of driving through scenery just like this while on many family ski trips.
I loved my dad and respected the man I know he was. Having endured WWII, a prisoner of war camp, and being forced by circumstance to immigrate, I admire how he maintained his sense of humor and humanity without any bitterness.
He was far from perfect and could be temperamental, reserved to the point of withdrawal, impatient, opinionated, and exceedingly stubborn. But he was also extremely generous, loyal, protective, dependable, forthright, good-humored, and loving in his own way.
I'm sad that he died, but glad he no longer has to suffer. I'm sure there will be times when I miss him more than others and that's okay. He'll always be with me in some way until I die. And when I think about him, I'll remember him skating off down the street. He was my crazy dad and I loved him.
