Yesterday would have been Barney Schultz’s 68th birthday. My dad was everything you could hope for in a father: funny, kind, laid back, sensible. He also had an uncanny ability to sense the hurt in me. Not that I’ve gone through any kind of real hardship to speak of. I’m talking about those little moments in life when you feel overwhelmed and unsure of yourself.

When I was having a hard time in sixth grade — we’d just moved from San Francisco to Los Angeles the summer between elementary school and junior high — I would cry most mornings. We lived with my grandmother in LA, but my parents used my uncle’s address to enroll me in a “nicer” school in Torrance. The commute was about 40 minutes — plenty of time to become overcome with emotion over this new situation that I didn’t like. One morning, Dad walked me to class as I was wrought with anxiety and on the verge of tears, yet again. I remember, clear as day, that we stopped at a water fountain. I took a sip as he calmly advised me to take several deep breaths. I felt better.

That’s it.

I’ve held that memory close to me the next 31 years anytime I feel overwhelmed by the moment.

He died four years ago, without warning. Worst day of my life.

Three weeks later, we held a small memorial with family and friends. I felt compelled to take a moment to recount his life story. We all know each other in certain ways, but like the dark side of the moon, many of us don’t see the whole story. Friends of my dad told me stories that I couldn’t believe. Acts of kindness and inspiration I never knew about. It felt right to help illuminate everyone about the life of Barney, as best as I could in an amount of time that fit the moment.

I took a shot of whiskey beforehand (I’m not a drinker, but it seemed like the thing to do). Afterward, I remember an aunt telling me she didn’t realize he/we weren’t Jewish. It was an insignificant realization, but it felt good to set the record straight. A man lives his life to the best of his ability, we owe it to him to understand what he was all about, whether that be values, religion, the things he saw, and how he felt.

But that’s just it. My greatest regret in the end is that documenting the events of a person’s life doesn’t tell you how he felt. You can extrapolate things, much like a genealogist would of ancestors long gone, but what a tragedy that once you lose someone, he becomes just as ancient in a blink, unable to tell you his greatest achievements, his biggest regrets, and what it meant to him to co-captain his high school state championship basketball team.

Of course, you do what you can, and try not to repeat the same mistakes with those who are still around.

In any case, on the fourth anniversary of that memorial, I thought I’d share the speech I gave that night in an attempt to further reverberate his life into public record, as much as this space qualifies as public record.

My biggest fear is forgetting any detail that I’ve learned, any story I’ve been told, the sound of his voice, or the feel of his hand holding mine.

Eulogy to Dad

By Nick Schultz

Delivered to 29 family and friends at the Il Fornaio restaurant in Manhattan Beach, Calif., Saturday May 14, 2016.

We all knew my dad in different ways. Some, like those on my mother’s side of the family, probably knew him as a nice guy, easy to talk to at the holidays, maybe a decent cook, and a sports fan. Others, like former coworkers — Maki and Mehti from Fab’s restaurant, Itsuko from Cafe Petite — probably knew a guy who was nice, funny, but could get a little testy in the kitchen from time to time. My own friends and teammates — like Justin, Ross, and Bobby — may have thought of him as a nice guy and a decent basketball player. Even my mom and I had our own perceptions of who he was. But one thing is constant: he was a nice guy. His lifelong friend, Bruce, confirmed this to me two weeks ago: nobody dad encountered disliked him. Everybody seemed to like Barney.

Since his sudden passing more than three weeks ago, Mom and I have looked through a ton of photos of him. If you watch the slideshow, you’ll notice a shot from earlier this year where he’s flipping off the camera with a half joking, half defiant look on his face. It’s a look of his that I remember well. As the photos get older, I see a young, handsome man with a world of possibilities in front of him. I’m obviously biased, but I see the shots of him from when he was dating my mom to their wedding to when I was born, and I see a guy enjoying the best time of his life. Just look at his smile in those particular photos in the slideshow.

This resonates with me because I’m at a similar moment in my life. I’ve often thought to myself over these past three weeks that I’ll never be as happy again as I was from December 18th of last year — the day my second son Luke was born — until that dark day he passed away on April 20th. I didn’t appreciate it at the time, but those 17 weeks of my life were as happy as I can imagine ever being again because those will end up being the only 17 weeks I have the five most important people in my life at the same time: my sons, Luke and Jackson; my wife Dawn; my mother, Emily; and my dad.

For all of us who knew only certain aspects of Barney, I’d like to share a quick timeline of his life. Maybe you’ll learn something you didn’t know about him. Over the past three weeks, I’ve certainly learned a lot.

***

Barney was born Robert Francis Schultz, about a month premature, on May 13, 1952 in Morristown, New Jersey. His father, Francis Nicholas Schultz, died suddenly on August 11, 1955. Barney was only 3, so he would live his life with no memory of his father. Francis was from Chicago, thus my dad’s adoption of the Chicago Cubs. I’ve heard Frank may have been a White Sox fan, but my dad’s brother claimed them first. Always defiant, dad took the other Chicago team rather than share. My dad and his brother and sister were raised by a single mother, Mary, and with the help of a large extended family of exuberant Italians. Every time I go back there, it’s a little like living in an episode of the Sopranos.

Sports played a big part in Barney’s life. I’ve heard a lot of stories these past few weeks about how he was a ferocious defender at point guard, but struggled offensively. Nonetheless, his skills culminated in being co-captain of his high school basketball team, winning a New Jersey state championship, and earning a scholarship to play basketball at a Division III college. He majored in history there. As exciting as this all sounds, he rarely talked about those days, and I regret not asking him more about them.

After college in the mid-70s, he, Bruce (that best friend of his), and his dog jumped in a VW Bus and drove cross-country to San Francisco. What a hippie, right? He worked odd jobs, including waiting tables at one particular restaurant in the City where he’d meet his eventual wife, Emily. Bruce — a friend since kindergarten and whom he still texted with to his dying day — also worked at that same restaurant and met his future wife there too. Eerie.

Emily and Barney loved the outdoors. They went to Alaska and camped up and down the West Coast. Shortly after I was born, they moved to Donner Lake to get away from city life. After lots of fishing and skiing, and two brutal winters, we returned to San Francisco. By then, Dad had come into his own as a cook and ran a popular restaurant in the City.

We moved to Los Angeles in the summer of 1989 to be closer to my mom’s family. In between cook jobs, with the help of my Uncle Ken, dad tried his hand at being a television crew member. When that didn’t work out, dad went back to cooking. One stop he made was at a restaurant called Fab’s in Sherman Oaks. When he left Fab’s, it was to finally start a restaurant of his own.

Cafe Petite in Torrance ended up being a bit of a struggle — waiting tables at Cafe Petite is the only job I ever walked out on in my life — but it received positive critical reviews, including being named a best restaurant by Los Angeles magazine. Cafe Petite lasted 10 years.

Subsequently, dad still needed to work, but age had finally caught up to him. He finally stopped playing pick-up basketball in his mid-50s, and he didn’t want to be on his feet in a kitchen anymore. An opportunity came for him to work for another childhood friend, Dave Holmes, at his pharmaceutical company back in New Jersey. I didn’t understand exactly what this guy who could barely turn on a computer was qualified to do at a pharmaceutical company, but his determination to find a niche and set himself and Mom up for retirement was unwavering.

He moved to New Jersey in the summer of 2009, just after my wedding, for what he thought would be “six months to a year.” What he didn’t anticipate was his mother’s declining health. He spent much of the next five years spending most of his free time caring for and keeping his mother company.

He did find time to fulfill one dream of his: he hiked to the top of Mount Whitney, the highest summit in the contiguous United States, in the fall of 2010. For years, he wouldn’t shut up about that damn mountain. One year, by request, I bought him a USGS topographical map of it. Who wants a map for Christmas? But at age 58, he made the 47.5-mile hike to the top, alone, over the course of four days. The picture on the prayer card is him giving the thumbs up at the summit.

During this same time, Dave Holmes was fighting his own declining health. As soon as grandma passed away in December of 2014, dad took up a similar caregiver role with his dear old friend. Sadly, Dave passed away this past November.

However, with all of his obligations fulfilled, it was time for Dad to come home to us in Los Angeles and begin living life on his own terms again. He had sent most of his stuff home, worked his last day at the office, and booked a plane ticket to come home May 3rd. This last Tuesday was mom’s birthday. Yesterday was dad’s 64th birthday. I’m sure the six of us would have been together right now, for a meal not unlike the one we will be sharing tonight, to celebrate both their birthdays and his triumphant return home. But the thing I was looking forward to most was for dad to teach his grandkids everything he taught me. He was everything a son could hope for in a dad. I miss him terribly.

It’s been a trying few weeks, and I want to thank all of you for everything you’ve done for us and offering your support. You — along with dad’s brother, Chuck, his sister, Susie, and a myriad of loyal, devoted family and friends — help keep us going during some of the darkest, loneliest moments of our lives. Thank you all so much for being here. Please enjoy the meal, and I hope you fondly keep my father in your memories.

One last thing — hall-of-fame Cub Ernie Banks was his favorite athlete. Dad wore Ernie’s number 14 during his high school championship year. I found a quote of his that I’d like to read to you. Ernie once said:

Loyalty and friendship, which is to me the same, created all the wealth that I’ve ever thought I’d have.

Thank you.