Stephen J. Nyirady
May 7, 1917-June 25, 2002
My father was a man of few words so I will follow suit here and say only a few words. In fact, he felt uncomfortable with words, but that did not matter as long as my mother was alive, for she spoke for him. After she passed away three years ago he was lost and missed her dearly. Now they are together again, and I am sure she is again doing the talking for both of them.
My father was a kind man, whose actions spoke far louder than his words could have, if even he had spoken them. His religion was not of "sounding brass or tinkling cymbals." His goodness and strength were revealed in his actions. When a fire gutted the core of his parents' house he went over there, after work, evenings and weekends, and rebuilt it, while still providing care for his parents in the various hospitals they ended up in. For much of his adult life he suffered from excruciating migranes, but he took some Anacin and went to work or went to church, and didn't complain. He never complained.
His skill was in restoration. He enjoyed fixing things and making them like new again. Most of the time he made them better than new. He would never merely replace the light bulb in the ceiling fixture. He would wash the fixture with soap and water before putting it back. After all, when would it get cleaned if not then?
He loved music. He played the violin but not much during the second half of his life. God had not given him the fingers of a violinist, he said, but he still enjoyed listening to violin pieces. His favorite was Mendelssohn's violin concerto, although I trace my love of classical music back to the evening when he brought out a stack of old 78s and put on Beethoven's.
He was also a skilled photographer, whose photographs during the 1930s in my opinion rival anything published from that time.
By my father's standards I have already said too much. Goodbye Dad.