There are already a lot of posts out there today about the despondence many of us are feeling and the bewilderment that so many Americans live in a reality that I simply cannot comprehend, a reality in which a bigoted, misogynistic, bullying, predatory egomaniac can become the leader of the alleged free world. So instead, I am going to write about my grandpa, who passed away at home this morning surrounded by his wife, children and grandchildren.

My Grandpa Bernie was a scholar. Since his retirement, he published five books, ranging from a French historical novel to a memoir titled ‘The Road I Took: Memories of an Extraordinary Man of the Second Rank’, which we read to him over the past few days. Before he slipped into unresponsiveness, we laughed together about his first love, the fair Mildred Lichtling whom he met in the Catskills as a young man, listened to Beethoven’s symphonies as we read about his love of classical music and opera and sang Jewish tunes when we reached the chapter discussing the role religion has played in his life.

In one chapter, Grandpa Bernie described an encounter with a bully, Martin Schlossberg, and how he mustered the courage to confront and fight him. He then went on to recount how when my own father was confronted by a bully, Larry Bernstein (whom I am fairly certain grew up to become an accountant in New Jersey), my grandfather and the formidable Larry Bernstein’s father arranged a match between the two, in which they duked it out. According to my grandfather, my father ‘handled himself very well’.

Today, a father-arranged duel sounds like a recipe for a lawsuit.

Later, when Grandpa Bernie fell into a deeper sleep and was no longer quipping with the aides or singing softly along with the classical music we continued to play for him until his death, we kept reading the memoir, this time reminiscing amongst ourselves about his intellectual curiosity, his dignity and his deep affection for his wife, my Grandma Florence. Even after seventy years of marriage, my grandfather would look at my grandma each day with great wonderment and admiration. He could not believe that she, the beautiful Florence Pollack, had picked him to be her husband. As he lay there, and my grandmother recounted for the umpteenth time that she had four marriage proposals, she looked at him tenderly and said, “I chose you. you were dirt poor, but you were and are the love of my life.”

My grandfather obtained a PhD in History from Columbia University, no mean feat for the son of a newsstand owner. His concentration was in French history, and he could go on for hours about the Franco-Prussian War. During high school, I had to write an extensive research paper for my history class. He convinced me to do it on the Dreyfus Affair, with a focus on Colonel Georges Picquart, who risked his entire career and honor to exonerate the wrongfully convicted Alfred Dreyfus. The summer before my senior year of high school, Grandpa and I went to the 42nd Street Library in New York City to do research together for the paper. In the midst of our reading, the electricity went out; it was the 2003 blackout.

The library shut down, and it became evident very quickly that there were no cabs to be had. The subway had shut down, so we had no choice but to trek the 30+ blocks back to the apartment we were staying at. He was 82 at the time, and already had a heart condition and high blood pressure. But as was always his way, he made the walk back to the apartment with tremendous poise and perseverance.

I got an A on that paper, and yesterday while going through his books we found a copy of it I had inscribed to him 13 years ago.

Over the past few years, Grandpa Bernie was in near constant pain from Arthritis and other ailments. Always the stoic, he would never complain and instead would sing, something that brought him great joy and comfort. My grandfather had a beautiful baritone voice. He used to sing while walking down the halls of their retirement complex and was known as the “Troubadour of St. Andrews”. He would sing in English, Yiddish, Hebrew, German and Italian.

In September, just two months before his passing, he serenaded my grandmother at a party celebrating their 70th wedding anniversary and his 95th birthday. He crooned ‘Let me call you sweetheart, I’m in love with you. Let me hear you whisper that you love me too’. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house.

Today the world feels a little broken. Let us all try and honor my grandfather’s legacy by facing whatever the future holds for us and for our country with dignity, with courage and with humility.

In memory of Dr. Bernard J. Looks, September 12, 1921 — November 9, 2016.