Funeral for Herbert M. Lipschutz, M.D.

1.14.26 Princeton, NJ

From JESS DEUTSCH

About my father, you could say he was:

A son, brother, husband, father, grandfather, uncle, cousin, A friend, athlete, neighbor, sailor, writer, and of course – DOCTOR.

All of these are true.

Which way did you know him? Which way did he know you?

To me he was more than any of these words He was the feeling I have always had:

The feeling of: you are loved. Everyone should be so lucky to have a person who is that feeling.

He read my heart, silently.

And I read his.

Unspoken conversation with my father became more essential as he slowly lost his hearing; and after there were no words for the sadness we shared- the knowledge, then reality, that we would lose my brother, his son. Try to sit with someone in that kind of pain. You learn that mere presence, while not a cure, is a gift you can offer. If you are strong enough to bear it. And you are. You can be. My father had a way of showing people their own gifts. It was his.

My father and I were a lot alike- cut from the same cloth, he said.

That did not mean we always agreed. We did not.

I could tell him so, and rather than be angry (Did anyone ever see him angry?) he’d try to understand. He asked questions. Or, he just went on as if it was nothing, because to him, one thing mattered more—the effort to understand, the confidence to remain true, while willing to adapt. Like when winds change direction.

Speaking of changing direction:

At my wedding, I had specifically chosen a song for the father-daughter dance. It was, admittedly, a bit trite. “Through the Years,” by Kenny Rogers, 1993. It started off: I can’t remember when you weren’t there, when I didn’t care, for anyone but you. But we didn’t get any further than that stanza because after it, my dad turned to the band and said, “can you play something that’s more of a waltz?”

I had picked the song. My dad changed it in real time w/no recourse. The band listened to him. I can’t recall what waltz we actually danced to, but before the song had ended, I wasn’t mad. Because, mostly, I am like him

What does it mean to be like my dad? It is to be calm, and kind. To read and write nuanced stories about complicated people and ideas. To try hard to understand what you do not know.

To be quiet. To appreciate the simplest of lovely things. A beach. A sunset. A cup of hot chocolate. Strawberry lemonade.

To break rules. To write rhyming poems for celebrations. To make fried bananas with way too much brown sugar. To go tobaggoning on a members-only golf course. To disguise a patient’s son as a doctor, to sneak them into a hospital room past visiting hours.

My dad did all these things

He had certain phrases we all recognize. “Half a day,” he’d say to his office staff, after working 12 hours straight. “Nothin’s easy,” he would remind us, when things got tough. And of course, “straight ahead,” -- the classic ending to most consultations.

One phrase —No Snow— didn’t have a direct translation.

No snow is a phrase that is a feeling, more than words in sequence.

The feeling of: you can trust me with your life.

The feeling of: I will tell it like it is.

The feeling of: I have faith you can handle what I tell you.

No snow was a phrase he said to us—my mom, my brother Josh, my sister Jen and me when we were growing up. For the longest time, I honestly thought it was one word, a nonsense word “N – O – S -N - O” like a code or a secret password. I think he usually put up his hands like a peace sign when he said it. I am not sure when I realized he was actually saying No Snow, like I’m not snowing you, I’m not covering up anything.

He looked you in the eye to let you know he meant it. It is something that is impossible to put into words, but you could feel it. And right until now I don’t think Ted or Abby—my dad’s daughter in law and son in law, who became just his straight up daughter and son —would ever have heard this phrase, but I know they know the feeling I’m talking about.

No snow implies you are mine. I am yours.

No one belonged more perfectly with my dad than his “bride” of 60 years—my mom. After my dad retired, my parents spent almost every waking moment in each other’s presence. Knowing each other’s every move. Possibly one of the sweetest and most romantic details is that as my dad struggled to get out of the house or to navigate websites, he would have me order flowers to arrive at their door from him on her birthdays, mother’s day, and valentine’s day. He insisted on paying for it but he didn’t handwrite checks anymore, so he’d wait a week or so, then have my mom write me a check for a certain amount, as if she wouldn’t know what it was for. He wanted to be her knight in shining armor and he was.

For the rest of us, if you crossed my father’s path, even accidentally or briefly, you had not just a cheerleader, you had an investor—he might even have cared more than you did about what you told him. My dad would remember every detail when he wrote you an email, in capital letters, or when you saw him next. Even if that was several decades later. Once you were in his world, once he was in yours, it was for keeps.

The down side of living to 93 is that you are one of the last men standing. My dad had INCREDIBLE, lifelong friendships- with guys he grew up with (Larry Weiss), went to college with (Hilly Farber), and a big group of med school friends. With Alan Fine, he practiced medicine with an intimacy more like brotherhood. I know my dad missed them all in his later years but memories kept him company and he enjoyed re telling us their stories.

How lucky we are, those of us who had him in our worlds. There is so much to keep from my dad’s long, great life. Not material things- those didn’t matter to him. Do you have a letter from him? An email? A drawing? A relic from his career like a stethoscope or a book? He wasn’t a buyer of presents. He was a giver of gifts much more lasting. Care. Listening. Seeing. Knowing. Being. The people he knew and loved were his treasure.

I am hoping that what I’ve said here has given you the feeling of who Herb Lipschutz was. You will honor him most if you express gratitude for your blessings. show commitment to democracy (big or little D), if you take care of those around you. If you listen carefully; read, and write- especially if you write a book. If you work really hard at the things that matter most to you. If you play tennis, shoot hoops,or go sailing.

As my dad told a certain grandchild: “Seeing you enjoy sailing is a dream come true. Sailing is something that will grow on you. You will remember me when I’m gone when you jibe and come about, and the wind fills your sails and you heel to starboard.”

You will honor my dad when you smile, realizing you have a bit of his gentleness, humor, or the love he gave infinitely to his wife, children, grandchildren, friends, neighbors, colleagues, patients, and sometimes to perfect strangers.

You don’t have to be a doctor to be like my dad. No one could ever be all the things he was. My dad would be so proud to see the way his grandchildren: Lilah, Ben, Maddie, Alex, Shelby (now Aaron) and Sy, will hold and reflect glimmers of Grandpa, and make them their own.

In the spirit of my dad’s favorite poetry, please say it with us:

NO SNOW.

Jess

Sorry to hear about your father; our thoughts and prayers are with you and Ted.  Cheryl and I met your Dad on several occasions during Alex’s Hun days and we remember him well. 

 We moved to South Carolina 10 yrs back and would love to see you if are ever in the Charleston area.

God Bless you!

Bill and Cheryl 

Dr. Herb Lipschutz left an indelible mark on my journey in the United States. As a young undergraduate student at Princeton with a goal of becoming a physician, I had the pleasure of meeting Herb through his daughter Jess. Herb immediately became a cherished mentor and provided invaluable guidance about the profession that would go on to shape my life and career as a physician in the way I parter with my patient’s on their healthcare journey. My first stethoscope was a gift from Herb, and I have held on to and cherished that as a reminder of the great mentor who’s counsel continues to loom large as I travel down my own journey as a physician. While I mourn his loss, I also celebrated with the world by sharing on my social media platforms, a picture of his thoughtful feedback he gave me on my medical school application personal essay. I wish there was a way to post that picture here as well.

Herb, I will miss you dearly. May you rest peacefully in Johovah’s bosom.

From PHIL GOLDSTEIN 

Those of you who don't know me, and maybe even some of my relatives here as well may not know this, but I was Herb Lipschutz's first son. Nope, it's not what you're thinking; more accurately, I was his 'practice son'.

For you see, before there was Susan, Jen, Jess and Joshy, every summer my mother, Herb's sister, would pack me off to New Jersey for a month, where I had the honor of the considerable wisdom and mentorship of the coolest, funnest dude I ever knew, my Uncle Herb.

So here are some of the really cool activities Uncle Herb 'practiced' on me, often going out of his way and wallet to make sure he got them right, all in the name of being the best dad possible for when he someday had his own little guy(s):

• We built a go kart out of a dolly from Pop Pop's Star Company Department Store and used it to race around Hillside.

• When I wanted a bicycle to ride one summer, he borrowed one from Cousins Gee and Dee, but I told him I couldn't ride a girl's bike. Overnight he fashioned a crossbar from a broomstick and nobody was the wiser that I didn't have a boy's bike.

• He took me to games at Yankee Stadium... the real one that Ruth built, not the new, fancy one.

• He gave me his own first baseman's mitt (even though I was a pitcher and right fielder), coached me to turn my sidearm throws into overhand throws, then visited when I pitched our Little League team to its only non-loss of the season, a 9-9 tie, where I caught the final out, a pop up over the mound.

• He gave me his terrific electric Lionel Train set.

• [I passed along both the mitt and train set to Joshy when he came along, and am told Ben has them now.]

• He owned and could play a full size, stand up bass, on which he taught me to play "Mary Had a Little Lamb" while standing on a chair.

• He taught me to whistle, which I did incessantly, to the displeasure of Mom and Mimi.

• When I lost a front tooth, he taught me to spit through the gap

• He took me to a couple of med school classes, including a lab where I got to pith a frog.

• He gave me various cool doctor stuff, including a lab coat, stethoscope, hemostats, and more, all of which eventually became part of my 50 continuous years' Halloween costume

• He took me to the shore many times. He seldom had much money and, one time, wanting to save what he did have for my special hot dog and soda, he once backed off the toll road on ramp, thus avoiding the toll, all the while (of course) telling me that it was wrong and never to do it myself.

• He taught me sailing in a wonderful little Sunfish on a week-long stay at Buzzard's Bay on Cape Cod when Jen was an infant. One day, when she needed diapers, Uncle Herb decided, rather than drive around the bay to the store, we'd sail across to buy diapers. Unfortunately, a bad storm came back on the return leg, and he tried everything the capable sailor that he was to get us turned homeward, yelling, "Hang on Mud (for some reason I never knew, he called me Mud, after Muddy Ruel, a 1915-34 major league catcher for the Yankees and others), we're going to make it," and then, "We're not going to make it," and we crashed up on the rocks. But we still had baby Jen's diapers!

So, for Aunt Sue, Jen, Jess, and (heavenward) Joshy, you can add to the legend that is your husband and father, that not only did he want to practice medicine with the best of the great country docs, but he wanted to practice being a great dad--at least the fun stuff--before he actually was one, and I was the beneficiary of that practice!!

I love you, Uncle Herb, love you all here, and straight on (across Buzzard's Bay)!!

From TED DEUTSCH

For Herb, my father 

Some select people are lucky enough to have a great father.

A man who believes in them. Someone who sets an example for how to live a good and meaningful life. A dad who loves them unconditionally.

Then there’s a smaller group of people. Those who are lucky enough to have two great fathers. (Or two great mothers). Or both.

I am such a person.

My name is Ted, and for nearly 35 years, I’ve been married to Jess, Herb and Sue’s middle child.

It takes nothing anything away from my first dad Harvey, of blessed memory for 13 years, to tell you that Herb was truly my second dad.

We loved each other as true father and son.

Having told you that, today I am here simply to add a few [more] lines of poetry that get at the spirit of the man.

And for all of you who knew him, you know Herb wasn’t just a doctor, an intellect, a friend, a “fine fellow” – he was a man with a poetic soul.

And I don’t mean the witty interactive rhyming poems he wrote for family events. Though that’s part of it.

I’m thinking of the thousands of perfectly sculpted letters and emails he sent friends and family through the years. A letter from Herb felt like it could have appeared in the New Yorker.

Then there was his appreciation for a Sinatra lyric… a great book… a Frost stanza. And his romantic admiration for his soulmate and life partner, my second mom, Sue.

So, to honor his poetic spirit, and beautiful heart, here are a few lines of poetry that feel fitting for this remembrance:

First, from one if his favorite poets, Robert Frost’s “The Tuft of Flowers”

The butterfly and I had lit upon,

Nevertheless, a message from the dawn,

That made me hear the wakening birds around,

And hear his long scythe whispering to the ground,

And feel a spirit kindred to my own;

So that henceforth I worked no more alone;

But glad with him, I worked as with his aid,

And weary, sought at noon with him the shade;

And dreaming, as it were, held brotherly speech

With one whose thought I had not hoped to reach.

‘Men work together,’ I told him from the heart,

‘Whether they work together or apart.’

Here are a few short lines from a Walt Whitman poem, one that “Captain” Herb and Shayna loved reading together… called Out of the Rolling Sea.

Now we have met, we have look'd, we are safe,

Return in peace to the ocean my love,

I too am part of that ocean, my love, we are not so much separated,

Behold the great rondure, the cohesion of all, how perfect!

And, finally, this last poem is a very short poem, Late Fragment, written by Raymond Carver.

And did you get what

you wanted from this life, even so?

I did.

And what did you want?

To call myself beloved, to feel myself

beloved on the earth.

Well, dad, you were beloved. By everyone who worked with you, set sail with you, or was simply lucky enough to be in your orbit.

We are going to miss you so much.

From ALEX DEUTSCH

WORDS THAT DO NO JUSTICE

TO GPA

Magic is defined as something that feels beyond ordinary explanation… A

magical person is someone who changes the emotional temperature of

reality simply by being present. Simply by being present.

PAUSE

As I’ve reflected on the thirty years of life I’ve had the privilege of living with

my grandfather, I struggled to decide how I wanted to celebrate his life.

There is truly no ordinary explanation. Dr. Herbert Michael Lipschutz was a

wise man. As you’ve heard and will continue to hear, he was kind to his

core - not a single bad cell in his body. He was a loyal father, & committed

husband. He was the town doctor. A sailor. Sports fan.

But to me, my grandfather was incredibly complex. Thoughtful.

Introspective. He was emotional. Passionate beyond belief. In his later

years, he was quiet. But when he spoke, each word carried such rich

currency to me, I wanted to hear every syllable. When he didn’t speak, I

observed his mannerisms. His eyes. Lucky if I got a wink. Always his right

eye.

If he was in the room, you cared, and chances are you were raising your

voice so Doc could hear you. Sitting in his chair in the corner of the room,

he was my Brando, and I wanted to breathe his air. Simply by being

present.

All six of his grandchildren – Sy, Shelby, Maddie, Ben, and Lilah have all

been profoundly impacted by him in their own right. Much of that influence

came in the form of what he wrote to us.

I loved his words, and felt it appropriate to share a few notes we wrote each

other over the years.

When I moved across the country, the majority of our exchanges varied

depending on the season – most of them related to sports… were the Mets

collapsing in September, or was Princeton too small to compete against

anyone outside of the Ivy League?

A serial optimist, and supporter of his people… yet when the TV turned on,

Herb’s glass shockingly became half empty.

“Yo Big guy” he wrote in late December, 2019,

“quite honestly, I’m no longer

much of a hoop fan…. Perhaps the time has finally arrived for me to move

on…. Grandma continues to adamantly refuse to get us signed up for

ESPN+ based on the horror of her terribly frustrating experience last year.

There’s no need for it after all…

”

But we always bounced back,

“Yo big guy” he wrote just six weeks later “if

possible, and this is not an emergency by any means… can you please

email or call us to review the step by step protocol for re-entering the

ESPN+ Network… we’d like to get it on TV”

We shared our love for these teams, and it was something we had together.

Every year was a seesaw, but it took one of the biggest upsets in college

basketball history for him to finally write a few years later -

“Stud. I speak guardedly because it’s just a ploy to make the opposite

happen. I’m really not of little faith.

”

Now while this news was not shocking, this brief admission to his faith was

him opening the window for me to feel his fervent love for the team.

But his faith went beyond the court. It was present in every conversation he

had with me, and with each of his grandchildren… he believed in us.

It takes a certain somebody to be so present in one’s life and never ask or

expect anything in return. But now in his absence, I have a deeper

understanding of my grandfather’s purpose – his undying commitment to

his people, and to the things that matter. He never wavered.

If there’s one thing all of us here can take from him, and improve on in our

ever busy daily lives, it’s to show up. Show up one more time than you did

last. Your presence matters.

I’ll leave you here with a note from a few years back when basketball great,

Coach Pete Carill passed away.

“Yo stud” he writes…

“All who love basketball are saddened today because

Pete WAS basketball. The Princeton offense will live forever in the memory

of those who appreciate the true beauty of how the game could be

played…. PURE MAGIC…. I asked Carill once about the way the Princeton

player was fouled to end the near upset of Georgetown.

‘It’s over… forget

it…. And move on’ he advised me. That’s exactly what he’d say with a

chuckle if asked about his legacy…. Then shake his head…. And walk

”

away.

I never responded to this note, so I’ll do so now.

Yo Grandpa. I am beyond saddened today because you were everything to

me. Your legacy will live forever in the memory of those who appreciate the

true beauty of what it is to be a true, decent man. PURE MAGIC… it’s over

now. But I refuse to forget it and I vehemently refuse to move on. I’ll march

straight ahead in one piece.

Love Alex

From ABBY and BEN LIPSCHUTZ

About a week and a half ago I was sitting in my father-in-law's hospital room and it was quiet and I asked him if he believed in the Afterlife and without pause he said “no…too easy.”

And I said, “ well, what's wrong with easy?

I do believe- I would like to believe that you and Josh neck and back pain free will be playing some tennis and then sailing beautiful seas.”

Dad was quiet for a moment and then he said.,

“Sunshine I don't want to take that away from you.”

And I said, “Don't worry, dad you can't... “

When we were sitting with Dad the other night in his last hours, the winds were really picking up.

I would like to believe that Josh was picking Dad up for that sail.

We found this poem that Ben is about to read, taped to the first page of a scrapbook of momentos that Dad had saved in his office-- it was filled with correspondence from his children and grandchildren. I think we were meant to find this poem, so our next family sailor can read it today. Truly the son of a son of a sailor....

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,

And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;

And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,

And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide

Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;

And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,

And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,

To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;

And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,

And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.

From MADDIE DEUTSCH

Greetings from over the Atlantic Ocean, again. I spent the first five hours of this flight fighting an emotional writer’s block.

I couldn’t quite bring myself to write about Ireland for two reasons. One, because I was back for only 48 hours, not even a pint to review. But more importantly, two…because I couldn’t figure out who I was writing this for.

I will break the fourth wall for a moment here — you may be surprised to hear that there aren’t all that many readers of the MD(ublin) Diaries. I’ve got a 50% open rate across my 31 subscribers. And I am not complaining. But I write here each time, with 2 very specific subscribers in mind: my Grandma Sue and my Grandpa Herb. It was difficult to tell these two, older family members, that I was moving out of the country and so I promised to write often (to be honest, thanks to their MSNBC daily intake levels, they received my decision to go expat much better than most). All jokes aside, nobody has cheered me on throughout my life the way these two have.

Case in point: I’ll never forget when I [very rightfully] got yellow carded in high school for kicking a “probable goal” in the circle, causing a penalty stroke (pretty much the biggest faux pax in field hockey). Oops. And this was the email I received after:

In this spirit, and after 5 hours of perusing my inbox, I’ve decided to share 3 lessons learned from my grandpa:

Lesson 1: Care about it all. My grandfather has always thought I was capable of being Samantha Powers or Rachel Maddow, despite the fact that I have not pursued or expressed an interest in a career in politics. But when I reminded him this, he would just ask me questions to understand where I was finding fulfillment in my work. Even though he often thought I may be the one answering his questions in the Google search bar – he truly tried to understand my work and respected my commitment to it (maybe more than I do myself). He believed I had the power to do whatever my heart desired, and he cared about hearing about it.

Lesson 2: You can always switch paths, it’s never too late & stay passionate. My grandfather was a devoted doctor for 40+ years and you want to know what he did in retirement? He wrote a full blown steamy novel about two med students from different backgrounds falling in love in Bellevue hospital in the 60s. And you want to know what he did after that? He adapted it into a full blown screenplay (with support from actual screenwriters!). Just because you’re 26, does not mean your career is determined. I say that to myself, and likely many of you. There are many lives we live in this one.

Lesson 3: Say thanks and soak it up. Never did we have a dinner, lunch or holiday that was not followed with a note of gratitude. Nothing brought him joy so much as his 6 grandchildren and 3 children and their partners. A gentle reminder to express gratitude when you feel it.

On January 11, my grandfather sailed away peacefully after 93 years on this Earth. I choose to believe he is currently at sea reunited with his son (my uncle) Josh who passed about two years ago to terminal illness. Together their two boats will continue to guide me, straight ahead.

From CAROL ASHER

Uncle Herb: A Guiding Light in My Life

Uncle Herb was truly my idol. Throughout much of my life, he was the adult I admired and looked up to the most. His influence was profound, shaping my values and the way I approached the world.

He affectionately called me “Missy”—never “Carol”—a nickname that always made me feel special and loved. I cherished the long, thoughtful letters he sent before the days of email. Each one was filled with his wisdom, warmth, and unique sense of humor, making their arrival a much-anticipated event.

As technology evolved and our family became more reliant on computers, Uncle Herb adapted right along with us. His emails became a new source of joy, filled with the same care and attention as his handwritten letters. No matter the medium, he always began his messages with “Dear Missy” and signed off with “Love, U/H.” More often than not, he would end with his signature encouragement: “straight ahead.”

Uncle Herb's Blessing on My Marriage

When my husband, Harold, proposed to me 50 year ago, I knew I had to be completely honest with him about one important condition before accepting his proposal. I explained to Harold that I could not give him a definite yes until I received permission from my Uncle Herb, whose opinion meant everything to me.

After Harold and I shared the news of our engagement with Uncle Herb, his reaction was less than enthusiastic at first. He wanted to be certain I was making the right decision and questioned whether I was truly sure about marrying this red neck, no neck linebacker from Bogalusa, LA. Despite his initial reservations, everything changed once Uncle Herb and Harold finally met. Their meeting turned into an instant love fest, and it was clear that Uncle Herb's approval was wholeheartedly given.

Uncle Herb’s Role as a Brother and Son

Uncle Herb was a wonderful little brother to both Phils and my mother, Vivian. His kindness, generosity, and love were evident not only in his relationship with our mom but also in the way he cared for us. As a son, Uncle Herb was truly remarkable. After our grandfather passed away at a young age, Uncle Herb and Aunt Sue devoted themselves to taking care of Mimi, our grandmother. Their unwavering support and compassion ensured that Mimi was always surrounded by love and attentive care.

Uncle Herb’s Influence on My Childhood and Aspirations

Uncle Herb played a significant role in my early years, imparting both practical skills and invaluable life lessons. One of my fondest childhood memories is learning how to spit through my teeth—a quirky skill he took the time to teach me, and one I've always enjoyed having in my repertoire.

His encouragement extended beyond playful moments. Uncle Herb bought me my first tennis racket and personally gave me my first lessons. Thanks to his support, I developed a deep love for the sport and eventually played for both my high school and college freshman teams. He took great pride in my achievements on the court, always eager to discuss strategy and celebrate my progress.

Uncle Herb also had high hopes for my future, much like Maddie, and consistently encouraged me to consider a career in politics and public service. We spent countless hours in thoughtful conversation about which offices I should run for and the steps I should take to pursue those ambitions.

Throughout my life—even as I reached my 60s and he his 90s—I continued to share my accomplishments with Uncle Herb. His genuine interest in my involvement in our New Orleans community made him the person I most wanted to confide in. He was known for asking the most thought-provoking questions, always sincere and deeply invested in everything that mattered to me.

Uncle Herb’s Literary Accomplishments

What truly amazed me was his determination and ability to master the craft of screenwriting. With only a couple of how-to manuals as his guide, he taught himself how to write a screenplay—an impressive feat that demonstrated his resourcefulness and eagerness to learn new skills.

One of my fondest memories is the time Uncle Herb completed the first draft of his book, followed by a screenplay adaptation. I sat with him, reading through each page, and the content was surprisingly bold and risqué. I remember feeling so embarrassed by some of his writing that I needed to excuse myself and go upstairs to finish reading, just to spare myself from blushing in front of him.

Not a milestone went by without Uncle Herb commemorating the occasion with one of his most wonderful pieces written in iambic pentameter. Whether it was a birthday, graduation, or any significant event in my life, he would take the time to craft verses that made each moment feel even more special. His talent for capturing emotions and memories in poetic form was just another way he showed his love and thoughtfulness, always making sure I knew how proud he was and how much he cared.

A Niece’s Tribute and Final Farewell

I truly consider myself the luckiest niece in the world for having had Uncle Herb in my life. His unwavering love and dedication extended not just to my parents and me, but also to Harold, Alli, and Jeff. The bonds he formed with each of us were incredibly special, filled with genuine care and affection that touched our hearts deeply.

While I am profoundly saddened by his passing, I find great comfort in imagining him embarking on a new adventure—sailing the endless high seas with Josh. In my mind’s eye, I see them together, delighting in the vast expanse of the blue sky overhead and the shimmering fish swimming below. The words of Jimmy Buffett, Josh’s favorite, seem to capture this moment perfectly: “Mother, mother ocean, I have heard you call.” Sail on with the angels, Uncle Herb.

With love from Carol