I am so, so saddened to learn of Stan's passing.  I had been thinking about him lately, and wondered how he was doing. I feel so badly that I was not aware he had passed away until now. Stan was my MA thesis advisor at McGill in the early 1990s, and what a fabulous advisor he was. I called him the BTAE - "Best Thesis Advisor Ever".   He had a wonderful manner with students, and a way of pulling out the best in you without your realizing it until *after* the work was done.  Stan was so quick-witted and funny, and his humor was infectious. To this day, I can still remember a joke he just made up on the spot about Kurt Gödel. I do not tell it as well as Stan did, but when I tell that joke, people laugh and laugh every time. Stan was brilliant, but also very, very humble.  He spoke often of his children and his young life at Harvard.  I feel very fortunate to have known him and to have been his student. He was, indeed, the BTAE. Rest now, Stan-o-Rama. 

Stan Nemiroff

The first time I met Stan was at McGill in the Fall of 1973. I was the epitome of the disaffected youth, no idea what I wanted to do with my life, angry at the world, angry with my parents, wondering why I was at school at all.

I was shopping around for an academic advisor and I was poking my head into all the offices of potential candidates, lest I end up with someone by default. On that fateful day in 1973 we started a conversation that lasted for more than 40 years. We laughed about everything and nothing. I made his office my second home. What I got was not just an academic advisor, but a lifelong friend, a mentor, a parent.

There was no decision too big or too small that did not require Stan’s opinion. Should I take this course, should I embark on this thesis, should I marry this person, should I buy this house, should I take this job? He actually said NO to my first job offer. “No Olivia you can’t teach Religion, you know nothing about Religion.” The hiring committee evidently thought I did, as I was a graduate of the newly amalgamated Department of Religion and Philosophy in Education. I thought I might wing it. He did not concur. So I declined.

His anti-establishment attitude, coupled with his appreciation of the absurd and the ironic drew me to him. Whatever he taught I wanted to learn it and not just learn it, but put it into practice. I often marvelled how quickly the metamorphosis occurred. Within months I had found my calling, which was to teach and teach I did, eventually becoming a university teaching consultant. I am not sure any of this would have happened without Stan’s presence in my life.

I experienced the best kind of mentorship, he included me in all aspects of academic life, making me his Teaching Assistant, including me in research and conferences. We created books and workshops and had enormous fun doing it, all the while feeling we were changing the world with our insights on critical pedagogy.

Stan was the best of teachers, he inspired, he listened, he was able to pull stuff from me that I didn’t even know I knew; the epitome of the Socratic teacher. And when I began to truly understand, it opened up a whole new way of looking at things through a new and exciting critical framework. It was exhilarating and empowering.

Writing this eulogy made me want to re-read my thesis. It made me remember how painstakingly he went over every line, how he didn’t let me give up, how he cheered me on when I made a breakthrough. I remember when I cried bitter tears one day because I felt I could not continue. I felt daunted by the task. Without the usual humour, and without mincing words he told me very directly: ”You will do this, and you will do it exceptionally well, stop your kvetching”. And I did apply myself, mostly because I didn’t want to disappoint him.

Reading my thesis, connected me to him, as did looking at other artefacts of our time together, particularly photos of our rich time together. As I used him as my go-to photo model I have lots of photos of Stan dressed in ridiculous attire. My favourite is of him spewing tickertape from his mouth in pursuit of some artistic statement about alienation and technology.

I also found a birthday card from Stan that reflects what we meant to each other. In it he quotes C.S Lewis: “Each knot of friends is a pocket of potential resistance, people who have real friends are less easy to manage or to get at, harder for good authorities to correct and bad authorities to corrupt.”

If not for Stan I would have never met Greta, whose significance in my life is immense as well. I felt so privileged to be included in family activities. The house in Richford became a place to celebrate major life events. I got married there; I brought my children there. I wish I could go back in time and have another walk down to the river followed by one of Greta’s delicious dinners, listening to classical music and enjoying the late afternoon sun.

As I write this, I can still smell the scent of Stan’s pipe, and his mints (the green ones with a white center) and the ink he would meticulously pour into his fountain pen. I remember the factitious way he would prepare his workspace before working, making sure everything was in its place. I learned a lot from him but tidying up my workspace didn’t stick.

What I do remember most and what will stay with me is the twinkle in his eye, which is inextinguishable.

Stan's family and friends gathered a collection of photographs of Stanley throughout his life and created this slideshow. The music chosen for the slideshow was one of his favourite pieces, Dvorak's Serenade for Strings in E Major, Op. 22, B52, recorded by the Vienna Symphony Orchestra. Please enjoy this short retrospective of Stanley's life.

These past few weeks I have heard from different people about my dad. Some people have shared memories or talked about his accomplishments. What stands out for me is that Dad was a true educator.

I remember Dad’s story of when he decided to become a teacher. He had just come home from his first day of grade 1, and his mother asked what he had learned that day. As Dad explained it to her, he realized that he wanted to be the one in front of the classroom one day.

The Dad I remember was always a teacher at heart. He was meticulous in his habits and meticulous in his thinking. He loved to explain things methodically, but also to discuss and debate. Critical thinking was always on the curriculum. I think he got true joy from watching his kids master not just skills, but ideas. Dad taught me to question everything, and helped me develop my ideas and values thoughtfully and deliberately.

Dad always felt like a calm, nurturing presence growing up. When I was 6 years old and got out of the river with baby leeches all over my arms and legs, he somehow kept me calm as he plucked them off, one by one. Dad was the splinter-remover, the bedtime reader, and, during the long summers in Vermont, the board-game player. With Dad, I never felt judged or discouraged.

As a teen, I remember having long talks with him in the kitchen every evening after supper. The kitchen was the smoking room, and I would sit there, smoking cigarettes and talking to him as he did the dinner dishes (not lifting a finger to help, of course). Then he would sit down with his pipe and we would continue to explore whatever issue was on my mind that day.

Dad encouraged me in many ways. He taught me photography and loaned me his camera when I was 16. I dropped it and knocked the lens out of alignment, costing I don’t know how much to repair, but he got me my own camera for my 17th birthday. My husband, Dave, reminded me of the inscription Dad wrote in a book of photos he gave me in 1996: “Dear Rebecca,” he wrote, “I hope that these photos give you some ideas on what kinds of life can be observed and how life can be observed. On how life can or should be lived…” I think he wanted me to feel like the possibilities were endless.

Dad the Teacher always encouraged me in my academic pursuits and knew how to motivate me. I remember falling behind on some high school essay, freezing up and freaking out. Dad knew how to calm me down… and bribed me, 20 bucks if I finished the damn thing. It worked.

He supported me as I moved from one thing to another, trying to figure out what I wanted to be when I grew up, before finally settling on a field of study. When I finally got to the end of that journey, I invited my parents to my thesis defence. I suddenly became shy and would not let them in the room. Afterward, when I came out and announced I had passed, Dad cried.

Toward the end of his life, I was the caretaker and it was Dad who needed care. But even in his illness, he modelled a kind of calm acceptance that I can only hope I would emulate. As Dave said, he was the kind of man who didn’t quibble with reality.

Years ago, my dad gave me a book of Philip Larkin’s collected poetry. At the time, I remember someone, maybe my mom, mentioning that Larkin was his favourite poet. I looked through the book as I was writing this, looking for something appropriate to read today. Larkin’s dry, and often dark, humour reminded me of Dad, but certainly, there was very little that was appropriate. But I did find two short poems that I would like to share:

XVIII (from The North Ship):

If grief could burn out

Like a sunken coal,

The heart would rest quiet,

Be still as a veil

But I have watched all night

The fire grow silent,

The grey ash soft:

And I stir the stubborn flint

The flames have left,

And grief stirs, and the deft

Heart lies impotent.

The Trees

The trees are coming into leaf

Like something almost being said;

The recent buds relax and spread,

Their greenness is a kind of grief.

Is it that they are born again

And we grow old? No, they die too,

Their yearly trick of looking new

Is written down in rings of grain.

Yet still the unresting castles thresh

In fullgrown thickness every May.

Last year is dead, they seem to say,

Begin afresh, afresh, afresh.