The following eulogy for my father was delivered at his funeral in May, 2003.
What can I say about Dad that someone hasn’t screamed at the top of their lungs at some point? He certainly inspired passion. Mick Rupp was many things, but above all he was an original. There was nothing derivative about Dad. He was one of a kind. They broke the mold when he was born and it’s probably best for all concerned because the world isn’t big enough for two.
When he was young, Melvin J. Rupp, son of Jacob and Mary, was by all accounts a force of nature. Bold to the point of audacity; confident to the point of arrogance; fearless to the point of recklessness. We, his children, grew up in awe of him, regaled by stories of his legendary feats of strength and courage – most of which were told by him, many of which were actually true, and some of which we were later to learn he was both famous and infamous for in the little town where we grew up. To Dad it didn’t matter as long as you remembered his name. To his kids, Mick Rupp was a figure of mythical proportions, an image he actively cultivated.
As we grew, we – as all children do – came to see him differently. In the bright light of an adolescent’s critical scrutiny, every parent’s flaws become magnified and Dad’s were no exception. Still, through it all; the good and the bad, the beautiful and the ugly, the noble and the ignoble, we loved him, because that’s what children do, they love their parents. They love them for who and what they are, and they love them in spite of who and what they are.
One of my favorite books is Robert Louis Stevenson’s, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. To the casual reader, it is the story of a fictional monster. In truth, Stevenson’s tale is a metaphor for the all- too-real duality that is within each of us; the virtuous and the vile, the kind and the cruel, the tender and the terrible. Ultimately, Stevenson’s story was really about being human. In the final analysis, Mick Rupp was exquisitely human.
Still, it is the prerogative of those who are left behind to remember the departed anyway we choose — and it is a choice. Each of us will do that in our own way, and that is as it should be.
For me, Mick Rupp will forever be a robust and charismatic man in his prime; strong, tanned, quick of step and sure of purpose. Standing knee-deep in a cold, clear, swift-running stream, he is excitedly pointing to a dark current, and explaining the mysteries of the wily trout to the fledgling angler at his side. He speculates about their size and number, and concludes that we must cross the stream to make our approach.
The water is high, and I’m afraid. He takes my hand in his sure and powerful grip and as I look up I see my hero, my Dad, and everything is okay. That’s the way that I choose to remember Mick Rupp. I encourage each of you to choose a memory of him for yourself that is positive and comforting. I’m sure that is what he would have wanted.