Bill Harrison, z”l, has a place of his own

By Donald H. Harrison

SAN DIEGO — When my brother  Bill Harrison and I were growing up in New Rochelle, New York, we shared a room.  As you walked in, his bed was against the wall on the right, and mine was against the wall on the left.  Bill, who was five years older than I am, grew tired of me crossing over to his side of the room where I would inspect his things, and sometimes play with his “grown-up” stuff.  So he did what any big brother might do, he banned me from his side of the room.

Now, you might think that this was fair, but it really wasn’t.  You see, the door to our room was fully on his side, which meant that I could neither enter nor exit without violating his territory.  I tried jumping from my side on a diagonal through the door to go out, and from the hallway to my side to go in.  But I often landed on his side of the line, prompting him to extract big brother style “punishments.”  He might short-sheet my bed, or hide a favorite toy to show his displeasure.

When I could take it no more, I called upon Mom and Dad to adjudicate the dispute, and they declared in my favor, saying that the door was in fact neutral territory as was an imaginary path from my side of the room to the door.

While outwardly accepting mom and dad’s decree, Bill obviously wasn’t pleased.  I remember he gave me a look so menacing, I thereafter always made it a point to get to and from my side of the room as quickly as possible with absolutely no detours to his side of the room.  And so it was until Bill got married at the age of 18 and granted me the freedom of my own room!

I remember this fondly because as territorial as Bill was about his side of the room, he was also quite protective of me.  In that he grew to a husky 6’3 inches, none of my peers would even think of messing with him, which meant that none of them would ever push me around either.

On Thursday, July 9, Bill’s funeral was conducted at Eden Memorial Park in Mission Hills, California, which is a community close to San Fernando, where one of California’s famous Catholic missions is situated.  Bill’s grave is on a fairly steep hillside, and when I sat down on a chair, it tipped over, causing me to fall and roll down the hill alarmingly toward Bill’s grave.

I’m pretty sure that Bill was the reason I stopped short of rolling right into his grave.  “Oh no you don’t!” I could almost hear him say, “You’re not going to share this room!”

It took a couple of people to help me back to my feet, and I think the incident, if reported back to Eden Memorial Cemetery, ought to serve as a warning to its owners, the large Dignity Memorial corporation, that perhaps it should spend the money to construct portable platforms to give mourners a sturdy and level place on which to sit.  I can imagine if an older, more frail person had taken that tumble, he or she might have been more seriously hurt.  I would think investing in portable platforms would prove far less expensive to Dignity Memorial than having to defend against a lawsuit for negligence.

Be that as it may, after assuring everyone that I felt okay, if a little shaky, I officiated at the funeral.  To be sure, I’m not a rabbi, but in my lifetime I’ve been to enough funerals, either as a mourner or as a journalist, to have learned the necessary rituals.  We recited the 23rd Psalm (“The Lord is my shepherd…”), and  gave all the mourners  the opportunity to share their memories of Bill, 80, who in his last years had been sidelined by Alzheimer’s Disease and in his last months was isolated from us  because of the coronavirus pandemic.  At the many nursing  homes in which he stayed between hospital visits, I’m sorry to say, he had to share his room not with me, but with strangers.

After the mourners recollected the good memories they had of Bill, including his love for big deli sandwiches, Diet Pepsi’s, and a bar drink known as a B-52, as well as his gentle nature, and his ready smile, we recited the Al Moleh Rachamim, followed by the Mourner’s Kaddish.  Before we all took our turns putting three shovels of dirt onto his coffin, his daughter Caren Ford and I tore the black ribbons that we wore on our clothes, a modern-day substitute for the biblical custom of renting one’s garments as a sign of mourning.

The funeral was a intimate affair, with just family and a few close friends in attendance.  I owe my thanks both to Cantor Sheldon Foster Merel, the cantor emeritus of Congregation Beth Israel, and to Rabbi Josh Dorsch, spiritual leader of Tifereth Israel Synagogue, with whom  I was privileged to consult while planning Bill’s graveside service.

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Donald H. Harrison is editor of San Diego Jewish World.  He may be contacted via donald.harrison@sdjewishworld.com.  Free obituaries in memory of members of the San Diego County Jewish community are sponsored on San Diego Jewish World by Inland Industries Group LP in memory of long-time San Diego Jewish community leader Marie (Mrs. Gabriel) Berg.