(Left to right) Jennifer Faneuff, Brian Faneuff, Ethan Faneuff,  Sandy Lough, Scott Lough,
with Mike Faneuff in the back

The first and perhaps more official memorial service was held at St. Andrew’s Presbyterian church in Redondo Beach. The menfolk of the family, plus a couple of friends, dressed in their kilts for the occasion. The family walked in behind a bagpiper playing “Amazing Grace”. There was a brief service held by Pastor Bill Steel, a dear friend. Afterwards, in the sanctuary, many friends stood and shared warm and loving memories of our beloved Stuart. There was a lot of laughter and tears. This was not an occasion any of us wanted to observe. Our daughter, Jennifer, somehow found the strength and courage to go to the front and eloquently eulogize her adored father. It took my breath away…I don’t know how she did it. Yes I do. She loved him enough to do anything for him. I was so proud of her… This was not the service Stuart wanted, although he would have understood our needing and wanting it. The piper led us out to “Goin’ Home”

- Sandy Lough

Dear Bob:

Thought you'd enjoy reading the notes from our daughter, Jennifer's, eulogy for her dad. They had a very, very special connection and she misses him terribly. She was with me almost every day at the various hospitals Stuart was in for treatment. I don't know what I would have done without her. We were all stunned when she got up and delivered this at the church service. None of the rest of us were able to string a sentence together without dissolving. Must be that good pioneer Scottish stock...

- Sandy Lough

EULOGY

For Dad:

9/17/05

Needless to say, this is not a place I expected or wanted to be today. Nevertheless, I wanted to take this opportunity to try to share with you some memories of my relationship with my dad, and what he meant to me.

I could write reams of paper and still not scratch the surface of who he was, but before you start heading for the exits, please know that I’m just going to work from some stream-of-consciousness notes I’ve made. These are in no particular order; they’re just things that have come to me as I’ve been thinking about my dad.

I’ve heard it said that before a child is born, they wait in heaven and are allowed to choose who their parents will be. I’d like to think this is true.

It gives me a wonderful picture of looking down from heaven on a young couple living in a duplex on 9th Street in Hermosa Beach.

"What about them, Lord? Yes, that couple down there. The lady is very pretty. I’d look like her? Excellent. And she’d agree to be my Brownie troop leader? Fantastic! She can’t make grilled cheese sandwiches without burning them? Hmmm. Sponge rollers in my hair, huh? Why – oh, her husband likes long hair. Well, I can work with that. Yes, that handsome guy she’s married to. The one with the birthmark on his stomach that’s shaped like Australia. Yeah, the guy with the surfboard and the sand in between his toes. And in his car. And in the apartment. Yes, him. I’d like him to be my dad. Sorry, Scott, you’ll have to wait a bit. I saw him first."

My dad was always a constant and reassuring presence in my life. When I was little I remember always feeling safe when he was around. And because of that, I would have followed him anywhere – even off the Hermosa Beach pier on New Year’s Day. I knew it would be cold, and I knew it was a long way down. But I also knew that he wouldn’t have allowed me to do it if he thought I couldn’t handle it, and it meant a lot to me that he would let me be a part of a long-standing tradition.

My following him anywhere wasn’t always voluntary. I followed him into a ditch not once, but twice – along with my mom and brother. The first time was on the drive out of Reds Meadows after a camping trip. That was when I learned that one did not tell my Dad how to drive: "Dad, you’re awful close to the edge –" "I see it." "Stuart, you’re –" "I can see it!" And over we went. I think if it hadn’t been for the trees that stopped our descent, we’d be rolling still.

The second time was in Scotland. A familiar scene. A narrow road, a ditch. "Stuart, you’re—" "I see it." Boom. The farmer who pulled us out of the ditch with his tractor is probably still telling that story.

I don’t remember him ever really raising his voice. My brother and I both knew when we were in trouble. Dad would start breathing through his nose. Hard. Almost hard enough to make his moustache move. Then we knew we were at Defcon 4.

On those occasions when my brother and I made Dad angry – although it didn’t happen to me very often, being the perfect child that I was. (I saw that finger, Scott.) I remember what made my dad angry were times that we hurt someone else, either by action or by word. Or when we lied. Honor and integrity were important to him, and we were made to understand why. At least I understand why now; I’m not sure I was quite so circumspect back then, when my backside was warm.

As I’ve been thinking about my dad these last several days, certain memories have come up and I’d like to share them with you – again, these are in no particular order:

I think it was in 1982, my mom very graciously stepped back and allowed me to accompany Dad to the Academy Awards. I was thrilled to pieces. I got to wear a beautiful long black gown, and dad wore a gorgeous tuxedo. And while I was excited at the prospect of being so close to so many celebrities, I remember as we walked up the red carpet, my arm on Dad’s, I was thinking, "All those people on the other side of the velvet ropes are wondering who that fine-looking man is, and who was that lucky girl with him." He was the best-looking man there. Gregory Peck was a close second, but he couldn’t quite touch my dad.

I remember my dad’s whistle. The one we could hear blocks away that would call us home, and the one he’d use as he came home from work. That’s a combination of sounds I’ll always remember; the sound of him whistling, his footsteps coming up the porch, the turn of the front door handle.

My dad was a very generous and giving man. He gave of his time, his abilities, his love. He loved coaching my brother’s soccer team, even though Sunil Agrawal’s dad couldn’t referee worth a tinker’s cuss. He loved teaching my brother and I how to swim, body surf, and in my brother’s case, to surf. And he was so happy and proud that both his grandsons loved the ocean as much as he did. He loved taking his grandson Ethan to karate practice, and watching him grow in that skill. He loved coming to the awards banquet for his grandson Brian’s Academic Decathlon team, and watching him get ribbon after ribbon for his achievements. He was so very proud of both of his grandsons, how smart they are and how much fun they are to be with. They both have his sense of humor, and I know Dad loved teasing them because he knew that they could not only take it, but give as good as they got. They knew that he loved them.

He loved having meals with family and friends. Whether it was cheese rolls and Baskin & Robbins’ Red White & Blueberry ice cream after a day at the beach, or bangers and mash and Newkies at the King’s Head Pub in Santa Monica, or a lovely lunch at Chinois with two clients who became friends over the years – and remained friends even after Dad back-handed his wineglass into Barbara von Bergman’s lap.

That’s another strong impression of my dad. His sense of humor was always there. I think it was his off-the-cuff remarks that were the funniest. I would like to think that along with physical attributes, like the color of my eyes, that I got some of his humor as well. He could make you laugh with the most off-hand comments and the most dead-pan expression. I remember on my wedding day, he and I stood at the back of the church and prepared to walk down the aisle. As we stood there and I looked at all of those people who’d come to the wedding and found myself getting all wound up with emotion Dad leaned close to me and said gently, "Don’t count the house." If you ever see the picture that was taken of my dad and I coming down the aisle, that’s why I have that grin on my face.

Another time I got a dose of that humor was when I was about 11 or 12. I very seriously asked him for a horse. His prompt reply was, "Why don’t you ask me for a Rolls Royce? You can’t have one of those, either."

My dad was also a very brave man. I remember him telling me of an incident that occurred when he was about three years old. It was during the war, and a group of Polish tanks were making their way south towards Berwick to lend a hand in the war effort. The tanks had to cross a bridge to get past Eyemouth, but my dad was having none of it. He sat in the middle of the bridge on his tricycle and refused to move. The fact that they were the good guys was of no consequence to my dad; those tanks were big, and they were on his turf.

Other memories of my dad’s bravery were when he was fending off a gigantic bird moth with a fireplace shovel at the cabin in June Lake. Taking his life in his hands in order to teach my brother and I how to drive a stick shift. Climbing up on the roof of our two-story house to rescue my two pigeons who had literally flown the coop and decided that they’d rather roost on the roof.

And in the end, his fight against a monster that ravaged him physically but never touched the essence of who he was. The bravest man I’ve known.

Because of my dad, I was introduced to and have a continuing appreciation for so many things:

Classic movies – especially Laurel and Hardy. I grew up watching Cary Grant, Gary Cooper, Clark Gable, Katherine Hepburn – people my friends had never heard of.

Comedy albums of Stan Freburg, Monty Python, Bill Cosby, Not The 9:00 News. Cynic’s Choice on the weekends while dad made pancakes or waffles for the family.

And because these were such a part of our lives, we could take advantage of any occasion to toss out a line of dialogue that would fit. I have some examples, and for those of you for whom this makes no sense, please bear with me.

‘Yep. Somebody sure cut through that fence alright.’

‘Funny he never married.’

‘That’s a rather personal question, sir.’

‘I told him I wouldn’t do it if I was him.’

‘Now, wouldn’t you like to have that full of nickels?’

‘He snitched a piece of bacon, dear.’

‘Pod. Pod.’

‘Well he’s not gonna tell me I don’t love him!’

I think it was somehow fitting that his last words to me were from a Stan Freburg routine that we all knew and loved:

‘Was that moving? Was that a great bit?’

It was, Dad. It really was.

Other things that he loved and share were:

Wonderful music – swing, Scott Joplin, Jango Reinhardt.

British comedy – he took me to see Monty Python Live at the Hollywood Bowl, and I still have the t-shirt to prove it.

The ocean – something he also shared with his grandsons. He took each of them in turn to Monterrey to visit the aquarium, and that’s something my kids will carry with them always.

Our Scottish heritage – again, something he’s passed on to his grandsons. I wish he could see them today; he would be so very proud.

I’ll leave you with this. Back when I was in college I learned that Harry James and his orchestra would be playing at El Camino college, so I took my dad to the concert. It was wonderful. On the way through the college parking lot I commented on all of the BMWs that the students had in the parking lot. I wasn’t saying it as a ‘gee, I wish I had one’ sort of thing, but he took it that way. He said, "If I could give you one of those, I would."

I know he would have. He would have given me the world if he could have. But throughout my life, he gave me what mattered most. His love, and everything that came with it.