Obituary of Marvin Ira Mindell

Passed away on December 27, 2011 at age 79. Predeceased by his sister, June Gelbart. He is survived by Phyllis Mindell, his devoted wife of 53 years, and their children, Joseph (Ossie Borosh) Mindell and David (Pamela) Mindell; grandchildren, Arye, Samuel, Lucia, and Clara Mindell; sister, Patricia (Guyon) Pancer; nieces, nephews, great nieces, and great nephews. The family wishes to express gratitude to the Rochester medical community, especially, Dr. Lazlo Boros, Dr. Robert Asbury, Dr. Luke Schoeniger, and Dr. Michael Krasner. On January 29, 2012 a memorial gathering will be held at the home of Ossie and Joe Mindell. If you plan to attend please e-mail the family to RSVP as well as request directions. Joe Mindell - read this eulogy at the funeral of my father, Marvin Mindell, on December 29, 2011. If you knew my dad, then you probably knew the few jokes he told. and told. and told.... In recent years, the joke went something like this: "The phone rings and Yenta picks it up, the voice on the other end is distressed, "Mama, everything's going crazy here. He's away on business, the kids are both sick and I have a million things to do--can you come help me out?" "Of course, dear. I'll throw some things in a bag and get on the next train. And then I'll take the bus. And then I'll walk the three miles to your house." "Oh thank you mama, I'm really desperate" "oh, it's nothing dear. By the way, where did Jacob go this time?" "Jacob? My husband's name is Melvin, is this not 381-4763?" " No, oh my, this is 381-4673" (pause)..".Does this mean you're not coming?". Something about this joke stuck with dad, 'cause he usually didn't remember jokes all that well. I got to thinking about this and I finally realized what it was. You could imagine him answering that phone, and getting caught up in that conversation, but he would end it by saying "Oh, no, I'll come anyway. Just because you need the help." That's who he was. I can't tell you how many times over the last week I've heard stories like that about him from friends, family, whoever. If there was someone who he could help in any way he would. He wouldn't stop to think about it, he would just get involved and help. Of course, I have my own stories about this--from science fair projects to launching model rockets in elementary school, to installing a cassette deck in my first car, to the regular visits (accompanied by edible dinners) in grad school, to his and mom's essential roles in the lives of my two wonderful sons. After David and I were gone from the house, he didn't hesitate to "adopt" other kids, taking them to lectures, babysitting when their parents were sick, or whatever. And legions of other people have been similarly touched, from the mundane (chocolate donuts delivered to the doctor's office on chemo days) to the sublime (at least a few people where small or huge efforts on dad's part led to life-altering events). He was devoted to his family and his friends ways that any of us would be proud to emulate. Oh yeah. There's that other word. Proud. I don't think it's a mystery that dad was proud of David and me. One of the great feelings of my life was being in a room with dad after doing well on something--you could feel the pride just exploding out of him. I can't tell you how many strangers who, with no more than a mild acquaintance with Dad, have been able to recite my life story to me. What may not be as obvious is that his pride extended far beyond his own boys. Of course, his beautiful daughters-in-law and his four amazing grandchildren but also his nephews and nieces, his friends and their kids, anyone whose story he knew, and there were many. He cared about anyone he met, from lords of finance to the guy changing the sheets on his hospital bed and was interested in your stories. One more thing I want to talk about is his approach to getting a job done right. Dad didn't fool around when he decided to do anything and he never cut corners on anything. When I did that science fair he guaranteed me that I'd win if I did the project he suggested. When we installed that cassette player in the car we did it right--so solidly, in fact, that when someone tried to steal it they totaled the car. Sometimes doing it right meant a project went on for years. But he did everything else right too, no matter how much effort. From being president of Temple Sinai to running the Singer engineering department to being a friend and a father, he knew how to do it right. So for all of us, I'm afraid I have to say, "this does mean he's not coming". But by his actions and deeds he has left us memories that will stay forever. David A. Mindell - read this eulogy at the funeral of my father, Marvin Mindell, on December 29, 2011. I am a husband, a father, and a middle-aged man. But today, I am also a boy who has just lost his daddy. A daddy whom I worshipped and who could do no wrong. Whom my brother and I looked up to, quite literally. We used to joke that the boys never would lack self confidence because when we were children, whenever we got lost in a crowd, we only had to look up to see our daddy’s head. He was also an inventor. Go to Google patent search and You’ll find more than fifteen patents. Automatic ways of loading film projectors An automatic record player While the filmstrip and slide projector was something of a doomed industry, he saw the digital world coming. One of his patents is for the first microprocessor controlled filmstrip projector; He also tried to convince his company that microcomputers were the way of the future of educational technology. They were too shortsighted to see it, but while Dad did the research Joe and I got a wonderful introduction to the new computers, in 1979, right when they were coming out (in that same year, I stood at this very spot reading the Torah at my bar mitzvah while he stood here next to me). He brought broken, discarded equipment home from work. We repaired it together, and built my home laboratory and the foundation of a life long love of electronics. During the past week, in the time I was not spending with him in his bedroom, I was in the basement workshop with my nephews Ari and Sam, teaching them about tools and electronics, a fitting tribute to how dad taught my brother and I. We grow up. I built a career as an engineer and and historian of technology; at its core is the love of machinery I got from my father. At some point one’s career moves beyond the experience base of a parent, and I live in a world of technology far beyond the experience of an audio-visual engineer from the 1960s and 70s. But that, in a sense, is where Dad’s lessons really began.   When the Singer Education Division was bought, and Dad’s engineering department disbanded, my parents had a party for all of the engineers and their wives who had worked so successfully together. I was about fifteen years old, and remember a woman coming up to me in the foyer of our house. I don’t remember who she was, she may be someone in this room today. She was in tears. Not so much because the department was breaking up, but because her husband would no longer be working for my father. “I was sick and in the hospital,” she told me, “and my husband came to visit one morning and then went back to work. Your father met him at the door and wouldn’t let him come in. ‘You belong back at the hospital with your wife,’ he told her.” That single moment, more than any other has stuck with me my entire professional life, and shaped my approach to management, teaching, and leadership. I told him the other day “Everything I know about being a father I learned from you.” He laughed, and said “with two little girls at home, you’re going to need to know a whole lot more.” True, I’m learning to make braids and plastic jewelry and schmooze with the moms at Ballet class, but Zadie loved and respected women, and he would have been great at all these things, and he was utterly charmed by his new granddaughters. Maybe we thought we were done with our parents’ life lessons when we got jobs, bought houses, got tenure. But the past seven years have proven that oh, so wrong. During that time we thought he had only thirty days to live – at least three or four times. My wife and I moved our wedding up by six months because of a diagnosis of new tumors; but we just celebrated our fifth wedding anniversary, with our two beautiful daughters, both of whom Zadie knew. Throughout it all, Bubbe and Zadie have attended every possible wedding, bar-mitzvah, birthday party, baby naming, and many other simchas. They lived more in these seven years than many people live in their last twenty, and despite the extreme adversity of illness, they were happy. The last week has been the icing on that cake. We all wish Zadie lived until a hundred; but he lived his last days as he lived his life, with dignity, humor, grace, peace, and love. I will spend the rest of my life looking up to him.   Last Friday night, during a quiet moment away from the Temple Sinai Hannukah party, in this very room I explained to my three and a half year old daughter Lucia that we would be back here soon when Zaide “passes.” She immediately caught my drift and said “Is Zadie going to die?” I said yes, and explained because he has been sick for a long time. She thought for a minute, and asked “When he dies, will he get better and not be sick anymore?” A wonderful, deep question. As I’ve thought about it over the past week, and having sat with him in the days, hours, and moments of his passing, I have concluded that yes, he has healed. And as wounded as we all feel today, he has inspired us to heal as well. But I’m still a boy who just lost his daddy. Dick Lapidus - read this eulogy at the funeral of my childhood friend, Marvin Mindell, December 29, 2011. Marvin grew up in Brooklyn. It was our Brooklyn, the Brooklyn where everyone’s grandparents spoke with a foreign accent. Russian,Polish,German . The Brooklyn of the Coney Island Avenue trolly car and the Brighten line of the BMT. Of street games, stickball, stoop ball, territory. The Brooklyn of PS99 where I first met Marvin when we were in third grade and where Marvin first discovered science. He was fascinated by science and by what made things work. He marveled at the mechanical perfection of the steam locomotive and his first thoughts of becoming in engineer had nothing to do with electricity, volts or amps, but everything to do with the throttle of an outbound freight. When his parents moved out of the 99 district he would ride his bike to my house every day and the two of us would go to school together as if he had never moved. He didn’t want to transfer schools because that would mean he would mean he would have to drop the science course he was taking at PS 99. We went on to Midwood High School and the high school gang was formed,two Marvins, Morty, Charlie, Alan and me. Marvin was the glue that held us together then and through the years that followed. It’s been almost 65 years yet those who are left still keep in touch because of Marvin. He cared for his friends this gentle, kind man. Always there to help if they needed help. Never to busy to talk. His friendships multiplied through the years. Respected and admired by his engineers at Singer Graflex. President of his shul. And above all else, he loved his family. He took such pride in Phyllis. They were married for 53 years and each anniversary he sent her a dozen white roses. He was so proud of his sons What they had accomplished And the fine men they had become. He was proud of his daughters in law but above all were his grandchildren. There is no word in the English language to describe how he felt about his grandchildren. So we have to go to yidish, the language of our parents. When Marvin talked of his grandchildren, he kvelled. Goodbye old friend. You touched many lives and will be sorely missed. Home Pittsford, New York Birthplace Brooklyn, New York Donations Temple Sinai 363 Penfield Road Rochester, New York 14625 Visit Temple Sinai Online