Before I begin, I’d like to say that this isn’t necessarily going to be a sad eulogy. It’s not full of lament and it’s not going to be about how worse off we all are. It’s going to be about how good, how truly good it was to know John Strong. He was the kind of guy for whom little was sacred, and you can be sure that he would rather us remember what it was like having him around, goofball that he was, than to cry about not having him around anymore. So please, if anyone thinks that this kind of eulogy is inappropriate, let me know and I will stop right now.

John was. . .a terrible driver. And a mediocre guitar player at best. But, as anyone who has ever been behind the wheel while he was a passenger, or anyone who has ever heard him play the same three chords to a Pearl Jam song over and over could attest, that was who he was. He was the kind of guy whose two cents always needed to be thrown into the mix, and that no matter how wrong he might have been with those two cents, before long you knew, through his unparalleled stubbornness, that he’d convince you to see things his way. He had a way, unlike anything I’ve ever seen in my life, to get people on his side.

His sense of humour, quite possibly the most dynamic thing about him, could transcend language barriers to the point where he’d have the other person in stitches without understanding a word he was saying. People looked to him to provide levity in situations that desperately needed a joke to be told, and he always came through. Since this is such a situation, I’d like to recall the funniest thing I ever heard John say. A bunch of us were sitting around having just finished dinner, the kids who were there had gone into another room to play, and all of a sudden, the mother of one of the
kids bolted from the table, having heard her two year old son, Zack, say something she didn’t agree with. “Zachary!” she hollered. “I don’t want to ever hear you say anything like that ever again.” The dinner table where we all were became silent, as we listened to this child being scolded. And somebody asked, “What did Zachary say? What did Zachary say?” Without missing a beat, John says, “He said the holocaust never happened.” The kid was two years old. There was a woman of Jewish descent sitting at the table. She was the one who laughed so hard wine sprayed from her
mouth across the table.

I’ve been trying all weekend to figure out exactly how this eulogy should be given. And what I saw this weekend told me was that despite the gravity of the circumstances, the fact that we lost someone who was so adored that you could feel as though you were his best friend had you known him twenty years or twenty minutes, despite that fact, at essentially any given moment, you could listen to a John Strong story begin told somewhere in the room. The Bible that he had autographed
by Ken Dryden made its presence known this weekend after an eleven-year absence. What does that tell you about the kind of effect he had on people? And seeing this, seeing the kinds of things that everyone has had to say about John, made me realize that the loss that we all feel right now is peanuts compared to the happiness that we’ve all felt being around him.

At some point, I’m not saying you have to do it now, but at some point, think about the people you’ve been fortunate enough to meet as a result of knowing John. It’s incredible. And it applies to anyone. His family alone, for crying out loud: each and every one them is at least three quarters as goofy as John was. Strong family, I want to thank you for allowing me to feel as though I’m the eleventh kid. You’ve been the most terrific people in the world to me for a lot of years and I thank John for that. Thank you, it’s a fantastic family to be a part of. But Barry. . .I’ll probably be breaking curfew tonight.

Think about the people you know because of John, and think about the way he always made the situation better just by being there. A boring time always became a laughfest when John came into the picture. Think about how he figured out the secret that you should really enjoy the things you enjoy. Now, although he didn’t really like to talk about it that much, John like playing golf. (It’s true.) And I’ll bet that the moment he decided he liked golf, he told himself that he was going to learn all that he could about it so that it would make him that much better at it. Which, in turn, made him enjoy it that much more. Which, in turn, made him share that enjoyment with other people. He’d figure out how to do something and then teach it to someone else. The cooks in his kitchen respected and adored him because he made them laugh, but also because he taught them the things he had learned along the way. He discovered things, like golf and cooking and making people laugh and being around his nieces and nephews, and golf, realized that he enjoyed them because they were all things that could be enjoyed with other people, and he made those things a part of who he was. When he found something he liked, he stuck to it. He had the same haircut for twenty-seven years.

We all enjoyed being around John because you knew you would get exactly what you wanted. He was, after all, an actor, and knew how to appeal to an audience. And the audience loved every minute of it.

The impact that John had on us is apparent. Just look around. Look at the number of people who knew him and came here to pay tribute to him. For those of us who knew him a little bit, do yourselves a favour and ask someone who knew him well to tell you a story about him. There’s a million of them. And for those of us who knew him well, do yourselves a favour and tell those stories. There’s a million of them.

It’s going to be tough, what we’re all about to go through. And there’s going to be sad times and times when we miss, how could you not. But we’ve all got to realize that we're the most fortunate people in the world because we knew him.

I’ve heard a lot of John stories this weekend and it’s amazing how happy people were when they told these stories. It made them happy because they were there when it happened and it made them happy because they could tell it to other people and have them enjoy it, just like John. He always told me, “Fat Boy,” he’d say, “you know I always come out smelling like roses.” Seeing this weekend how he’s made so many people happy and better off for having known him, I’d have to say he’s right.


James Gegeny