Eulogy for Norman Dubin
on July 10, 2012
My dad seemed to know everybody in
Chicago.
And everybody in Chicago seemed to
know Norman Dubin.
When I was growing
up in Skokie, my dad used to take the Skokie Swift to his office downtown every
day. Every now and then he’d run into a neighbor
of ours, Mr. Chadwick. Now, Chadwick
happened to be a fraud investigator for the IRS. When Chadwick would see my dad, he’d say, “Dubin I’m thinking about you,” to which my dad would reply,
“Chadwick, don’t think about me.”
He was known at every restaurant in town.
At Gibson’s, his picture was on the
wall. He always told me that Sheldon,
the African-American waiter who always served us on the porch, was secretly my
half-brother. Another waiter there
called him a member of “The Golden Tippers Club.”
At Gene & Georgetti’s,
they called him “El Presidente.” When I spoke Spanish with the waiters, he
said, “I think I picked up the wrong baby at the hospital.” Then in the next breath, he would say, “After
I spent all that money to send that kid to Northwestern, I’m glad he finally learned
something.”
One waiter said he should run for
mayor, since all the waiters in Chicago would vote for him.
Then, of course, there was Manny’s, the
watering hole of some of the most powerful people in
Chicago, which, of course, also included Norm Dubin. At one time, my dad ate lunch there every
day, and on those rare occasions when he didn’t, Kenny the owner would say that
he’d have to call in to check up on my dad.
When Obama stopped at Manny’s once during
his campaign for the Senate in 2004, my dad called me and said, “Let’s go over
to Manny’s and meet Obama.”
My dad walked up to Obama, and Obama looked
at my dad, and said “you look familiar.”
To which my dad replied, “Yeah, I’ve
seen you naked in the locker room at the East Bank Club. And I’m a Republican too.” I guess my dad thought that since they were
both members of the East Bank Club, they had some deeper connection and that he
could really speak his mind.
His famous license plate, MAZLTOV, was
seen all over town, as well as, the parking lot of the East Bank Club, his
second home and where I was never sure which he liked more, playing racquetball
with his buddies or watching the tight spandex on the young women there.
When someone recognized him, he would
say, “Are you a bank teller? Because, I’m a bank robber.”
Or, he’d say he was Nachum Ben David, using his
Hebrew name. And then he used to
complain, “I couldn’t have a mistress in this town, because everywhere I go,
everybody would know me.”
He was very proud of being from
Chicago and told everybody that he was a fifth generation Chicagoan. He used to tell people that his Grandma
Brandy lived through the Great Chicago Fire, even though she was born five
years after the fire. When he saw
pictures of Russia in the news, he would say, “I’m glad my great-great
grandfather had the brains to get on that boat.”
My father was born during the
Depression and grew up in Uptown, where his neighbors and closest childhood
friends, Angelo Garoufalis and David Racklin, were like the three musketeers.
He went to DePaul, but lived in the
ZBT house at the U of C, where he met Marshall Lobin,
Norm Kaplan, George Rosenbaum and Bob Morton, who passed recently, as well, in
December, and built friendships that lasted a lifetime and that continued on to
the next generation between me and their children.
He married his high school
sweetheart, Phyllis Dubin, who he also met here in
Chicago.
He built an accounting business with
his partner Marshall Lavin that lasted decades until they merged with Philip Rootberg. He stayed
on when it became CBIZ, where he was loved by his colleagues and where he
always had an open door to new young associates. He used to say at CBIZ, “I’m just a broken
down old Jewish CPA.”
As a life-long CPA, he was a shrewd
observer of the financial markets and gave me the best investment advice of my
life: “Never buy anything at CVS,
because I have a lot of Walgreen’s stock.”
He once told me, as we passed a major downtown office building where he
was a small partner, “you know I own one door knob in that building.”
He made the greatest sacrifice for
me, moving out of his beloved city to the suburbs, when I was born. He moved to Skokie, so I could go to the best
schools. But a suburbanite he
wasn’t. He hated puttering around the
house and was at war with the lawn, until the neighbors complained about our
lawn, which eventually burnt out and turned yellow and got full of weeds. I remember once seeing him fly past the
window as he fell off a ladder, and I thought: “That’s my dad trying to fix
something again.”
He loved to barbecue, even though we
cringed at the chicken that he cooked, which was burnt on the outside and raw in
the middle. He was heartbroken when his
barbecue was mysteriously dragged into the garbage one day, and he went to the
city dump to get it back.
As soon as I left for college, my
parents ran back to the city, where my dad felt most at home and where he fed
off its vitality. There at the 3150
building, he had a new swimming pool to rival the one at the East Bank Club,
where he made new friends, the Leavitts, the Marcuses, and the Schreibmans, who
have been a tremendous support to my family during this difficult time.
Although he was an only child, he
became the adopted brother to the Kanter family of
St. Paul, MN, when his mother, and my grandmother, Ida, married into their
family and brought with her four stepchildren.
He loved eating dinner with his
cousin Stanton and Nancy, swapping stories from his childhood about the crazy
adventures of the Bisno family, of which he was also a
part.
He also loved kidding around with my
uncle, Ronald Brodsky, who rose to the level of captain in the US Navy, and who
he gave a promotion, calling him “my brother-in-law the admiral.”
I used to think that he always quoted
great scholars, until I discovered on his bookshelf last week a copy of “The
776 Stupidest Things Ever Said,” which was where he got so much material.
He was generous to not only me, but everyone. Besides the infinite number of meals at his
favorite restaurants, he would take me to Brooks Brothers and buy me hundreds
of dollars of shirts at a time. He
thought a young professional should be dressed appropriately. Then when he saw me in one of those shirts,
he’d say, “Hey that’s a nice shirt.
Where did you get it?”
He was a devoted and loving father to
me and a devoted and loving husband to my mother, Phyllis, and a doting
father-in-law to my lovely wife, Sara, who he said laughed at every one of his
jokes.
And, of course, he always supported
me in all of my endeavors.
Above all, he was not just my father,
he was a best friend.
But it is the image of my dad
chomping on an unlit cigar and telling stories about Chicago that we will all
remember.
The city that he loved so much will
never be the same without him.
He will surely be missed by
everybody, including the many other friends he made in his lifetime that are
too numerous to mention.
And, I thank all of you for coming
here today, especially those who came from out of town, to honor the life of
Norman Dubin.