We are gathered here today to lay to rest the mortal remains of the woman we knew as Doris Davidofsky, better known to me personally as "grandma". I regret that that I can't be there with you on what is undoubtedly a dreary December day on Long Island. For reasons of time, space and money, I can only ask that this short written remembrance be read out loud by either of my parents.

I'd like to begin by telling my two siblings (and any of my cousins who might have made it to the funeral) that while you're all standing in a Long Island cemetery under a chilly drizzle, I'm on a near-tropical island paradise, where the weather on this December afternoon might be described as obscenely pleasant.

Be comforted in the fact that Grandma would have wanted it this way, me listening to the tinkling of wind chimes blowing in a 70 degree breeze while you're shivering in a damp, chilly Long Island cemetery. I say this in full sincerity, for with her passing I am now able to tell you what Grandma made me swear not to tell until after she was gone:

It was I, not you, who was her favorite grandchild.

Grandma began telling me this at a very young age, and made it a point to tell me every time we spoke that I, alone among her many grandchildren, was, as point of fact, her "favorite". Perhaps you are thinking to yourselves at this very moment

"but Josh, she said the same thing to me too, every time I spoke to her."

A valid point. But now it can be told: when she said it to you, she was lying. Sorry, but it's true. She told me so herself.

Several years before her death, during my last visit to that sun drenched cultural wasteland where her karma brought her to live out her final years in hermetic seclusion, I took grandma out to Red Lobster. She had the whitefish, and a shrimp cocktail, which she enjoyed very much (see enclosed picture). During this, our final meal out together (and quite likely grandma's final meal out, at least at Red Lobster), Grandma leaned over and said the following words:

"Joshie, you know that you've always been my favorite."

Naturally skeptical, I responded that it was quite likely that she'd said the same thing to all of her grandkids. Rather than denying this, Grandma just shrugged.

"Politics" she said "You have to say that, otherwise nobody will call. But you're my favorite. With the others I'm exaggerating a little. I'm an old lady, who can blame me?"

So there you have it. I, and not any of you, was her favorite grandchild. Please don't be bitter. She didn't love you any less. She just loved me a little more.

But I digress. The heady fragrance of Jasmine wafting in from China over the Pearl River Delta does that to me. You aren't gathered here to listen to me gloat that I was Grandma's favorite grandchild, however truthful that might be. Instead, I'd like to take a few moments to reflect upon a side of my grandmother that few people ever got to see. Her spiritual side.

Doris Davidofsky was a very spiritual woman, particularly in her twilight years (when it really pays to start thinking about these things). Many of you will be surprised to learn that Grandma Doris, over the course of many long and expensive telephone conversations with me, underwent a gradual conversion to the Buddhist faith.

Though she never renounced the faith of our people, Grandma Doris told me on several occasions that she was intrigued by reincarnation, and felt that the idea that she'd be reborn in a fresh human body with all original organs pink and intact was just too good a prospect to not buy into.

And who can blame her? Lets face it, when it comes to inspiring parable-filled discussions on the true nature of righteous behavior, angsty novels about teenage masturbation, dietary restrictions that haven't been relevant since the advent of cooked food, and Broadway musicals, Judaism has the market cornered. But as far as providing a sensible answer to salient questions such as

"OK, I'm dead….now what?"

Buddhism offers more in the way of long-term prospects and practical promotion. And Grandma, in her last years, recognized this. To be fair to Judaism, Buddhist-inspired musical comedies are few and far between, and even the best of them are tedious affairs… but again, I digress.

In our conversations over the last few years, when she wasn't telling me that I was her favorite grandchild, or reminiscing about the many things that, as a child, I put into or removed from my ass, Grandma and I primarily discussed philosophy. We both came to the conclusion that our karmic paths were somehow intertwined, and perhaps through several incarnations. During this life, she took care of me as only a grandmother could or would, and was there for me during a often tumultuous childhood (immediate family members may now momentarily feel shame).

In our second-to-last conversation (the last one, held weeks before she died, didn't go so well. I'd called up on election day pretending to be Dick Cheney, and she, displaying her political conviction even at the end, hung up on me) I thanked grandma, and not for the first time, for having always been there for me. I told her that in her next life, I'd be looking out for her, and would do everything I could to return the favor. She agreed that this would, on a Karmic level, be both beautiful and sensible. I then suggested that, if at all possible, she should endeavor to be reborn someplace more conveniently situated to my lifestyle than Southern California.

"Asia's where it's all happening this century, Grandma." I offered

She said that she would try, but that Asian food might not agree with her. I told her not to worry.

"We've got great medical facilities over here"

And that was the most recent, but not, I think, the last meaningful conversation I will ever have, with my grandmother.

I'd like to end my portion of this eulogy with a few lines from the mouth of Doris Davidofsky herself, a short Zen potpourri of words which, apparently I typed verbatim into my computer while she spoke to me during my last trip to her apartment in Orange County in April, 2001.

Thus Spoke Grandma:

The other day I thought I heard someone speaking Yiddish in the lobby, but I was mistaken. I'm bitter because I'm the only Jew here, unless there are Chinese Jews, or Korean or whatever. Can you imagine me speaking Yiddish here? They'd put me away. They have all kinds of nuts here. Such mishegos! The Dali Lama? He's the one from Tibet. They're very spiritual people, as I understand, Tibetans. Oy gey kaken! I should be so lucky.

Goodbye for now, Grandma; As the song goes, We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when. And thanks for being my grandmother for 35 years.

Doris Davidofsky 1915 - 2004