Craig Jurney

Speaker Erika Jurney

Remembering Craig Jurney
at the Oshman Family JCC
on January 11, 2020 at 4:00

November 15, 1963 – November 20, 2019

Craig, I miss you so much. I miss the love you had for me and the boys. I miss knowing we loved each other absolutely and without doubts.

I miss the smile you’d flash when you saw me across the room. I miss hearing your infectious laugh. I even miss your irritated sigh when things weren’t going your way.

You were always playing music in the house, and sometimes on weekend mornings you would surprise me by playing my favorite albums, because you knew just which ones they were. You were thoughtful like that.

We’d watch TV every night and talk while you insisted on rubbing my feet. I haven’t been able to sit on that sofa and watch TV by myself since you died. The boys and I sat there and watched Elf on Christmas Eve, and we missed you intensely.

You’d always give me a big hug when you’d come home from work. Your arms would wrap all the way around me, and you’d squeeze me until I felt supremely loved.

You could always answer any question. Just about anything anyone could think of, you had at least some knowledge of. And most of all, you never made anyone feel stupid for not knowing the answer. You were the kindest and most intelligent person I knew.

Most of the packages you received contained books. In addition to working your crossword puzzles and acrostics, at all times you had 5 things you were reading: fiction, non-fiction, magazines, newspapers, and programming books. I would tease you about how they were taking over our bookshelves. You had a seemingly infinite hunger and capacity for knowledge. Your curiosity knew no boundaries.

You were always finding new recipes for me to try. I was the cook, but you were the recipe-finder. You’d go to store after store to source unique ingredients to make dinner come out just as you imagined. And every Friday after a long week of work you’d go shopping for ice cream and other special treats to surprise the boys with.

We would have great nights out at restaurants where we’d sit across the table from each other and talk all night – usually about how great our kids were. Or sometimes we’d just sit in silence knowing we could be comfortably quiet together. You were always up on what restaurants were opening and would make spontaneous reservations for us on random Saturday nights.

We missed you this year at Thanksgiving. We went to our favorite place in Boonville like we do every year, except this time you weren’t there with us. Ed took over your job of building the fire every morning, and I made your signature green beans. I thought of you all day every day, especially when I’d see your empty chair by the fire.

I miss being part of a team, always knowing you were completely on my side and that we had each other’s backs. My first act as a single parent was to wake up our kids at midnight to tell them that you died.

I even miss your snoring. Our dog, Clara, sleeps on your side of the bed now, and when she snores I sometimes think it’s you. I used to get so mad at you for being able to fall asleep in 30 seconds. Sleeping without you next to me just feels wrong. I keep waking up in the middle of the night looking for you.

There were so many more things you wanted to do with your life, and you were ready to get going with your projects.

Now you’ll never teach yourself Latin or learn to restore old manuscripts in our garage. You’ll never be able to choose where to spend your last working years. You’ll never retire or start a second career.

We’ll never return to Rome for a romantic trip like we planned, or go back to London for the umpteenth time to revisit our old haunts.

You’ll never teach your boys how to drive or see them grow into men. You’ll never watch your children become parents or teach your grandchildren to love archaeology and reading.

You’ll never be a part of this new decade we’re in. 2020 is the year that your first child will go to college, and you’re going to miss it.

I’m utterly gutted that I had to write these words in the past tense, because it means you are really gone. You died far too young while we still needed you here.

Craig, you were the absolute love of my life, and I will adore you forever.


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