Eulogizing Ron Carner

 

Ron Carner,  May 19, 1939--June 3, 2025

I delivered a shorter version of this eulogy at Ron's funeral.

Please scroll to bottom for links to videos of Ron

Several times over the years, Ron said to me, “If you eulogize me, do not talk about me in the past tense.”    

I responded,  “You won’t be able to tell me what to do.” 

How could I have imagined the day I would be eulogizing you, a giant of a man, one who lived large and savored every moment of life with hunger for more? Ron was—is—a man who opened his eyes in the morning and thought that the sky had never been this blue, the birds had never chirped so beautifully, and there had never been a more beautiful woman to be found by a man’s side. 

It took tremendous energy to keep up with Ron’s pace of hopping on a plane to London to catch a couple of shows, and two days later start a skiing day on top of a Vermont mountain at minus fifty wind chill factor. Until his mid-seventies, there wasn’t a mountain Ron didn’t want to climb or a river he didn’t plan to raft down its white waters.

Did I mention Ron’s reverence of balls? There was not one he didn’t love—round, oval, rubber, or covered in cowhide—to throw, hit, bounce, catch, kick, dribble, or pass—or watch others do it. 

In the years he practiced law, the charismatic Ron did particularly well with juries. Older jurors viewed him as their son, young ones as a father figure, his contemporary males as the guys’ guy that he was, and the female jurors, oh, well, he was really cute.  

Ron grew up in a loving family, where he was pampered by his grandmother who lived with them, and adored by his parents and his brother who was five years older. A good student, a star athlete, and a favorite among both boys and girls, all Ron knew was acceptance and love. Not a single bad thing happened to him until the big one, when Ron was twenty-five, and his father suddenly died. 

It was from that river of  love that Ron was able to ladle out endless goodness to share—with me, the children, his friends, and the Jewish world.   

Today, June 5th, the day of his funeral, the Six-Day War broke in Israel in 1967. Holding his transistor close to his ear for days on end, Ron became aware of how fundamental Israel was to his identity as a Jew.

By the time I met Ron, he held strong Jewish values and was a committed Zionist, which soon found their purpose in his volunteer work for Maccabi USA. A born leader, who loved interacting with young people, Ron went on to devote 38 years influencing not only American Jewish youth, but also those in South and Central America and beyond. To advance women’s participation, it was not enough to just form US-Jewish women’s teams; they needed to compete against other countries. Ron travelled indefatigably to encourage and cajole Maccabi leaderships everywhere to form more women’s teams. Then he went on to expand international participation by developing the Masters’ program. Not surprisingly, the more mature athletes, enthusiastic to participate in their respective sports, helped fund the huge operational cost. Some became major donors when they witnessed the greatest involvement of Jewish youth with Israel and with Diaspora’s members of our tribe. 

With every participating athlete came a family and a circle of friends who accompanied them to the Games—and thus reasserted their Jewish roots. Every two years, when Ron walked into the stadium at an opening ceremony of either the Maccabiah or a Regional Game in Europe or South and Central America, he felt triumphant. His greatest rewards were when people told him how the Games changed their lives and brought them back into the fold of Judaism.

When I met Ron in 1978, all this was in the future. What captured my heart was not just that he was funny, romantic, and handsome, but that he was a feminist. He sent me to  “a Conscious Raising” group to navigate a world steeped with power imbalance, and then he proceeded to relinquish some of his own power in order to have a wife who was an equal partner. Cocooned in the comfort of his love, I grew wings and flew to wherever my abilities would take me. Only a secure male could do that.   

Above all, Ron’s core was our family, the tight unit we created. From our first lunch in 1978, when Ron and I surprised ourselves by talking about our future together, he forged forward toward that goal: he maintained three homes so we could all be together, shopped, navigated the children’s conflicting schedules, and orchestrated our activities. Ron, our patriarch, was a lifeforce. His delight was to see our four children grow into amazing adults, who are blessedly close.

Over the years, many people watched Ron’s awe of the world, his athleticism, and his full, multi-faceted life and said that if there was life after life, they would have liked to come back as Ron Carner.

They didn’t even know that he sang in the shower.

Ronnie, you were right. You cannot be in the past tense. You, your spirit, your generosity, and your moral compass will forever be present in everyone you’ve touched. Especially in me.    

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LINKS: Please watch Ron live on some of the many videos publicly available:

Ron was very proud to be a recipient of Maccabi's Yakir award for his dedication and enormous contribution to the movement. Here is the link to him being featured as Legend of Maccabi of and another Tribute to him by Maccabi USA.

A great interview on Jewish Broadcasting Corporation (JBC) with Rabbi Mark Golub.

Ron was very proud when he was nominated for James Madison High School's "Wall of Distinction," populated by luminary alumni Nobel Laureates, politicians and Justices. Here is a link to his acceptance speech.

The New York Times obituary

The Sole of a Shopper

       
           This week I shopped for three “must-have”s: a car, a computer, and a pair of sneakers.
            Researching a new car was simple. Searching various websites by the simple selection of number of doors and the color gave me a preliminary list. Adding the budget—and out popped a few cars. I weeded out those that failed to meet my Number One request that the passenger seat is endowed with every single adjustment as the driver’s. This is a deal breaker for me, since when my husband drives me around, I am relegated to the passenger seat. But it’s my car, where it is one place where I can choose not to be considered a second-class citizen.
            Only two cars matched my specification. At the first showroom, I sniffed the inside of the car for that delicious leather aroma, took out the car for a spin, signed a few papers, and became the official owner.
            Finding a notebook computer was a more demanding task, requiring me to refresh my terminology of as RAM and Megahertz, and understand what the number of pixels on my screen meant. I got the hang of it as I perused through several catalogues and sorted the models that matched my budget. Then I called online companies and got my deal—sight unseen, a free case included. The computer arrived in a box the next afternoon.
            Buying sneakers, though, demoted me to the class of dimwits. “Do you cross-train?” the salesman standing in front of a wall of sneakers asked me, and in the same breath produced a shoe whose top was crisscrossed by a straining pink mesh that reminded me of my late grandmother’s corset. 
            Cross-train. I mulled over the new term until I remembered someone at the gym where I take Pilates (barefoot) mentioning a cross-training machine. “No,” I shook my head. “But I’m size eight, medium.” Surely he’d appreciate an easy-to-fit customer.
            Unimpressed by my helpfulness, he pulled down another pair. “Do you need the sneakers for jogging? Walking on the treadmill?” He pointed at an air-bubble, like that in a plumb-ruler, set in the back of the heel.
            I thought of my nature walks—in the woods, by rivulets and on rocky inclines. How would I keep the air bubble centered? And if I did, how would I see it? “I just need sneakers.” I pointed to a white-and-blue pair that looked benign enough. “What about these?”
            “Do you do aerobics or jazz?”
                        “Yes, I dance.”
                        He drew my attention to the fact that the sole of the sneaker was broader than the top part, which would add balance if I did aerobics.
                        “But I won’t be able to pivot in a jazz routine.”
                        For that, he showed me a split-bottom, where the heel and toe parts were not connected. I could see all the large stones getting caught in the space should I walked on the graveled walkway, let alone in nature.
            He turned to a Lucite display, where, like a trophy, stood a sneaker whose 2-inch bottom seemed to have been made from stalagmites and stalactites meeting halfway, leaving miniature caves. “Shock absorbers,” he said.
            The caves seemed like a perfect refuge for small cockroaches or little snakes. “Too much sneaker,” I said.
            He turned away from the display in obvious dismissal of that option for me; I was undeserving of that special marvel of human engineering.
            Trying to save face I offered, “I have a high arch.”
            His eyes searched the ceiling and his brows crinkled as he considered that new obstacle. Then his gaze traveled back to the selection on the wall, and he pulled down a sneaker. He flexed it lengthwise and widthwise, explaining the technology involved in designing an arch support. I was grateful that at the car showroom no one had suggested I crawl underneath the axel for an engineering lesson.
            The salesman compared this Eighth-Wonder of shoe engineered against a more cushioned shoe, which would provide a better spring.
            If I were jumping hoops, that is. In my compassion toward the salesman, I scoured my brain to give him something to work with. “I’m planning to ride a bike.” Well, I used to, and they say I’d never forget.
            He handed me a single shoe with Day-Glo strips at the back and sides. Like a chef waiting to hear praise of his Banana Flambée, he watched me with eager eyes. Not knowing what to do with the shoe balanced in my hand—sniffing it as I did in the car seemed awkward—I weighed it in my palm. “It’s heavy,” I said.
            He pointed at the strips. “Reflectors. Good for riding after dusk.”
            “I need a pair that would be nothing special, you know, for everything.”
            It was no use. I would have to throw my own lot with good faith. I yanked a shoe off the wall. It had no mesh, or bubbles, or caves, or glow-in-the-dark features. The heel did not extend out. The gentle-looking sole would allow some toe-pointing. The stitching was a bit fancy, and purple-and-yellow combination was not my favorite color scheme, but this simple Neanderthal model, from times before shoe technology had become a university degree, seemed right. “What about these? How much?”
            “A hundred and twenty dollars.”
                       
            I left the store sneakerless. At least I have a car and a computer.
           
            ###
           
              Author Talia Carner's next novel, JERUSALEM MAIDEN, (HarperCollins, 2011.) Please check my website at www.TaliaCarner.comhttp://www.TaliaCarner.com