Obituary as it appeared in the Santa Barbara Independent June 23, 2005

        My Father loved life. One of my early memories is of watching him eat cheese and bread at the table: He would take a mouth-filling bite and chew with such unabashed pleasure that I could hardly wait to taste the exquisite stuff myself. To this day, I happily remember his unrestrained dancing and singing, whether or not he was on pitch or in time-he loved parties, the real ones where people were there to enjoy each other, not to schmooze. My Aunt Maria and Uncle Steve (his younger brother) in La Mesa, CA would always have lively Latin American music playing at their house and Dad would be dancing, singing along and enjoying whatever savory dish they had cooking. There was always music playing in my childhood, from Handel's Water Music to Ray Charles, Lola Beltran to George Brasson. I remember the many hours we spent on the front porch of our house in Mission Canyon singing old folk songs while he played guitar and in later years harmonica or jarana. Often, neighbors would drop by and join in. In his early 70's his friend Tim "El Tigre" Harding introduced him to the jarana, a small, guitar-like instrument from Veracruz, Mexico and Jorge Mijangos, a brilliant luthier and musician, made him a beautiful instrument and taught him to play. Being part of Tim's Sunday morning Jarocho group was a great joy to Dad and he assiduously practiced the many songs and participated in periodic Fandangos. Though he never quite got the rhythm right, he never gave up.
        I never once heard my Father say "I'm too old for…(anything!)". He was what modern educators call a "lifelong learner". I know that I owe my real education to him: The books lining our walls were a constant enticement, beckoning me to explore a new vision, an old story, another angle on the world, and there were always new books. Dad was always reading at least two at any time and would gladly discuss them with anyone who showed an interest. Though he was a mathematician by profession, he read history, art, literature, all the sciences, poetry, novels, travel accounts-anything that intrigued him. Language fascinated him and it was important to him to find the words that would best express his thoughts. Though German was his native language (he arrived in the U.S. in 1936 at 11), he learned Latin and Greek in school, Japanese in the Army and French, Spanish, Italian, Hebrew, Portuguese and Russian on his own. He loved to travel and visited as many countries as his income and responsibilities would allow. It pleased him immensely when a Russian man in Moscow asked him for directions, taking him for a native. He would strike up conversations anywhere with total strangers and soon be on friendly terms with them, placing no importance on social standing, education or appearance: If they had something interesting to say, that was enough for a rich exchange. When I saw James Stewart in "Harvey" (a movie I never tire of), I felt that Elwood P. Dowd was a kindred spirit to my Father in his embrace of humanity.
       Dad was involved in politics and community activism all his life. He was fervent in his support of Cesar Chavez' United Farm Workers movement, the Civil Rights movement, the ACLU and environmental organizations. When there was a Democratic campaign going on, Dad would be out walking precincts, manning registration booths, making calls, printing labels and whatever else was required. Having experienced first-hand the horror of bigotry and narrow-mindedness in Nazi Germany, he fought it in all its forms.
        Love was at the core of my Father's life. When I think that he married at 20, in 1946 and was with my Mother, Frances, through the last hour of his life, I know that their bond was, and is, more powerful than any adversity or friction that challenged their life together. They raised five children, somehow, and managed to keep them connected in love to this day-an accomplishment I appreciate more all the time. Mom was a Sicilian Catholic, Dad was a German Jew. Mom craved security and home, Dad wanted expansion and variety. When Dad quit G.E. Tempo to start his own company, Mom went into a tailspin, but gamely ran the office and kept the books. All that risk and uncertainty was very hard on her, but she never lagged in her support of Dad's enterprises. Though he grew frustrated with her reluctance to travel and resistance to being a "businesswoman", Dad always knew he couldn't have done it without her. There was a deep and lasting tenderness between them that never faded.
        My Father died last Saturday, June 11, 2005. He had been losing his lung capacity for the last two years due to Ideopathic Pulmonary Fibrosis, or scarring of the lungs and finally just stopped breathing. A few days ago, the family was assembled in my parents' kitchen, crying, eating, singing, laughing, talking…My brother Jeremy started singing an old Lesley Gore song and of course, we all joined in. Amid the singing and laughing, I glanced over toward the living room with the thought, "I've got to go share this with Dad" before I remembered. We'll be missing him for a long time.