A Eulogy for Rubin Kulman

By Rabbi Rebecca Epstein

Rubin Kulman was the father of Rockaway Times columnist, Shane Kulman. He died on November 20. The following is a eulogy written by West End Temple Rabbi Rebecca Epstein.

We gather in grief, in shock, and also with full hearts, to remember and honor Rubin Kulman, who was taken from our midst so suddenly, early in the morning this past Thursday, at the age of 78.

Rubin – who in true Rubin style renamed himself RJ about 40 years ago – was so fun and so full of life. He was passionate, loud, funny, physical, sentimental, and wholly himself. His presence filled up a room, a home, a family. And now his absence feels just as large.

RJ’s story begins with resilience. His parents were originally from Kovno, Lithuania. They survived the Holocaust and brought him into the world on March 24, 1947, in the Feldefing Displaced Persons Camp. Paula, the love of his life, was born in that same camp. Their parents were friends. It is something extraordinary that two children born into the aftermath of devastation, carried by parents who had lost so much, somehow found one another and built a full life here in America, overflowing with family, friends, hard work, activity, memories, and devotion.

RJ came to the United States as a toddler, settling in East New York. Like many families at that time, they spent summers in bungalows in the Catskills. They had a tight-knit group of friends, which included Paula and her family. RJ’s friendships have lasted his lifetime: Abe and his wife Sonny; his best friend Melvin and his wife Linda; Paula’s cousin Joey, who gave RJ his first switchblade and introduced him to rock and roll; and Ruth and Doug. After the devastating loss of both of RJ’s parents in close succession, both in their late 30s, Doug’s mother became a caregiver and constant presence for RJ and his sister Gail during those years of need.

RJ and Paula married young at ages 23 and 22 respectively, on October 24, 1970, at Temple Beth El in Manhattan Beach with Rabbi Lederman officiating. They were married for 55 years, through ups and downs, struggles and joys. Their first home was in Canarsie, where they brought Shane into the world, followed by Glenn. Later, when Shane was 14, they moved to their home Mill Basin, giving everyone space and the children their own rooms. RJ also recreated the tradition of his childhood summers by bringing the family to Monticello each year.

RJ was a chef in the Army Reserves. Looking for an outlet, he discovered that you could take a weekend off for religious purposes, he found a Jewish basketball camp where he could play ball.  He began formal studies at Baruch College but decided to leave school and moved into accounting instead, working at Panasonic for many years. He then started his own company, buying and selling computers and networking systems. He worked constantly, leaving before the kids were awake, even commuting back to the city during summer vacations while the family stayed in Monticello. Yet he was also the father who made pancakes and matzah brei, who took the kids on vacations, who kept the family close with Hanukkah parties and Fourth of July celebrations at Linda and Melvin’s or with Sonny and Abe.

Shane, you recall your dad’s sparkly blue eyes, his larger-than-life energy—passionate, robust, loud, inappropriate in the funniest ways. As has been echoed by so many, the world is truly less fun without him here. He loved food, family, friends. He dressed up – you remember him wearing cowboy boots when you and Glenn were little. You remember how, like you, he loved projects—how when he got passionate about something, he went for it completely. He was a collector. He saw value in what no one else saw.

Glenn, you remember the quirky things, like that your father didn’t like haircuts because his own father had been a barber—so being “haircut free” was his quiet rebellion. He played racquetball and basketball with you, but also – he was a pillar for you – always the person you called when you had a question or decision. And that he came back to you with a list with several options—prices, where to purchase, every detail—because he had so much knowledge and wanted to be thorough, but also because he just wanted to be there for you. You both remember his huge collection of rock and roll records, the music blasting on 102.7 at home and in the car, his great appreciation of the Celtics, the Mets, and Larry Bird; his various interests throughout life, like black-and-white photography and recently, repairing cars. Even last week, he was on his back in the street changing his bumper. That was RJ—always moving, always working, always alive.

Irene, who has worked with Paula recalled observing the tenderness and love between RJ and Paula, how devoted they were to one another. RJ would say that when he had stomach cancer 20 years ago, Paula battled for him, doing everything for him. And so he said, “When she needed me, it was never a question.” Irene saw the shine in their eyes when they looked at each other and how he would tickle Paula to make her laugh. He has been completely dedicated and determined as a caretaker in these last years.

In these, his last years of life, he had grown more sentimental, more appreciative of the good times, perhaps especially after his friend Mel passed away. He poured himself into making the holidays that Paula had once done all the cooking for. He loved tracking down family in Pennsylvania and Israel, and loved speaking Yiddish—joining a Yiddish Facebook page just to practice. And how he adored his grandchildren, Geo and Dean. He got down on the floor to play with them, lighting up every time he saw them. He loved being Jewish—the culture, traditions, food—deeply and proudly. If he were here with us now, he would tell us: Enjoy life. You are not here forever. He meant it. And he lived it.

RJ’s life was full of joy, and full of challenges as well—health battles, career changes, the early loss of his parents, the challenge of coming to this country as a child of survivors and building something stable out of almost nothing. Yet he was unwavering in his work ethic, unbreakable in his drive, unstoppable in his resilience, unyielding in his love for his family and his friends.

Last week, we read the Torah portion called Toldot, in which our ancestor Isaac is described as digging wells. It was hard work, in the wilderness. Every time he found water, which represented hope, stability—an adversary stopped up the well or forced him to move on. Again and again, Isaac started over. He would dig again. Believe again. Search again. He persisted until he reached a well he named Rehovot, meaning “broad places.” He explained, “Now the Holy One has made room for us.”

Like Isaac, we could say that RJ lived a life of digging wells. When one well was stopped up, he dug another. When life narrowed, he pushed until he found spaciousness. He kept digging until he reached his own Rehovot—spaciousness, blessing, and love—for Paula, for Shane, for Glenn and Tayla, for Dean and Geo, for all of you, his precious community of loved ones.

He built a family. He built a home. He built community, fun, memories, resilience.

He left behind resources that like water will continue to sustain you — love, wisdom, grit, joy —wells that will continue to be with you, blessings that will stay with you and cannot be taken away.

And now, even in our grief, we can say: The Holy One has made room for him.

Room for his spirit, his stories, his humor, his fire. Room for all he was and all he gave. May the wells he dug continue to sustain you for generations, and may RJ’s memory be a blessing.