Part 1 – by Rob Sumroy
Melvyn Joel Sumroy
Melvyn was born on 28th August 1942 in the middle of a Nazi air raid on Leeds. There weren’t many air raids on Leeds – but Ray Sumroy was unfortunate enough to be going into labour as the sirens started. As she told it – she jumped under a table – and Melvyn was born.
He was the second child for Jack and Rachel Sumroy, joining his elder sister Susan – who is with us today and to whom we wish a long life.
Grandma Ray always told me dad was a “bonny child” – she was so very proud of him. He went to Roundhay School – eventually leaving with 7 A-levels – enabling him to study dentistry at Manchester University.
My aim though, today, is not to present a simple chronological trip through Melvyn’s life – for to do so would miss the point and do my dad a huge disservice. To better understand Melvyn Joel Sumroy, we should dig beneath the historical facts to see the true essence of the Melly we all know, remember and love.
At school he loved participating in extra-curricular activities – always putting his hand up for the drama club and sports teams. And to Melvyn it didn’t matter that he may not have been the best or good enough for starring roles – when he didn’t make the main acting line up he took on stage management duties. When he didn’t make the rugby first team he put his hand up – literally – ran the line… becoming the linesman for the 1st 15 team. You see Melly believes in taking part. Giving his time to support the team – to be part of the team. Trying hard – trying your best always giving your best. My dad had no ego. He wasn’t taking part because he believed he was the best or wanted to show off how good he was – no he took part because taking part – being part of something – supporting something that is bigger than oneself – is what life is about – and that has gone on to define Melvyn for his whole life.
He graduated from Manchester and set up his dental practice in Raincliffe Road in Leeds 9 – this is not a glamour part of Leeds. Dad was not about glamour – he believed in helping people to be healthy, to be happy, to have a happy healthy smile. He wanted kids to have an opportunity to have healthy teeth and a good start in life. For more than 20 years Melvyn was also the prison dentist at Armley Jail in Leeds. Twice a week he would enter through those gates to help some of the countries’ toughest and most hardened criminals with their various oral ailments and diseases. For dad – everyone deserved access to care and good health – and he knew it was within his ability to provide that help.
Melvyn was so proud of his profession – and his professionalism drove him to improve dentistry and dentists both in the UK and around the world. He served as Chairman of the Leeds Jewish Dental Society and on the committee of the Yorkshire Dental Society. Following retirement he continued to commit time to dentistry – both on regulatory committees and as part of wider NHS patient trial programmes. Melvyn worked for 40 years as an NHS dentist in an era when many dentists chose to switch to private practice to earn the big buck. Not Melvyn – for him the value came in service – to his patients and to the National Health Service. It was a duty to serve, and one that he was proud of. He was passionate about his profession and his trade, He once told me that each mouth represents both an interesting problem to be solved but also a opportunity for him to create a work of art – his beautiful soft hands worked wonders in thousands of Leeds mouths.
As Jon will come on to tell you, it is probably outside of his professional career that we truly see the essence of Melvyn. From our earliest memories, Melvyn was always busy doing things for other people. Cut him in half like a stick of Scarborough rock so beloved by Melly’s sweet tooth and you would find the word “volunteer”.
One organisation he dedicated more than 30 years of his life to was the Scouts. Starting as a Cub leader in the local Jewish cub pack, and finishing as Group Scout Leader for the whole of the Leeds Hillel scout troop – scouting epitomised everything that dad believed in: teamwork, personal growth but not at the expense of others, childhood fun, adventure, outdoor pursuits – campfires burning – draw nearer, in gloming.
Indeed – the cub scout promise is, for me, a perfect description of Melvyn’s ethos:
I promise
To do my best
To my duty – to God and to the Queen
To help other people
And to keep the cub scout laws
Always doing his best, always doing his duty – both to God and to his country – and always helping other people
God was important to Dad – he was very much a person of faith. He instilled in us all a love for judaism, with mum he built a Jewish home, he lived for his Jewish community, the jewish people and the Jewish nation – there are just too many examples to mention here – I suspect all of you will have many personal examples of Melvyn’s jewishness – I’d go as far as saying he was as close as you could get to a Jewish SuperMan. Building sukkahs in the garden with his kids, pounding the Leeds jewish pavements every Monday evening to raise money for the JIA and travelling to Israel on numerous missions throughout the 1970s, 80s and 90s, smuggling Jeans and Jewish books in to the Soviet Union in the 1970s to keep contact with the Jewish refuseniks, volunteering as a dentist in Ashkelon in Israel, reading the Haftorah every year on his own Bar Mitzvah anniversary and on the yahrzeit of his mother and father. Visiting the graves of all family members to ensure their upkeep, honestly this list doesn’t even scratch the surface…. A true Jewish SuperMan.
And even in the hardest of times – the darkest of times – when his beloved daughter Deborah – our wonderful sister – was cruelly taken in a long battle with cancer – Melvyn didn’t lose faith. He found more faith. He looked within his Jewishness and his judaism for solace, support, comfort and energy. And well done dad – that energy got you through – and now you are at peace and with your Deborah – you will look after each other in heaven.
Of course Melvyn’s other amazing achievement outside of his professional work was as a father and a husband. He was years ahead of his time in terms of sharing the load at home: he would cook and clean, shop and bake, hoover and iron – sure, he would generally do this when told – and mum was very much in charge – but there was no artificial male/female distinction in our house. Dad pulled his weight – he and mum parented as a team. A brilliant role model for fatherhood.
But I’m also clear that dad’s behaviour in the home was driven out of supreme respect for, and love of, our mum, his wife – Pam, or perfect Pam as he would often call her. Dad and mum met in Roundhay Park, on the swings in 1956 – they were both 14 years old. They walked that day to the little bridge overlooking the gorge at the little lake – and dad gave mum a kiss. The rest, as they say, his history – their story – they were married 6 years later on 31st July 1963, and were in love, happily in love for all those 70 years. It is still there, that little kissing bridge, they would visit countless hundreds of times over the years – and with increasing frequency in dad’s later years when the regular routine of their daily Roundhay Park walks would give him comfort and reassurance. I last saw them kiss there in April of this year. It was absolutely clear to me that it was as special to them then as it was for the 1st kiss back in 1956.
On Friday nights before our family shabbat meal, Melvyn would recite Eishet Chayil (or “Woman of Valour”) – a traditional Hebrew poem, from the Book of Proverbs. It celebrates a woman’s strength, wisdom, kindness and devotion to her family, and is traditionally sung by a husband in honour of his wife.
Dad would recite this – not out of religious duty, not because any rabbi tells him to do this, not because it is tradition, not in some pseudo-feminist performative act in front of his children – no – Melvyn recited this every Friday night because this is what he felt, this is what he feels about his wife, his best friend, his lovely perfect Pamela:
When she speaks, she speaks with wisdom,
and kindness guides her words.
She watches over her family
and does not take their wellbeing for granted.
Her children rise and call her blessed;
her husband praises her too:
“Many women have done wonderful things,
but you surpass them all.”
Mum – I know you will not want me to focus on you in this moment but this needs to be said. You are a true woman of valour. Many women have done wonderful things – but what you have done for our dad, for your Mel, for Melvyn – truly surpasses all. You are a wonderful woman, mum and grandma…. and all of us – family and friends of Melvyn, and the wider community who knew him – will be forever grateful for the unstinting care and support you have given to dad. Thank you.
So that’s Melvyn:
For the team, not the ego
To take part, not to win
Curious, caring, generous, gentle, kind, modest, honourable
Where true value comes from service, and duty – not riches or accolades
To help other people
To volunteer
If I may, I will finish with dad’s other Friday night constant:
From when I can first remember, until my last memory of dad speaking to us all – he has always blessed his children, grandchildren and great grandchildren on erev shabbat – this blessing, taken from the ancient Priestly Blessing from Bamidbar: wishes for us protection, kindness and peace.
And it is my honour on behalf of all Melvyn’s family, and his friends, and indeed I would like to think all who have been touched by his generosity and service throughout his life – to now give to Melvyn this blessing as he makes his way to sit with Hashem in heaven:
Dad… Melvyn….
Y’see-m’cha Elo-heem k’Ef-rah-yim v’chi-M’nash-eh.
May God make you like Ephraim and Manasseh.
Y’vah-reh-ch’cha Adonai v’yeesh-m’reh-cha.
May God bless you and protect you.
Yah-air Adonai pah-nav ay-leh-cha vee-choo-neh-ka.
May God’s presence shine upon you and be gracious to you.
Yee-sah Adonai pah-nav ay-leh-cha, v’yah-same l’cha shah-lome.
May God look upon you with kindness and grant you peace
AMEN
Part 2 – by Jon Sumroy
Home for Dinner
Hesped for Dad · Moshe Yoel ben Chaim Yaakov
Dad was always home for dinner.
I want you to hold that thought, because for eighty-four years it was harder to achieve than it sounds. This was a man who worked as a dentist all day, and who at various times was a Rotarian, a Freemason, and a committee man; I would tell you which committees, but the honest answer is all of them. Sixty years a volunteer, his whole adult life. And he was always home for dinner.
Dad’s Hebrew name was Moshe. Moshe Yoel ben Chaim Yaakov. And this Shabbat, in every shul in the world, we read about the last days of another Moshe. Moshe Rabbeinu stands before the whole people, from the elders to the woodchopper and the water-drawer, and says: I am a hundred and twenty years old today. I can no longer go out and come in.
I can no longer go out and come in. Of all the ways the Torah could describe the end of a long life, it chooses that. Not titles. Not achievements. Going out, and coming in.
So let me tell you about Dad’s going out. For decades, every Tuesday, he drove day patients to the Sue Ryder hospice in Headingley, people who could not get there without him. When the newspaper interviewed him about it, he said: “It might sound silly, but I looked forward every Tuesday.” It had started when someone told him, “You don’t have to commit yourself, just try it.” He liked to say he’d been just trying it ever since.
In the 1980s he took his dentistry to Israel, to Ashkelon, treating Ethiopian olim. The Queen invited him to a garden party at the Palace for his services to charity. The High Sheriff of West Yorkshire gave him an award for services to the community. Dad kept the certificates on the wall, and if you asked about any of them he would happily talk you through the whole story, in detail, for exactly as long as you had. And even in these last few weeks, when illness was taking so much else from him, it never managed to take this. When David, Deborah’s eldest, visited him in hospital and asked what he wanted to do when he got out, Dad didn’t have to think about it. Volunteering. The giving went deeper than memory. It was simply what he was made of.
And I can’t let those certificates stand as the whole picture, because the same man kept the house stocked with rubber ducks. Dozens of them. And here is the thing: he bought them as presents for other people. Even his daftest habit was a giving habit. Mum pretended to hate them. He had yellow rubber duck ties, and his rubber duck watch. So if you’re wondering about this tie, it’s his. So is the watch. Which means no Apple Watch today, and for once I am not counting my steps. Today isn’t a day for measuring the walk.
Then, in his eighties, he had to stop driving. And what hurt him was not losing the car. It was that he couldn’t take Jack shopping any more, that someone else would have to do the runs to the day centre. His biggest disappointment, at that age, was for the people who would have to manage without his lifts. Lo yuchal od latzet v’lavo. He could no longer go out and come in. Dad had earned every word of Moshe’s sentence.
And Rashi says something beautiful about that verse. When Moshe says “I am a hundred and twenty years old today”, Rashi reads it: today my days and my years are full. Not ended. Full.
Dad’s days were full. Nine weeks ago he was with us in Cyprus, four generations around one table, right in the middle of it all. I am truly blessed to have had a wonderful father for so long, and to have had this summer with him. It does not mean it isn’t sad. But it is his time, and his days were full.
The Torah keeps one last kindness for Moshe: the very last thing that happens in it is that Hashem Himself buries Moshe. Our sages say the Torah begins with an act of kindness and ends with one. Today we do for Dad, our Moshe, what was done for the other Moshe, the kindness that can never be repaid, which is exactly the currency he dealt in all his life.
Melly leaves Mum, his children, his nine grandchildren and his two great-grandchildren, and Dad’s name will keep going out and coming in through every one of them. Because in our family, the names come back. His father was Jack; I carry his name, Yaakov. His mother was Rachel, Grandma Ray Turteltaub. Danya Rachel carries her name, and so does Rob’s Jessie, born in the year Ray died, whose middle name is Tor: the turtle dove, a little Turteltaub. And our Deborah gave her name to Neta Devorah. Jack, Rachel and Deborah have been waiting for him.
So I am not going to picture an ending today. I picture a table, three people looking up, and a place set.
Dad, you went out one last time. And now you’re home for dinner.
