A Tribute to Paul George Sittenfeld
By his children Tiernan, Curtis, Josephine, and P.G. Sittenfeld
On Wednesday, March 17, 2021, the gloriously full life of our exuberant, funny, generous, neurotic, complicated, loving father, Paul George Sittenfeld, came to an end. Shortly before his 74th birthday, a very aggressive form of liver cancer and related kidney complications abruptly and swiftly took him from us. Although we are shocked and heartbroken, we were able to hold his hands at his bedside as he passed away and can honestly report that he died peacefully, basking in the love of his family, and looking a lot like he was taking a nap — which is something he was exceptionally good at doing, when he wasn’t busy doing a million other things.
As those of you who knew our father already know, he was a man of countless interests and appetites, countless opinions, and countless friendships. There are so many of you whom he loved and was loved by, so many friends from his 1950s childhood in Kansas City, Missouri; from Princeton University (Class of 1969); and from every walk of life in Cincinnati and beyond.
By profession, he started in the non-profit world and later thrived as an investment advisor. Meanwhile, he volunteered on so many boards — including ones that focused on social equity, education, and the arts — that we literally have never been able to tally them. He officiated at several weddings, including Curtis’s. He delivered the eulogies at dozens of funerals. He traveled widely and whenever possible stayed in other people’s houses. If you were classmates at Princeton but never actually spoke during your four years there or for twenty years after, that wouldn’t prevent him from inviting himself to be your guest. When our father passed through Jackson, Mississippi, or Santa Fe, New Mexico, or Munich, Germany, he would not only look you up but happily sleep in one of your beds and eat your food with you at your kitchen table. And not just because he was frugal, though he sometimes was — also because he was endlessly curious about other people and their lives. In fact, regarding his tendency to accept nearly every invitation, he was fond of quoting a line supposedly uttered by a Manhattan socialite: “I wouldn’t miss the opening of an envelope.”
In addition to being an enthusiastic guest, our father was an avid host. He would set plans in motion — say, inviting eighteen people over for a simple soup and salad dinner on a Sunday evening — and our mother would actually make all this simplicity, soup, and salad happen. This was a pattern that dated back to their adolescence, when he somehow convinced her that it was a good idea to bake forty dozen chocolate chip cookies to give out as snacks at an opera performance for high schoolers (yes, forty dozen, and yes, an opera performance for high schoolers). For the next six decades, our father continued to come up with highjinks, and our mother continued to execute them. In June 2020, our parents celebrated fifty years of marriage.
As a father, he encouraged us to pursue our interests, to be ambitious and community-minded, and also to dote on him, including coming from the second floor to the first floor to move a piece of his paper from one side of the dining room table to the other side while he was doing work there or to bring him a glass of water when the sink was less than ten feet away from where he sat. He taught us cards and Scrabble and Monopoly. He edited our papers, took us shopping for clothes, gave us unfiltered feedback (sometimes more unfiltered than we wished), and delighted in our accomplishments.
Our father could be a sparkling conversationalist, asking penetrating questions, telling riveting stories, and making hilarious observations. He also could be moody and sensitive and could hold a grudge over the smallest slight. He loved wordplay and music and real songs and songs that he made up. To this day, there are certain words and phrases where we’re not sure if they’re Yiddish or if he just invented them — like vushtunkitta armpit. (If you haven’t showered for a few days, you probably have vushtunkitta armpit.)
He was remarkably compassionate. With us and with so many other people, he was always willing to take the time to give advice, try to cheer you up if you were discouraged, or celebrate a victory. When an individual or family was new to town, he and our mother, who’d once been new to town themselves, were often the first to invite them over. If you had surgery or someone close to you died or it was your deceased spouse’s birthday, he might drop off coffee cake for you (prepared, of course, by our mother) or call you. If he heard some juicy gossip, he would definitely call you. If he read a pun he thought was funny in Reader’s Digest and he thought you’d find it funny too, he’d call you. If he just wanted to hear your voice, he’d call you. Basically, there has never been a human who loved the phone more than our father.
There also has never been anyone who enjoyed eating cheese more, or who enjoyed eating fish spread more, or who enjoyed drinking weird fruit juices mixed together more. There has never been a Midwesterner who loved swimming in the Atlantic Ocean or walking along the beach more. And surely there has never been a more cheerfully Jewish person with a larger collection of Santa Claus figurines.
Seventeen years ago, in the summer of 2004, our father had a very serious health scare and was in the ICU for many weeks. We weren’t sure if he’d make it. Right now, it feels like he was taken from us while there were still Scrabble games to be played and meals from Bangkok Bistro to be shared. But we are so grateful we got those extra seventeen years with him, years during which all of us married, had children, and fulfilled professional goals. He delighted in his grandchildren, and in turn, they delighted in him and his mischievous behavior. Here was an adult with splendid white hair who read books to them and gave them presents and also stuck out his tongue, sang silly songs, and taught them naughty words.
In addition to being a lively and devoted father and grandfather, he was a warm, steadfast brother, brother-in-law, father-in-law, cousin, uncle, and, while his own parents were living, son. Really, his life was a sort of repurposing of the Olive Garden slogan “When you’re here, you’re family” and could have been, “If I know you, you’re family.” Also, as it happens, he considered the Olive Garden delicious and made a point of going there on a recent birthday because he had a coupon for a free ice cream sundae that turned out to be so enormous even he, P.G., and a grandchild working very hard together couldn’t finish it.
Studies indicate that one of the biggest predictors of longevity and well-being in life is how rewarding and meaningful your relationships are. We suspect that even though our dad had multiple health ailments, he stayed alive as long as he did because he had so many phone calls to make and gatherings to attend. As we sat around his hospital bed, when it was clear the end was near, we speculated hopefully that he was headed to a great dinner party in the sky — one where many of his beloved friends and family are already present, awaiting his arrival.
We feel profoundly lucky to be his children and profoundly sad that he is gone, though of course we will carry his love, humor, and random song lyrics inside us forever. He touched so many people’s lives in so many wonderful ways — and certainly none more than ours.
If you knew our dad, please feel free to share your stories with us directly. In lieu of sending flowers to our family, we hope you will think of making a donation to Chatfield College or another organization he was involved with; calling someone you haven’t spoken to in a while; or eating an extremely large piece of cheddar cheese.
