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Harold Fine Obituary
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Memories and Condolences
for Harold Fine
Becky Hobson
March 24, 2010
February 2009
I am so sorry to hear about Harold. I used to love going to your house and hanging out with your family. There are so many memories I have of Harold and his family in that house. The Fines were a big part of my youth. Thinking about you all. Much love.
Lynne Walker
March 24, 2010
February 21, 2009
Dear Erika,
We are both very sorry and shocked to hear about Harold. He was a lovely, brilliant guy, a dear friend and I'll miss him terribly. I know you, Elsa, and Amy must be very sad. Steve and I send our love and we are thinking about you all.
March 24, 2010
AN 80TH BIRTHDAY MESSAGE FOR HAROLD F.
July 2005
Harold and I started graduate school at Syracuse University the same year. It was 1949. The number of other clinical psychology aspirants in our class was somewhere around 8-10, so bonding occurred fairly quickly. Some bonded more than others and I would put Harold and me in that latter group. We often studied together, taking time out to talk about economics, politics, our lives and our loves, Elsa and Sue. Whatever the topic, Harold's high level of intellectualism was always at the forefront. But, there was another side to him. Here is a vignette that still stands out for me and characterizes Harold. I was driving by a small shopping area close to the University campus. Harold recognized my car and came running toward me, looking very distressed and gesticulating for me to stop. Stop I did, thinking that there was an emergency. I rolled down my window; he had very bad news for me -- he said: "Shirts have gone up to 25 cents at the laundry." How could one not warm up to this guy of so many shadings!
. . .
Harold and I studied for our comps together, used similar populations for our dissertations, received our Ph.Ds the same year, and did a postdoctoral fellowship at Stanford and the VA together. Following our fellowships, we both ended up living in Connecticut, Elsa and Harold in Bridgeport, Sue and I in New Haven. Our families grew very close together during those halcyon years. Not only did our families and friendship grow, but we published ferociously: articles by Fine and Zimet, Zimet and Fine, Fine and Zimet...many coming out in rapid succession.
In the 1960s, we each moved away from Connecticut, taking different paths. Ours was to Colorado and theirs to Pennsylvania and then Tennessee, making it difficult to maintain the closeness we had taken for granted. Nevertheless, over these 56 years we have kept in contact. . . . [The friendship of this] lovable, grumpy, pessimistic, narcissistic, literary character whom I greatly admire has enriched my life immeasurably.
With much love from one 80-year-old to another.
Sue joins me in very warm wishes.
Carl Zimet
Kim Honig
March 23, 2010
A Memory of Harold for his 80th Birthday
I remember Harold being an avid gardener, and he was so proud of his Japanese rock garden that fleshed out a small slope next to your new Colonial home on Hickory Drive in Doylestown.
Your Dad is certainly a unique person with a great sense of humor and fantastic intellect!
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Peggy Barlow
March 23, 2010
Harold: Standing Above the Rest
80th Birthday Tribute
July 2005
Being surrounded by Fines had a way of making you feel short.
Before I met Harold and Elsa in Knoxville in the early 1970s, I thought I was tall. But walking with the Fines was a belittling experience. Even Amy and Erika, both in high school, were taller than I! But it was fun to be in the midst of challenging conversations about art and books, and especially Harold’s favorite topic: Politics! Not to mention the exalted tales of his wild youth. Good stories well told, and great insights drawn from his immense intellect and concern for the well-being of those fortunate to be in his circle of family and friends.
Albert Honig
March 23, 2010
Tribute to Harold Fine on his Eightieth Birthday
July 15, 2005
I was introduced to Harold through my sister Elsa in the steamy summer of 1951. On the night of August 8th, the four of us, Elsa, Harold, my wife Sylvia and myself, wandered in to the Vernier Building and camped under the brass soda machine to mix our individual drinks of ginger ale. Later that night our first daughter, Karin, was born.
When Harold took a job in Bridgeport, Connecticut, we frequently visited. Daughters Erika and Amy were born there.
Showing great flexibility and an adventurous spirit, the family moved to Doylestown, and so began the Honig-Fine Mental Health Clinic.
I wondered what kind of partner I had when Harold, on his first day of work, on his first hospital consultation, ended the day in a hospital bed next to the patient he went to interview.
These events by themselves make excellent copy, but I have chosen something more profound to bring to light. And that is how Harold saved my life.
Both Harold and I were well established as chairmen of psychiatry and psychology at a small general hospital in Bristol, Pennsylvania.
A patient I had seen on consultation after an attempted suicide was driving to Doylestown for his first follow-through appointment. He was the president of a local bank. His wife called ahead and told the receptionist that she feared him. She said he had been acting strange.
Upon arrival, the patient was ushered upstairs. Harold’s office was directly below mine in this 18th century house, and the original pine floor boards were worn thin.
The banker sat across from me, so close that I heard him say, “I have to kill you.”
Now with a patient like this, it’s best to talk him down. I wasn’t afraid, thinking he was joking. He lunged toward me, grabbing my tie, and tightening the tie until I couldn’t breathe. I finally realized he had cut off my carotid arteries, and I became lightheaded. My chair hit the floor with the banker on top of me.
The next thing I remember was Harold and his patient, a physician, pulling this guy off me.
The three of us held him down, wrapped him in a straight jacket and ankle cuffs, called 911, and he was ambulanced to Norristown State Hospital.
So, it is because of Harold that I am here today.
Josh Williams
March 23, 2010
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Dear Erika and Amy,
I was very touched to hear from each of you and to hear about your struggles with the loss of your dad.
. . . .
As you know, many teachers and professors see their students only in passing and must act on faith that they are actually contributing to a greater end. They often don’t get to see a “finished product.” So by way of passing forward and looking back I am delighted to share some memories of your dad.
. . . .
I came to psychology in a circuitous path that in a small way mirrored that of Harold’s. I was in the throes of graduate studies in English Lit at Columbia University when it occurred to me that I liked what my psychoanalyst was doing far more than what I was into. That was the start of my journey as a psychologist. By way of exploring the possibility of entering the field I traveled to several universities to “test the waters” and promote myself. I happened to know a number of analysts in New York and several mentioned that I should consider Tennessee. They said there was this guy there named Harold Fine and that he had created one of the top ten programs in the country.
I visited Duke, UNC, Vanderbilt and UT. Of the distinguished faculty that I met, your dad was by far the most obviously bemused and intrigued by the possibility of my jumping ship at Columbia and studying to become a clinical psychologist. Ultimately I believe that your dad was responsible for my acceptance at UT.
. . . .
Harold the Yenta
Prior to my move to Knoxville I was the Program Director for the NY Society of Clinical Psychologists. While in the middle of their annual convention I received a phone call from Dr. Fine. He said: “Williams, you’re in. You get a Veteran’s Administration fellowship but I have to know right now, yes or no. Are you coming?” Thinking that a bird in the hand was worth something I naturally accepted. At one of my first meetings with Harold he said: “This summer you’re going to Hampton, Virginia to work at the VA there. You’ll spend the summer at the beach. Thompson is going too. You should call her. UT students always live together on these VA placements.” I had never met or heard of Laurie Kay Thompson. She was a year ahead of me in the program. Armed with Harold’s edict I dutifully phoned Laurie Kay Thompson and asked if she wanted to live with me. She wisely suggested that we might want to have lunch first.
Laurie and I agreed to live with one another in Hampton, Virginia – but with the stipulation that there was to be no hanky panky or romance. We were going to be all business. As fate would have it (or by Harold’s design) we were deeply involved by the end of the summer. When we returned to campus Harold seemed exultant when he learned of our relationship. Subsequently each time Laurie said something clever or witty in class he would yell at her: “Ha! Thompson, you’re Jewish by injection!”
I don’t know if your dad had a grand scheme in mind when he sent the two of us to the back reaches of Virginia’s Tidewater region. Laurie and I have now been married for over 25 years. We have three kids, three dogs and flourishing psychology practices in Knoxville. At some level, Harold deserves credit for starting our family and careers.
On the Beach
One evening my dad phoned me from his home on the Upper West Side. He had just returned from holiday in Puerto Rico.
“Who the hell is Harold Fine?” he demanded.
“One of my professors,” I replied.
“Well, what kind of nut is he?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Well, I’m sitting on the beach in Puerto Rico and this lunatic walks up to me in a 3-piece suit… on the beach with his pants rolled up and his shoes in his hands. He starts talking to me and tells me that he’s from Knoxville, TN. Well, push comes to shove and he says he knows you. What the hell was he doing walking on the beach in a 3-piece suit?”
The next time I see Harold he says: “Hey Williams, I met your dad on the beach.”
. . . .
I was very sorry to hear that Harold had died. Despite the distances of geography and time he had remained a comforting constant in many people’s lives. I will always think of him and hold him in my heart. Please know too that with all of his eccentricities, his theater, his jibes and jests, he also has left a commanding legacy of several generations of highly trained psychologists working to enrich and improve countless lives.
All the best,
Joshua Williams
July 15, 2009
Since writing to you I recalled another Harold vignette that speaks to his generosity of spirit.
In 1989 Laurie and I purchased a wonderful rambling wreck of a 1925 home from Lydia Pulsipher in Sequoyah Hills. I'm not sure what possessed us to rent and watch Tom Hanks and Shelley Long in The Money Pit... it was much too close for comfort and we didn't know whether to laugh or cry. There came a knock on the door and as I stepped over the collapsing foyer floor I found your dad at the threshold. He said: "It's an old tradition from Eastern Europe. I've brought you some bread, some salt and wine."
He was right. I later learned that it was an old Jewish custom to bring bread, salt and wine to a new home. Frank Capra had even used it in his film "It's a Wonderful Life" when George and Mary Bailey welcome the Martinis into their new home: Mary: Bread... that this house may never know hunger. [Mary hands a loaf of bread to Mrs. Martini] Mary: Salt... that life may always have flavor. [Mary hands a box of salt to Mrs. Martini] George Bailey: And wine... that joy and prosperity may reign forever. [George hands Mr. Martini a bottle of wine]
Neither Laurie nor I had family in the area. On that evening my zayde came to call.
Best wishes,
Brad Collins
March 23, 2010
A Memory of Harold
July 2005
One of my most vivid impressions of Harold is his ability to talk to people from all walks of life. He has an omniscient knowledge of so many areas of interest that he can establish an instant rapport with nearly anyone. I remember a Thanksgiving dinner during which his remarks ranged over a vast spectrum from the inner works of the German Bundesbank, to the 76er’s prospects, to the mechanical specs of the car I had rented, to his latest readings in the New York Review of Books. On another occasion, I recall him carrying on a lengthy discussion with a Detroit cabdriver about every aspect of his neighborhood. . . . His conversations reflected his great curiosity about life and his desire to connect with others.
Joann Crispi
March 22, 2010
February 2009
No man was ever more loved by his daughters than Harold Fine.
Former Patient
March 22, 2010
Harold played a pivotal role in my life, and his sage counsel will be with me always.
March 22, 2010
July 15, 2005
Harold in Knoxville as remembered by Lynne and Steve Walker
Steve and I knew Harold in the 1960's in Tennessee when he came down to join the clinical programme at UT. We were neighbours, as well as colleagues; Amy and Erika babysat and generally entertained our daughter Becky and Elsa and Lynne both were studying art history. Our fondest memories centre on the their house on Sherwood Drive, which featured Harold's little convertible in the driveway. The garden was his pride and joy, and he had a typically distinctive gardening theory--in the South at least--that white flowers were boring, and goyish. Needless to say that since Harold's intervention, there has never been such a colorful--and beautiful--woodland garden south of the Mason-Dixon line. Harold's feeling for color and design carried over into his well-known dress sense which he recommended to Steve: "dress British, think Yiddish". Well, Steve got the first part right at least.
In spite of the garden and the convertible, Harold was not an outdoor person. Mainly, we found him in the living room in his favorite chair holding forth on the subject of the day with his inimical brand of astute analysis and sceptical humor. For a Southern girl teetering on the brink of political consciousness, it was an education--and a delight. Although Elsa packed Harold's lunches and kept him looking crisp and trim, Harold was not a complete loss domestically. In fact, he was a surprisingly accomplished cook and Steve still remembers some wonderful scallops that Harold served up one evening in Sherwood Drive.
It is not easy to sum up our memories of Harold or Harold as a person. He certainly does not have an amateur mind. He is relentlessly intellectually active and engaged as everyone on his email list will know. Above all, he is a strong and loving person, for whom passion is never far away. In a word, he is a mensch.
Happy 80th birthday, Harold.
We love you.
Lynne and Steve
Stuart Fine
March 22, 2010
July 14, 2005
To: Uncle Harold
Happy Birthday.
About 40 years ago, I had the pleasure of visiting you and your family when you lived in Doylestown. It was a hot summer week in July. Anyway, I had just started my architectural career. While in Doylestown, you took me to see the sites, especially Mercer Tile sites. One of the buildings we toured was the Fonthill Museum, the original home of Henry Mercer. It is considered the first poured-in-place concrete house in the U.S. It was great inspecting each room.
The highlight of the trip was to travel to Elkins, PA, about an hour from Doylestown, to see Beth Shalom Synagogue. This synagogue was designed by the world famous architect, Frank Lloyd Wright. The sanctuary was unbelievable. The whole roof is a skylight. It was an experience that may have helped me in doing all the religious work that I am doing today, from synagogue renovations to mikvahs.
Good luck on your EIGHTIETH and many more to come.
Your loving nephew.
Eric Honig
March 22, 2010
July 11, 2005
My most ironic memory of Harold was when I was a child. It was his baldness. I didn't know what to make of it as a kid, because everyone else's dad or uncle had hair on his head. As a comic book reader, I imagined him as sort of a Lex Luthor-type (Superman's arch enemy), who was bald, brilliant, a megalomaniac, but with a human side. Although Harold never actually revealed his villainous side to me, the thought was there. Now that I've joined the ranks of those who have totally shorn their locks, I now realize that there is nothing ominous about a bald man. In fact, bald is beautiful!
Scott Wetzler
March 21, 2010
February 27, 2009
I was very sorry to learn about your Dad's passing. I know he had been sick for quite some time. I first met your father when I was in graduate school. We had dinner with a few other people while at a conference. He was talking about the psychology of humor and being very funny in doing so. I later met him again through you. By that time, he had left Tennessee.
In the parochial world of Southern psychology, your father was revered and very well known. I even had a fellow psychology intern at NY Hospital that had been his graduate student at Tennessee. Unfortunately, it seemed to me that many Southern psychologists of his era never received the national reputation that they deserved. But you should know that he was a highly respected, sought after mentor and professor, who made an impact on a generation of psychologists throughout the South.
Thinking of you.
xo
Harold J. Fine, 1980s
March 20, 2010
mardee brown
March 16, 2009
Dear Erika and Amy--
My deepest condolences. Though I didn't know your father directly, I felt like he was very alive to me through both of you. I can only imagine the terrible loss of your dad who was also an incredible person. Love, mardee
Carl Zimet
March 10, 2009
TO A DEAR FRIEND – HAROLD FINE
By Carl Zimet
A long time we have known each other
60 years, longer than most marriages
So very hard to say good byes
No solace in your closed eyes
Your mind so sharp and wise
The night is long, the sun will not rise
A very heavy heart when I heard the news
A good friend is so hard to loose
We have argued and fought over the years
Yet your death brings nothing but tears
We have published a dozen papers
Fine and Zimet and Zimet and Fine and all that matters a lot
And yet it matters very little.
Yours was such an a rich and intense life
A mind that knew no bounds
There is not another to duplicate your being --
Your intellect, your passion, your warmth and your quirkiness
What a loss to me, to your family and the many friends.
February 28, 2009
We will miss the wonderful communication by e-mail and friendship.
Joyce and Harold Diftler
Amy Fine Collins
February 26, 2009
Red Bird February 23, 2009
I saw a bird
go in the
bush-
red tail
red wings-
and disappear.
And though I
was talking to
dear Boy Gene
It was Daddy,
saying
"I am here."
Al Wiberley
February 25, 2009
A Memoir for Deafened Ears
by Al Wiberley
February 21, 2009
I grieve because you will miss this Spring’s flowers you loved so well.
Nor hear again the upbeat jazz that gave you such joy.
And I grieve because I know that my day too will someday come.
For now the irascible rants when your frustrated desires prevailed, or somewhere justice had failed, echo in my head.
Then soon give way to your stronger voice, sincere with warmth, caring and acceptance.
Though at times a bit muted with feigned indifference?
Like Piaget’s child who pretends he can’t see you so thinks you can’t see him.
I know you knew what I knew: No tough guy, really.
And you understood me as well.
Disguises unmasked – together we could smile at each other safely, affectionately.
Exchanging our common and disparate opinions.
Should I ask your permission to dance an Irish jig in your honor?
As an acknowledgement of your Jewish-Irish blarney?
I see you smile and I hear your answer.
Mazel tov, beloved friend.
Ed Levin
February 25, 2009
FOR HAROLD FINE
by Ed Levin
February 20, 2009
Good-bye dear friend, good-bye. . .
Few are ever called upon to bear such burdens…
Year after year, after year…
Good-bye dear friend, good-bye. . .
Some so tested are spared the knowledge…
Their senses dulled beyond pain or tears. . .
But that was not to be your fate…
Bereft of strength but not of mind…
You knew your dreams and owned your fears. . .
Good-bye dear friend, good-bye at last. . .
Freed from the bonds that held you fast. . .
Your sad wish fulfilled. . .
Good-bye dear friend, good-bye!
Raymond Guenter
February 25, 2009
The Flight
By Raymond Guenter
February 24, 2009
If you asked him if there were a heaven or some other such place
he would likely answer bah humbug, not likely and no
and anyway there’s no way to get there so how could it be so.
But just as the coffin was lowered and we all said goodbye
a red-tailed hawk came from nowhere wheeling across the sky
decked in feathery finery and screaming profanity too
Can a truth held in life ever so strongly
be proved by death and a bird to be held so wrongly
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