Hello folks. Thanks for coming. I'm Jerry's son, Brian. 
A good speech won't apologize before it begins, but this speech isn't particularly good. To tell the truth, it only has to be good enough for dad and for me. I can't think of any speech that would be enough to honor my dad, but I take comfort in knowing that he'd be okay with me failing miserably - it's okay - because he would understand. 
I won't waste words telling you what a special man he was; each of you have memories of him that have already convinced you of this, and better men than I can speak of his accomplishments, his spirituality, and celebrate what kind of MAN he was to others. 
I want to tell you what it was like having Jerry as my DAD. 
I remember:
Jumping up and down on one of those little trampolines that only an orthopedic surgeon could love in a sugar-fueled frenzy listening to the beat of a Beach boys song my father had placed on an LP 45 in the other room...
I remember spilling a full cup of root beer on the floorboards of the family car he had recently purchased and instead of getting angry pulling over at the next highway stop to clean up and buy me another soda...
I remember him patiently teaching me to hit a baseball, telling me to "choke up" and rolling his eyes when I responded to that instruction with .. *cough cough* 
I remember him taking me to an anticipated weekend at a campground near the SMUD nuclear cooling towers; dad constantly weighing the frenzied fun I was having at our celebratory bonfire against the risk of explaining third degree burns to my mother...
I remember him teaching me to fish with a freshly purchased fishing pole, and smiling while gamely throwing our success back into the lake when I felt the desperate gaping of trout gills might mean our catch was suffering. Neither of us ever tried that again.
My Dad taught me by example to: 
Combat life's indignities with a gentle sense of humor and self-deprecating determination.
That simply listening without judgement diffuses most difficult situations in life, 
...AND that really listening to a person is a precious gift in itself,
... AND that this is a much rarer thing than it should be.
My dad gave me:
A gentle sense of humor that took the sting out of life's darker moments. 
... a love of words, Shakespeare, terrible dad jokes, chocolate, and peanut butter with waffles.
A relentless optimism... and a simple determination to enjoy the next happy moment, which was  surely just around the corner. He'd hum zippity do dah while he waited for that prayer... that expectation.. to come to pass. 
...
It struck me that my dad didn't really have many hobbies. Sure, he collected coins, loved to travel, and even, disastrously, tried his hand at a few home improvement projects. But the more I thought about it the more I realized why - he doesn't have hobbies because his hobbies are all of us. His interest was US.   He wanted to know how you've been how you've dealt the personal problem you shared with him last week, how your family is doing, and would gently offer his help making your way in life. 
He spent his life helping others realize how to become the best versions of themselves.
 He tried to do so with me, but he clearly never finished. 
...
I cry less for him - he doesn't need our tears - but I mourn for all of us who are denied his presence.
There's is no point at which my need for my father's wisdom, concern, protection, and love could ever conceivably come to an end, I'm left, still as his child, bereft of his guidance, charged with providing my own child with the same impossible benevolence given me. I'm both infinitely grateful because of him and impossibly bankrupt without him. 
Good bye dad, I love you, thank you for raising me. I'll honor you with my promise to be the best father I can be to your grandchildren.