David Auerbach

May 19, 1958 in Washington DC and grew up in Maryland. He graduated from University of Maryland

with bachelor degrees in Electrical Engineering and Architecture. In addition to a long career as an

electrical engineer first in the Boston area and then 30 years in Southern California, he was also an

accomplished artist, dabbling in all mediums and subject matters. He’s survived by his wife, Becky, his

two daughters, Lauren and Erin and three siblings Ellen, Jan, and Jon.

It was a hard fight, one where symptoms went unchecked and when diagnosed knew it was going to be

a long road ahead. But Dave knew how to stand up for himself. When you’re born the youngest, you

stay the youngest, and with three siblings, Dave’s work was cut out for him. He was equal to the task. As

a boy, he laughed at everything. Even laughed his way right into the hospital once.

It was your classic Oops-I-Ate-A-Bunch-Of-Pennies situation. We’ve all been there. In truth, it wasn’t

really Dave’s fault. The pennies belonged to Dave’s brother, Jon, and through a series of dares, those

pennies wound up in Dave’s mouth, because of course they did. Next thing you know, Dave is jumping

on the bed with three coins on his tongue, laughing with his brother. At the doctor’s office, a man in a

white coat tells Dave he’ll need to swallow two more then check for a nickel. Dave didn’t laugh at that.

He just nodded like it was the most sensible thing he’d ever heard.

What was true then stayed true forever: you wanted to make Dave laugh just for the sound of it. Higher

pitched than when he’d speak, it would fill up the room, pouring into your chest until you couldn’t help

but add your own. He laughed more selectively when he got older. More mature, maybe. Still upset

about the lost nickel, probably. Laughter or not, you were just glad to be there.

His wife Becky would tell you as much. Married for thirty-five years, they saw each other through every

stumble and savored every bit of good, and there was a lot of good. And for some time, this family of

four made one amazing life together in Irvine, California – five, if you count the white Schnauzer,

Phoenix that Dave permitted Lauren to get following a winning Irish dance competition in - you got it -

Phoenix, despite not loving dogs.

Dave was a hands on Daddy, mastering bath time, walking the kids to school, homework, developing

their hobbies, and making dinner. He relished in these activities and honed his skills as "Mr. Mom"

during a brief layoff when Erin was born. Hard core rules about eating dinner together and practice

schedules for Lauren's Irish dancing and Erin's piano were respected. The girls grew up and moved out.

Tragedy struck, when Erin went to go live in a haunted wasteland called Laramie, Wyoming, but Dave

was happy. He and Becky taught the girls to figure out what they loved and to just "do what you do

best". And that’s just what they did.

That’s as hard as it sounds, but it’s worth the effort. For decades, Dave worked as an electrical engineer

and project manager for companies all over California. He led teams and projects, sometimes working in

positions that were created specifically for him to do what he did best: lead and masterfully execute. His

colleagues say they’ll miss the support he showed as a manager and how uplifting it was just to be

around him. Intelligent, kind and helpful. But most of all, they’ll miss his witty, dry sense of humor. His

laugh.

More interestingly, he also spoke with a Scottish accent upon having a wee bit too much to drink. But

we'll get to that.

With family, he spent many summers in Scotland - er Rehoboth Beach, Delaware. Now it could be that

you ran into Dave once and never knew it. You might have seen him on a Saturday night limping near

the boardwalk in Rehoboth. That might not sound funny at all, but you see there was nothing wrong

with Dave’s legs – he ran dozens of miles a week. But if you’re having good drinks with good people,

sometimes you needed a strategy. And “no one can tell you’re stumbling if you’ve got a limp.”

He said that in plain English, which meant that it must have been early in the evening. As you limped

around town with Dave in the warm summer air, a discerning ear might have detected the subtlest

change in his voice WHAUR HE JUIST SORT O' STAIRTED TALKING LIK' THIS, WEE LADDIE. Dave had never been to Scotland. Never even mentioned the place in any other context. That afternoon he’d been saying something about laser diodes that you only pretended to understand. But right then, as he

shouted at you next to the ice cream shop, you were finally on the same wavelength. Dave was right:

whin ye talk lik' this, ye'r nae slurring yer wurds, ye dummy. Ye'r fae th' rolling hills o' scootlund. The

accent also went really well with the limp.

The cancer diagnosis and treatments hit hard. Suddenly, there was a siege. New doctors, therapy

cocktails, tests, appointments and diets. Everything was harder. Dave’s calendar was filled in with events

he had not chosen and decisions no one should have to make. Consuming and demanding things that

changed everything except the one thing they couldn’t touch. Dave.

If he felt the weight of it all, it was hard to tell. And if you thought that anything could make Dave limp in

a meaningful way, then you never met him. In the center of the maelstrom, Dave and Becky packed up

their house and moved from Irvine to Upland, California. Living just down the street from his oldest

daughter, Lauren and her husband Jonathan, Dave could finally skim off their dinner plates again with

relative ease. Erin’s too, each time she came to visit. No kid gloves for the youngest; at least she had

never eaten pocket change. Really, no one was safe. Unless your plate was fortified with lima beans,

beets and brussels sprouts, Dave would saunter by with a Scottish song in his heart and graze like a rude

gazelle from every dish on the table.

He still laughed with his big brother and two sisters. Nothing was different but the world. It had moved

for Dave.

When he passed away on the afternoon of February 21 at home, he was surrounded by family. Among

them, his wife and daughters. And his brother Jon. Others were en route, hurrying to reach him. To see

him just one more time. Hoping to share one last laugh with a great brother. A great uncle. A great

father. A great husband.

A great man.

In lieu of flowers, may we suggest a donation to the American Cancer Society

https://www.cancer.org/involved/donate/memorial-giving.html