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FUNERAL DETAILS
Dr. Elliot Juni
Dr. Elliot Juni, 94, of Southfield, died after sunset on 19 January 2016. The Memorial Service was held at Beth Israel Congregation of Ann Arbor on Thursday, 21 January 2016 at 2:30 PM . Rabbi Robert Dobrusin officiated. Click  to watch a video of the recorded service.Elliot Juni, PhD, a long-time resident of Ann Arbor, MI passed away surrounded by his family. Dr. Juni grew up in Brooklyn, New York. He served in the U.S. Navy during WWII. He received his Bachelor's of Electrical Engineering in 1944 from the College of the City of New York and his Ph.D. in Microbiology in 1951 from Western Reserve University. He was a professor of Microbiology at Western Reserve, University of Illinois, Emory University, and finally the University of Michigan Medical School where he was an active faculty member until 1997. As Professor Emeritus he continued to supervise a microbiology lab course until 2013. Dr. Juni valued education above all else and imparted that belief to his children and grandchildren. Dr. Juni was dedicated to both teaching and his research in microbial genetics and metabolism. Dr. Juni was honored for his research by having a microorganism named for him: Acinetobacter junii. Dr. Juni is survived by his sweetheart of more than 71 years, Rachel Juni, and loving children Jack (Rochelle) Juni, MD, and Susannah Juni. He was cherished by his grandchildren Eva Juni and Elyssa (Lucas) Vanderlinden. Dr. Juni was preceded in death by his brother Sol and sister-in-law Sarah Juni. Dr. Juni will always be remembered for his many contributions to scientific knowledge, his intelligence, kindness, sense of humor and mastery of puns. On Thursday, January 21, the family will gather for shiva immediately following services at the home of Sam and Marilyn Krimm, 410 Brookside, Ann Arbor MI 48105. The phone number is: 734-663-1978. Religious services will be held at 5:30 p.m. On Sunday, January 24, the family will gather for shiva beginning at 2:00 p.m. at the home of Dr. Jack and Rochelle Juni, 25595 York Rd, Royal Oak MI 48067. The phone number is: 248-752-2191. Religious services will be held at 7:00 p.m. When I think of my father, I see a smile A eulogy for Elliot Juni, PhD (1921-2015) By Jack Edward Juni When I think of my father, I see a smile. A wide, impish gin that seemed to spread literally from one ear to the other. An early photograph of Pop with his brother Sol - both of them in knickers - shows Sol, perhaps all of 12, trying to look like a serious adult. My father, 9 or 10 years old, already had his characteristic gleeful grin, looking like the cat that ate the canary, as if he knew something hilarious that nobody else knew. I'd just bet he was making some hand gesture behind Sol's back. I remember the broad smile he would get when he taught Susannah or me something knew - be it flying a kite, how to build a radio from a pile of parts and a soldering iron, or his latest research insights into the complex mysteries of what keeps cells alive and how they handle DNA. During the telling, he would often furrow his brow with concentration, as he made sure his explanation was just right. Then, he would spread before us all the relevant information, from initial precept to each subsequent step. When each lovely clue had been laid out, when he had put each little jewel of fact in our hands, he would look up with a smile of pure joy waiting a moment to watch our faces as comprehension dawned. Then, like a master magician, he would pull the cape from over the hat, revealing the marvelous, previously unexpected - but now clearly inevitable - bundle of information, logic and pure beauty of a the new idea. No one could help but smile themselves at the wonder, the inescapable but astounding logic, of the marvel he had just revealed. No one could forget his happiness and mischievous grin as he "let us in" on the secret. No one could forget the unabashed joy - in ideas, in knowledge, in understanding - reflected in the glowing smile that would fill his face when he taught us something new. And teach us, he did. Every day. When I think of my father, I think of a teacher. A professor who knew he was in possession of wondrous and important knowledge. A professor who was thrilled by the opportunity to share that knowledge with an eager student. I was blessed by the opportunity to be a student in his Introductory Microbiology course at the medical school. He taught many, more sophisticated courses, in the biochemistry of life and in the workings of DNA. Every course, though, got 100% of his effort and energy. Make that 110%. Many of my professors, came into class unprepared, drifting from one topic to the next as prompted by projected slides. I don't remember my father ever using either slides or notes. He came into class ready for business. Chalk, a blackboard and eager minds were the only tools he needed. There were wonders to be understood, magic to be learned. Minds to be opened -cracked open, if need be - but opened. When my father gave a lecture, you had better be ready to listen. Knowledge, experiments, thoughts and ideas poured forth in a carefully thought out, finely directed torrent of wonders. He would detail experimental results, point out inconsistencies and propose hypotheses. Then, suddenly, he would stop, somehow simultaneously face every person in the class, and ask, "Well??? What does that mean?" Then, he would wait. Watching each face. Watching us scramble to grasp meaning from the clues he had strewn before us. Pity the student who merely paraphrased back the information just presented. "Yes, but what does it MEAN?" he would ask again. In those moments, he seemed merciless to some. Why wouldn't he just tell us the answer like all our other professors did? He didn't want us to know the material. He wanted us to understand it - something totally different. He wanted each of us to be the scientist, looking at a petri dish with incomprehensible findings. And he wanted us to solve those problems. He wanted each and every one of us to go through the pain, then to experience the pure joy of dawning comprehension. Of understanding. Minutes might tick by - sometimes they felt like hours. Eventually, someone would tentatively offer a partial hypothesis. "Yes!!" he would almost shout, "Yes!! And what does that tell us? What does that mean?" And gradually, step by (sometimes) agonizing step, he would walk with us as we worked out the real meaning of the experiments at hand. He did not lead us. He walked alongside us, urging us forward, helping us back if we got too far from the trail, but giving us the chance to see our own errors first. Sometimes, we disappointed him. Some days, we left the lecture hall sad that we had not lived up to his expectations. Those few days, though, were more than made up for by the pleasure he took is watching comprehension slowly dawn among us. As each of us, one by one, pieced together the clues in our own minds and finally "got it", the glow in Pop's face would grow. Eventually, that smile would grow so wide that we could not help but smile ourselves. When we left the lecture hall on those days, we felt proud. We knew that we, too, could probe nature and decipher her answers. On those days, we each felt that we could (and would) win a Nobel prize. We had pleased Professor Juni!! We could do anything! On those days, I wasn't the only one who felt like a child whose father had proudly pronounced them grown-up. No other professor expected so much from us. No other professor gave so much back. No other professor was proud of us. Once, my father was so proud of a class (not mine, unfortunately) that he gave every single student an A for the course. He was apparently called before the Dean and told that this was not permissible. The grades had to span a range, to follow a curve. Some could get A's, but others must get F's. My father was outraged. Every student had worked hard. Every one had learned the material. They had all "got it". They all deserved A's. Every one. He wouldn't back down. He expected respect from his students and he gave respect to them. In the end, every one of that brilliant class got the A they deserved. My father did not back down. Not when it came to defending his students. Not when it came to his family. When I think of my father, I think of a proud family man. A man who hoisted his kids on his shoulders. A man who took enormous pride in his beautiful wife. Who never missed an opportunity to tell people that he had never eaten at a restaurant that could hold a candle to Rachel's cooking. A man whose intense love and pride when watching Susannah dance must have lit the stage. A man who never needed to tell his children that they could do anything. It was taken for granted. And we knew it. When the school system would let girls take Home Economics but not Electronics, he was outraged. He went to the City Council and wouldn't stop his protests until the class was open to all. There was simply no way he was going to let his children be deprived of knowledge. Knowledge and education were so important to Elliot and Rachel that they paid all school expenses for their kids, letting them begin careers free of debt. They made sure that their kids knew that this is what parents do - they educate their kids. It was a given that this will be the way it is done for all subsequent generations in our family. As it has and will be. When I think of my father, I think of an artist, a dancer. My father always told me that good science and Fine Art are indistinguishable. He meant it; not just metaphorically, but literally. His research was a continuous stream of masterpieces. Brilliantly creative, innovative, insightful and uniquely personal. Art, in all meanings of the word. His colleagues honored his creativity in many ways, among them, the very rare honor of naming a bacterial species after him - acinetobacter junii. Although my mother always loved dancing, she confided in me recently that most of her attempts to give him dance lessons ended up in smooching, At age 40 or so, she somehow got him to attend an introductory dance at a square dance club. To no one's surprise more than his own, Elliot - and Rachel - became ardent dancers. By the time they were in their mid-eighties they went out dancing 3-4 nights every single week. Astounding. When I think of my father, I think of so many things - Scientist, Teacher, Artist, Dancer, Family man, a Grandmaster of Puns. A genuine renaissance man. We are so very sad to see him go and will miss him terribly. Although he was always an agnostic about things religious, I know that if he finds there is indeed a world beyond this one, he will accept the data at hand and begin researching what he finds. "Denial," he would surely say, "is just a river in Egypt". January 21, 2016 Jack Edward Juni, MD It is suggested that those who wish to further honor the memory of Dr. Elliot Juni may do so by making a contribution to: University of Michigan - Dr. Elliot Juni Research FundClick to Visit Charity Website |