Burt's Eye View: Bittersweet

By Burt Ross · Sun Aug 16 2026

I just returned from the Adirondacks in upstate New York, where family and friends gathered to celebrate the life of my brother Phil, who died on Feb. 2. It was a bittersweet occasion.

It was bitter in the sense that when I left to return home, I knew that I would probably never see most of Phil’s friends again, nor the lakeside house he called home for the past 25 years, which is currently under contract to be sold. I sadly left behind Phil’s ashes, but will always carry and cherish a lifetime of memories with him, including in the place he loved most.

It was sweet in the sense that we who loved him were able to come together to share stories about a bigger-than-lifeperson. I took great comfort in having my children and grandchildren by my side. Babies Henry and Frankie were able to make me smile in spite of the heavy loss. And I consider myself blessed to have had my big brother for almost 83 years.

I delivered the eulogy for Phil, and below are a few edited excerpts from what I said. Sections regarding other family members and friends have been omitted for reasons of privacy.

Excerpts from Eulogy for Phil 

When my parents brought me home from the hospital, my brother Phil, then 3 years and 9 months old, was amused with his baby brother for just a few hours, and then asked my folks when they were going to bring me back to where I came from.

Until Phil passed on February 2, he was the only person to be a part of my life for all of my years on Earth.  We took fishing trips together, we toured the country promoting his book, he ran my campaign for mayor—he was always an integral part of my life. For the past many years, we spoke virtually every day until he left us.

When I was a toddler, I had trouble pronouncing Philip, and out came “ipip,” and so those of you who ever emailed Phil now know why his email address started with “ipip.”

I always needed to follow my big brother, and so after he went to George School, I too yearned to go there. And after Phil served as editor of the George School News, I too became its editor four years later. We both learned from Miss Robinson, our beloved high school English and journalism teacher, that there are no degrees of uniqueness, that we are all equally unique, but I must respectfully disagree with her.  Phil Ross was most unique.

Phil was a force of nature. Nothing seemed to stop him. In his later years, he could barely walk, he had difficulty breathing, and he was practically blind, and yet, unlike his younger brother, he never complained. His personality and love of life remained strong until his heart finally gave out. Despite his many health issues, he continued to see patients until the end of his life. He meant a great deal to them, and many expressed how heartbroken they were to learn of Phil’s death.

Some of you might not know that after graduating from Princeton, Phil went to Columbia School of Journalism and became a reporter for Newsday. He wrote three cover stories for New York Magazine. But helping people as a therapist was his true calling.

Phil spent his formative years in suburbia, and much of his adult years in New York City, but it was when he moved to the Adirondacks that he finally felt at home and was never happier. He was at peace here with his loved ones and his animals. He almost always had a dog in his life.  And let us not forget the annual naming of his new crop of chickens and one year’s winner, “Attila the Hen.”

Phil could not be without animals. I wish I had a dollar for every dead tropical fish that was flushed down the toilet when Phil and I were growing up. One summer Phil rented a house in Connecticut and Phil felt the need, no, the compulsion, to rent a goat for the season. He called the goat Mr. Peepers, and one day Phil and the family went out for a few hours, and he unfortunately left the living room window open. Mr. Peepers did not hesitate to enter the house, where he helped himself to a meal of the living room couch.

In recent years, there was nothing Phil enjoyed more than hosting his annual party right here, and so it is fitting that we celebrate his life here and that his ashes have been spread nearby.

It is impossible to think of Phil without commenting on his fabulous sense of humor and his unique gift for telling a story where you, the listener, never knew where it was going until the surprise ending. I know Phil would love to regale you now with a story, but I will try to do the next best thing:

Back in the late 1960’s and early 70s, Phil looked a lot like Alan Arkin, a movie star of the time. One day Phil was eating in a diner, and he noticed that the waitress was staring at him. Soon the workers in the kitchen were looking at him through the kitchen door. Finally the waitress approached Phil and said, “Are you Alan Arkin?” Before she could say another word, Phil happily proclaimed, “Yes, I am.”

At the end of the meal, the waitress and several of the kitchen staff came to Phil’s table and asked him if he would be kind enough to sign an autograph. Phil magnanimously agreed and signed away.

He left the diner feeling very good about himself, and after driving for ten minutes or so, he slammed on the brakes. “Oh my God,” he said out loud. “I can’t believe what I did. I signed the autograph, “With warm regards, Alan ALDA.”

My brother might not have gotten his Alans right, but he sure knew how to tell a story. Rest in peace, dear Brother.