Memorial
It started with the Greys, and it ended with the Greys.
We got to Mahopac around 12:30 and were early, so we parked at Colleen and Brian's house. They were home, and although Kelly is still at college, Kayla was home and so was Mary. We chatted a bit as the rest of the old Center Drive crew started to come outside. Frank and Theresa Cunningham (and Margaret!), Helen Hracs, Barbara and Mike Gallichio. Peg and Jim Kennedy drove over from Orchard Road. My aunt arrived, as well as Lauren and Tim (who now own a house in Secor, which they will live in together after the wedding next weekend). Pleasant surprise: Sissy Lorenzini came, too. That made me happy. We walked down from near the old house to the community beach; Colleen had gotten the gate keys and permission for us to be there.
I hadn't written anything. Every time I tried, the only things that came out were trite and cliched, the kind of things every Eulogist says. So I figured the words would probably come when it was time. When I said I hadn't written anything and didn't have the words, Barbara said, "You, the writer, speechless? Wow." It wasn't at all judgemental, just a statement.
So I started out by saying that I hadn't written anything, and then told the story of Mom calling us into her bedroom 24 hours before she died and saying "I know it'll be soon, and I want you all to know that I love you." And then I said that I believe she was talking to more than just the 8 of us in that room with her -- I believe she was speaking to the people who were not there as well, and that included all of the neighbors in Mahopac. It very nearly killed my mother's spirit to move away from Mahopac back in '96, and she missed these people every moment she was away, even if she was out of touch for months at a time. (In fact, I do believe moving out of Lake Secor/Mahopac was far more upsetting to my mother than moving out of Astoria, where she'd grown up and spent early adulthood.)
Then I opened it up to stories. My Aunt shared my mother's last practical joke -- the last gasp of air that she took just as my uncle was reaching to put a hand on her chest to see if she was still breathing. Barbara and Theresa talked about the classic New Years Eve parties at our house over the years. Colleen and Peggy joked about how dark my mother's tan got every summer (that great Italian blood). Dad shared a funny story from our time in Roanoke about my mother being mistaken for the mother of one of our neighbors, who happened to be African-American.
Then it was time to scatter Mom's ashes. Lorraine and I decided to let anyone who wanted to take a handful help us. Most of the people there couldn't bring themselves to do it, but Barbara and Colleen and Brian all stepped up to help me, my sister and my aunt scatter Mom into the lake she loved so much, the lake she spent every summer as the "gate-guard" at from 9am to 5pm pretty much 6, if not 7, days a week. As we were thinking our private thoughts and saying "goodbye" and "you're home now," I turned and saw Margaret Cunningham crying, and that was the moment that broke my heart. Margaret was the girl next door, my cousin's closest friend when they were little. Margaret's older brothers were my friends (and I had a crush on at least one of them over the years), but Margaret was at our house constantly. My mother drove her and my cousin everywhere. When I saw Margaret crying, I glanced up at the sky and said, "See? You ARE missed, by more people than you ever thought."
We all stood around talking for a while on the beach. One by one, people left. I gave Margaret my business card; her mother gave me her brother Kevin's phone number. Finally, it was back down to us, and the Greys. Kinda fitting that it worked out like that.
I got home to emails and messages from people who wanted to be there but couldn't, and a phone call from Kevin that I have to return tomorrow when I'm a bit more coherent than I am right now. In the end, today proved what I've known all along: my mother touched the lives of a lot of people, and she will be remembered and loved and missed.
Madeleine L'Engle says, "To say to someone 'I Love You' is tantamount to saying 'You will live forever.'" Today, a LOT of people said "We love you, Rosemary."
I love you, Mom.
We got to Mahopac around 12:30 and were early, so we parked at Colleen and Brian's house. They were home, and although Kelly is still at college, Kayla was home and so was Mary. We chatted a bit as the rest of the old Center Drive crew started to come outside. Frank and Theresa Cunningham (and Margaret!), Helen Hracs, Barbara and Mike Gallichio. Peg and Jim Kennedy drove over from Orchard Road. My aunt arrived, as well as Lauren and Tim (who now own a house in Secor, which they will live in together after the wedding next weekend). Pleasant surprise: Sissy Lorenzini came, too. That made me happy. We walked down from near the old house to the community beach; Colleen had gotten the gate keys and permission for us to be there.
I hadn't written anything. Every time I tried, the only things that came out were trite and cliched, the kind of things every Eulogist says. So I figured the words would probably come when it was time. When I said I hadn't written anything and didn't have the words, Barbara said, "You, the writer, speechless? Wow." It wasn't at all judgemental, just a statement.
So I started out by saying that I hadn't written anything, and then told the story of Mom calling us into her bedroom 24 hours before she died and saying "I know it'll be soon, and I want you all to know that I love you." And then I said that I believe she was talking to more than just the 8 of us in that room with her -- I believe she was speaking to the people who were not there as well, and that included all of the neighbors in Mahopac. It very nearly killed my mother's spirit to move away from Mahopac back in '96, and she missed these people every moment she was away, even if she was out of touch for months at a time. (In fact, I do believe moving out of Lake Secor/Mahopac was far more upsetting to my mother than moving out of Astoria, where she'd grown up and spent early adulthood.)
Then I opened it up to stories. My Aunt shared my mother's last practical joke -- the last gasp of air that she took just as my uncle was reaching to put a hand on her chest to see if she was still breathing. Barbara and Theresa talked about the classic New Years Eve parties at our house over the years. Colleen and Peggy joked about how dark my mother's tan got every summer (that great Italian blood). Dad shared a funny story from our time in Roanoke about my mother being mistaken for the mother of one of our neighbors, who happened to be African-American.
Then it was time to scatter Mom's ashes. Lorraine and I decided to let anyone who wanted to take a handful help us. Most of the people there couldn't bring themselves to do it, but Barbara and Colleen and Brian all stepped up to help me, my sister and my aunt scatter Mom into the lake she loved so much, the lake she spent every summer as the "gate-guard" at from 9am to 5pm pretty much 6, if not 7, days a week. As we were thinking our private thoughts and saying "goodbye" and "you're home now," I turned and saw Margaret Cunningham crying, and that was the moment that broke my heart. Margaret was the girl next door, my cousin's closest friend when they were little. Margaret's older brothers were my friends (and I had a crush on at least one of them over the years), but Margaret was at our house constantly. My mother drove her and my cousin everywhere. When I saw Margaret crying, I glanced up at the sky and said, "See? You ARE missed, by more people than you ever thought."
We all stood around talking for a while on the beach. One by one, people left. I gave Margaret my business card; her mother gave me her brother Kevin's phone number. Finally, it was back down to us, and the Greys. Kinda fitting that it worked out like that.
I got home to emails and messages from people who wanted to be there but couldn't, and a phone call from Kevin that I have to return tomorrow when I'm a bit more coherent than I am right now. In the end, today proved what I've known all along: my mother touched the lives of a lot of people, and she will be remembered and loved and missed.
Madeleine L'Engle says, "To say to someone 'I Love You' is tantamount to saying 'You will live forever.'" Today, a LOT of people said "We love you, Rosemary."
I love you, Mom.