BRIGHTENING GLANCE
Margaret, my mother, at Lake Osceola, New York. 1938. Cassidy the Wonder Dog poses quietly.
9 May 2014--
Today, a dismal Istanbul Friday, gray, raining, cold, two days before Mother’s Day, and I think of my mother, gone three years. What can one do when there is no longer a mother? I mean, I was born the day before Mothers' Day. And every eleven years or so the days converge. So it will be two days hence.
My mother died three years ago. Of course, I spoke for her at the funeral. But my words were weak and distracted, eulogizing words. It wasn’t how I wanted to say goodbye, not at all. In fact, I had written something entirely different for her back then, an obituary, perhaps, I don’t know. But today, in the middle of my damp, drizzly thinking, my mind again came upon her. And I remembered what I had written about her then and didn’t say aloud. Now I will, below. And in two days Margaret and I will once again have a fleeting convergence of my birthday and Mothers' Day as this world keeps turning. JR
NOTHING BUT MARGARET
Some years ago, at another dreary family burial, my mother stood beside a male cousin of similar age. Sagely nodding at the coffin being lowered he said, “Well, Margaret, I guess that leaves the two of us.” My mother spun on her heel, looked him dead in the eye, her open palm beckoning forward, “Gentlemen first,” she said.
How would my quick-witted mother, who called everyone darling, describe this day, the day of her burial? I’d like to think that she’d say what the great boxing champion Joe Louis said about a fleet-footed opponent: You can run but you can’t hide.
But how she ran! How does one capture in a few minutes a life lived for almost a century? What was the essence of this woman, my mother?
I begin with the “essence” of the front page of the New York Times on the day she was born, 17 July 1918.
“All day long the battle has been raging furiously at many points on the front of the new German offensive, from Château Thierry to the Argonne.”
A grim beginning, indeed.
And now, almost 93 years later, on the day she died, on a Good Friday that hinted of spring in a cold Saratoga Springs, the New York Times headline read:
“New Poll Shows Darkening Mood Across America.”
Such was the violent world she was born into, and we all live in. Such is the darkening world she left.
But that was not my mother’s world. Her world was safe and optimistic, a world of family and friends. It was a comforting social world called a “neighborhood.” Where family members were within walking distance or a short bus ride away. A place where the butcher or grocer might live next door. Things seemed clearer back then, less complicated, more direct.
“Her name is Margaret!” So said her mother, my grandmother, Nell Potter, in July 1918. She was quite clear on the matter. “It’s not Margie or Maggie or Peggy or Peg. My daughter’s name is Margaret!”
My mother told this vignette two weeks ago in response to question from a nurse about what people called her, more familiarly, besides Margaret. When my mother had finished explaining a few things I looked at the nurse’s nametag—it read “Peggy.”
My grandmother didn’t like nicknames for her firstborn daughter. But while her own name was Ellen, everyone called her Nell, and sometimes even Nellie. No one ever called her Ellen. And she never complained about it. I guess if you’re really searching for consistency, don’t look for it in families.
My mother was proud of her name and loved her namesake grandmother. She told me how she would hug her legs, burying her face in her crisply starched white apron. The wonderment of being safe and loved, my mother held such memories, such powerful lifelong yearnings. And she spoke to me of these things. For her the world was young and fresh and smelled like spring and starched white aprons.
My mother could easily have been named Patience or Love or Charity or Hope. That’s what they did in the old days when virtuous names were in fashion. She was easily all of those. She could have been named Steadfast or Courageous or Generous. Margaret could have been named Sunshine, for indeed, as Juliet was Romeo’s sun, so was my mother mine. She lived in the light, despite the world, its heartache, its disease, its sadness, its death. She seemed never shaken.
By her words life seemed like one grand, ironic romance, always with a twist, an O. Henry short story.
How would my quick-witted mother, who called everyone darling, describe this day, the day of her burial? I’d like to think that she’d say what the great boxing champion Joe Louis said about a fleet-footed opponent: You can run but you can’t hide.
But how she ran! How does one capture in a few minutes a life lived for almost a century? What was the essence of this woman, my mother?
I begin with the “essence” of the front page of the New York Times on the day she was born, 17 July 1918.
“All day long the battle has been raging furiously at many points on the front of the new German offensive, from Château Thierry to the Argonne.”
A grim beginning, indeed.
And now, almost 93 years later, on the day she died, on a Good Friday that hinted of spring in a cold Saratoga Springs, the New York Times headline read:
“New Poll Shows Darkening Mood Across America.”
Such was the violent world she was born into, and we all live in. Such is the darkening world she left.
But that was not my mother’s world. Her world was safe and optimistic, a world of family and friends. It was a comforting social world called a “neighborhood.” Where family members were within walking distance or a short bus ride away. A place where the butcher or grocer might live next door. Things seemed clearer back then, less complicated, more direct.
“Her name is Margaret!” So said her mother, my grandmother, Nell Potter, in July 1918. She was quite clear on the matter. “It’s not Margie or Maggie or Peggy or Peg. My daughter’s name is Margaret!”
My mother told this vignette two weeks ago in response to question from a nurse about what people called her, more familiarly, besides Margaret. When my mother had finished explaining a few things I looked at the nurse’s nametag—it read “Peggy.”
My grandmother didn’t like nicknames for her firstborn daughter. But while her own name was Ellen, everyone called her Nell, and sometimes even Nellie. No one ever called her Ellen. And she never complained about it. I guess if you’re really searching for consistency, don’t look for it in families.
My mother was proud of her name and loved her namesake grandmother. She told me how she would hug her legs, burying her face in her crisply starched white apron. The wonderment of being safe and loved, my mother held such memories, such powerful lifelong yearnings. And she spoke to me of these things. For her the world was young and fresh and smelled like spring and starched white aprons.
My mother could easily have been named Patience or Love or Charity or Hope. That’s what they did in the old days when virtuous names were in fashion. She was easily all of those. She could have been named Steadfast or Courageous or Generous. Margaret could have been named Sunshine, for indeed, as Juliet was Romeo’s sun, so was my mother mine. She lived in the light, despite the world, its heartache, its disease, its sadness, its death. She seemed never shaken.
By her words life seemed like one grand, ironic romance, always with a twist, an O. Henry short story.
Margaret. April 24, 1920,
Here’s one:
Headline: Two-year-old girl introduced to future husband by mother.
It was true! She met my father-to-be on a Bronx street corner in 1920. She was two and in a carriage. He was nine, no doubt chucking a baseball into an old mitt. Their mothers—my future grandmothers—were neighbors on Wales Avenue and 149th Street. And then, as is so usual, time passed. Eighteen years later they unwittingly met again, astonished that they had already crossed paths so young. They promptly fell in love, married. And I was born a year after that, in 1940, the day before Mother’s Day. Such an eager child I was, missing a lifelong irony.
Then all hell descended.
She endured her young motherhood beset by childhood illnesses, some common some not. Scarlet Fever and hearing loss. Polio and a limping leg. Allergies. Mumps. Measles. Chicken Pox. Whooping cough, which we brothers so generously gave to our infant sister. Our house raged like a fever hospital in Ireland during the Potato Famine. But I remember my mother’s unfailing good humor and the scent of her perfume when she would lean over my bed to give me ginger ale. She read Treasure Island to me when I was four with the enthusiasm of an auditioning starlet. Pinocchio, too. And she’d tweak my nose when Pinocchio would tell a lie. “You’re not made of wood,” she said to me ever-reassuring, “You’re a real boy.”
Despite my being a real boy, and my equally real brother and sister, she developed an outside career. I don’t remember exactly when it began. Recently, I saw her old resume. There was an entry about her being the business manager of a bowling alley. My mother worked in a bowling alley? It must have been true. But I remain astonished to this moment. Who ever knew that?
Headline: Two-year-old girl introduced to future husband by mother.
It was true! She met my father-to-be on a Bronx street corner in 1920. She was two and in a carriage. He was nine, no doubt chucking a baseball into an old mitt. Their mothers—my future grandmothers—were neighbors on Wales Avenue and 149th Street. And then, as is so usual, time passed. Eighteen years later they unwittingly met again, astonished that they had already crossed paths so young. They promptly fell in love, married. And I was born a year after that, in 1940, the day before Mother’s Day. Such an eager child I was, missing a lifelong irony.
Then all hell descended.
She endured her young motherhood beset by childhood illnesses, some common some not. Scarlet Fever and hearing loss. Polio and a limping leg. Allergies. Mumps. Measles. Chicken Pox. Whooping cough, which we brothers so generously gave to our infant sister. Our house raged like a fever hospital in Ireland during the Potato Famine. But I remember my mother’s unfailing good humor and the scent of her perfume when she would lean over my bed to give me ginger ale. She read Treasure Island to me when I was four with the enthusiasm of an auditioning starlet. Pinocchio, too. And she’d tweak my nose when Pinocchio would tell a lie. “You’re not made of wood,” she said to me ever-reassuring, “You’re a real boy.”
Despite my being a real boy, and my equally real brother and sister, she developed an outside career. I don’t remember exactly when it began. Recently, I saw her old resume. There was an entry about her being the business manager of a bowling alley. My mother worked in a bowling alley? It must have been true. But I remain astonished to this moment. Who ever knew that?
Margaret. Oakland Beach, New Jersey, 1947
My mother loved people. She was drawn irresistibly to that work…interviewing, hiring, supervising. Sometimes firing, I suppose, although I can’t imagine her doing that. She was a creator not a destroyer. Her last position was a 16-year stint as Personnel Director at Phelps Memorial Hospital in Sleepy Hollow. In that magical spirit of Irish generosity or loyalty, some of her friends suddenly began to appear as employees. She even hired a grandchild to work summers pushing a lawnmower around the hospital grounds. She called him a “landscaper,” always lending a dignity to every endeavor, as she did to life.
Need something? Ask Margaret. She was a mover. When I was in high school, she worked on the election board. She met people. She knew people. She was a master of the telephone. She kept in touch. Lunched with the girls—her high school girl friends. “Girls?” my father would say… “Some girls.”
But they were “girls.” Young-in-spirit women with pizzazz, gumption and guts, living those good days out loud, striding into the fleeting sun, all of them as fresh as springtime.
Margaret was life. She loved a Gershwin tune and kicking up her heels with my father, the two of them gliding like ice skaters. And cracking jokes, a wit like a scalpel. I remember all of it. All of it…She had such great expectations, and not for herself either.
Grandchildren came, then great-grandchildren. On she trekked, active, engaged, sharp to the end. She was the self-chosen family historian. She knew where all the juicy bits lay, but never betrayed a confidence.
All of us grieve at our loss. But we should also consider celebrating our gain. The gain in having lived in a share of her long life, a life so admirably lived.
Of such grand stuff was this woman, my mother. Her name was Margaret…and nothing but...
26 April 2011
JR
Need something? Ask Margaret. She was a mover. When I was in high school, she worked on the election board. She met people. She knew people. She was a master of the telephone. She kept in touch. Lunched with the girls—her high school girl friends. “Girls?” my father would say… “Some girls.”
But they were “girls.” Young-in-spirit women with pizzazz, gumption and guts, living those good days out loud, striding into the fleeting sun, all of them as fresh as springtime.
Margaret was life. She loved a Gershwin tune and kicking up her heels with my father, the two of them gliding like ice skaters. And cracking jokes, a wit like a scalpel. I remember all of it. All of it…She had such great expectations, and not for herself either.
Grandchildren came, then great-grandchildren. On she trekked, active, engaged, sharp to the end. She was the self-chosen family historian. She knew where all the juicy bits lay, but never betrayed a confidence.
All of us grieve at our loss. But we should also consider celebrating our gain. The gain in having lived in a share of her long life, a life so admirably lived.
Of such grand stuff was this woman, my mother. Her name was Margaret…and nothing but...
26 April 2011
JR
1971. Margaret, my father Jim, my children, a doll named Big Bonnie
Margaret Carmel Ryan
17 July 1918 - 22 April 2011
A GERSHWIN TUNE FOR MY MOTHER
'S WONDERFUL
THANKS AND HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY et cetera
1941
