My 91-year-old mother passed away this morning at 12:17 a.m. The call came at 1:15 a.m. Life-changing events are time for reflection.
My mother was born in 1915 in New Britain, Conn., to Italian immigrants. No English was spoken in the house, and Italian-Americans were not popular in non-Mafia circles. These things shaped her life and her attitudes forever.
She was zealous in her Americanism, and a political activist all her life. She was cautious, conservative, defensive, loud, aggressive and kind to the bone. That's a lot of personality for a 4'10", 95 lb women.
She married my dad in 1945, a farm boy from southern New Hampshire. They moved to his tiny
hometown of Newton that same year. They shared one house until his death in 1984. My mom continued to live in that house alone until her dementia made it too dangerous for her to be alone.
As her only son, I remember birthday parties, baseball and her holding my hand to and from the two-room schoolhouse hosting grades 1 - 3. I remember her sunbathing and shoveling the driveway. I remember how she embarrassed me relentlessly in front of my friend's parents by bragging about how smart I was and what a great athlete I turned out to be. Only in a mother's eye.
And as her only son, I remember rages and beatings and personal attacks. It was the only way she knew to teach me values. It took me 30 years to get over the pain, but the values stuck.
Eight years ago, dementia struck. Within three years, it was replaced by Alzheimer's. For the past two years, she has been little more than a small bundle in a wheelchair. Death came quietly and painlessly.
Next Thursday, I will deliver her eulogy at the funeral mass. What will I say and how will I say it? In our town and throughout New Hampshire, she was both loved and feared. The same was true in our home. Where did the years go?
