Setting #1: Ferdinand, Indiana

The phone call came late Sunday night. It was the call I’d dreaded, but knew I had to answer.

“Mom died peacefully about a half hour ago, with Dad holding her hand.” Bill, my baby brother, the Marine, the caregiver, was gentle but straightforward as always.

We spent the next few days making travel plans for her funeral and scanning countless photos of Mom from her 89 years. Bill’s wife, Barbara – a graphic artist – sculpted them into photo montages and this video.

My brother Harry performs the hammered dulcimer music used in the video.

Setting #2: Madison, Connecticut

Gary, James, and I headed out to the airport impossibly early on Thanksgiving morning. I managed not to blurt out the purpose of our travel to the cheerful flight attendants as they chirped “Happy Thanksgiving!” at every opportunity.

Mom and Dad’s home was warm and welcoming, as always. Already bustling with my “brudders” and their wives; we were the last to arrive. Turkey and all the fixings were plentiful as we gathered in the dining room.

Mom and I shared countless cups of tea over the decades, whether to warm the soul, calm the nerves, or chase off the effects of a flu bug. Thanksgiving dinner, for me, was a cup of tea.

Dad’s welcoming hug was strong and steady. “My faith is getting me through.” The age-old battle between head and heart had a grip on us all. We knew it was time for Mom to leave this home for her next, but couldn’t bear the thought of not seeing that beautiful smile again and holding her hands, which, despite the ravages of Parkinson’s, never trembled.

Mom was always there to brush away our tears. She kissed our bumps and bruises and made them better. “Come for a kiss!” she’d call to us from across the room and our toddler legs would launch us into those loving arms.

Setting #3: Guilford Funeral Home

The Sullivan family runs the Guilford Funeral Home and always has. A family-run funeral home appealed to us as far more personal than a corporate place (there is, of course, the added bonus of the Irish name).

Guilford is the next town over from Madison. Our family has enjoyed visiting that charming town since the 1960s, when we vacationed at Leete’s Island.

Dad, oldest-brother Harry, and Barbara met with the staff to sort through the funeral arrangements. When your head is spinning with grief, it’s a relief to lean on people who will make sure nothing is forgotten.

Friday evening, friends and family gathered to say goodbye. Although not a traditional Irish wake (translation: no liquor), stories and laughter broke through the hushed words of sorrow. My fellow middle-child, Dave, spoke of how Mom’s death took place in their library, surrounded by loved ones: family and books. Bill then made us laugh with his recollection of being called “wretch” and “imp” in his early years.

Cousin Beth stood up and revealed how her godmother forever won her allegiance with her sleight of hand at a bear-themed restaurant. Mom knew little Beth loved bears and when she admired that even the ash tray (yes, this was long ago) had a bear on it, Mom whispered, “Do you want it?” and stealthily slid her napkin over it, sliding it into her purse. “What? My Aunt Joan was a gangster?” Beth still has that ashtray. I seem to remember Mom telling me she returned to the restaurant later to pay for the ill-gotten “souvenir.”

Mom’s sister, Bunny, told us how she served as my parents’ messenger girl all those years ago, racing across Chatham Street to deliver love notes from the two teens.

“And I never once peeked,” she assured us.

Bunny also reminisced about the porcelain dolls she and Mom treasured as children. Even though Mom was the tidy sister who took good care of her belongings, it was her doll that took a tumble and broke.

I was thrilled to discover a photo of the Cassidy girls with the unbroken doll:

It was only upon closer inspection that I realized the “doll” was their baby brother, Ray. Sadly, he passed in 2001, also a victim of Parkinson’s. I recognized his namesake at the funeral home – from the back of his head! I’m sure Raymond hears it all the time, but he’s the spitting image of his dad. There’s something very comforting about that. We got to catch up with his sisters, Marie and Claire, too. (Paul, understandably, sent his kind wishes from Minnesota.)

I stood up and thanked Dad for his incredible devotion to Mom, especially as her health declined over the past decade. When I’d brought this up to him privately in the past, his response was simple: She’s my girl.

Doctor Donna, who’s provided skilled and compassionate care to both of my parents, was on hand; it was wonderful to finally meet her. Caregivers Lyn and Dilnoza, with tears in their eyes, also offered their condolences and accepted our heartfelt thanks.

As the evening wrapped up, a handsome man came up and gently took my hands.

After a half-second of confusion, I recognized him.

Rus! I can’t believe you’re here! His kind smile widened, “How could I not come?”

Rus and I met years ago. He’s a roller-coaster enthusiast and traveled most years to Indiana to take part in our local park’s annual event for the coaster crazies. I noticed that his name tag stated he was from Dracut, Massachusetts. I asked him where in the state it was located, as I’d grown up in Pittsfield.

“It’s a small town next to Lowell,” he replied. My dad’s parents lived there many years as did several aunts and a cousin, so our bond was immediate. We stayed in touch by email and Facebook over the years and I always looked forward to our in-person chats at the park.

Rus and his husband enjoy visiting Ogunquit, Maine, as did our family back in the ’80s. Mom and Dad continued to vacation in the beautiful ocean town far into retirement.

Wiping away tears, I grabbed Rus’s arm and introduced him to my dad, Gary, and cousin Muff, who lives in Lowell. I’ll never forget this act of kindness.

Funeral: Saint Margaret Church in Madison

Mom’s funeral was on a beautiful – but chilly – Saturday. James and his cousins Andy and Gordon, plus my cousin Suzanne’s daughter, Cady, were pall bearers. The remaining cousins, my sons Tom and John, plus Dave’s daughter, Becky, were there in spirit.

The processional song was one of Mom’s favorites, Morning Has Broken. Made famous by Cat Stevens in 1971, the hymn was written four decades earlier by Eleanor Farjeon. She set her lyrics to a traditional Scottish/Gaelic tune. A Londoner, Farjeon wrote children’s poems, books, and plays.

Advent candles adorned the altar. Oh, how Mom loved Advent and Christmas.

Rather than a eulogy, family members read four of Mom’s poems during her funeral.

Youngest grandchild, Lucy, read David, the sonnet Mom wrote while in college, inspired by her love for Dad.

Dave’s son, Gordon, read a poem his grandma wrote in 1976:

but one

at times
ideas tug at me like
a crop of children crying
pick me pick me

then some I pin like leafbuds
to a tree
and others stretch out on a line
to dry
and some drop in my cooking pot
to stew
and others set on windows sills
to cool

but one
is always brazen sunburst comet
shooting star
and waits for no one’s word to shine
not even mine

My cousin Beth read this from 2004:

The Back Way

Do these small houses sing

They hum more likely
when the fire’s warm
the soup is hot
the bed is changed
the pickles sweet the wine surprising

The river parallels the road
behind the little farms the cemetery
a tired truck’s put out to pasture
in the old field where a trim
of tiger lilies lights the day

We didn’t know it then
but for us somehow that rainy morning
the back way was the way back

And finally, Dave’s wife, Marie-Susanne, read this poem from 1994:

metamorphosis

what if you disappeared into the garden
went down under like a ship at sea
I would expect you to come back
as something less familiar
though I would recognize
your fingers in the petals
your blue gaze in the flower’s
morning eye

At Communion time toward the end of the funeral, Gary leaned over and whispered this Sister Michael quote from the hilarious Irish sitcom Derry Girls: Christ, but I hate the tongue people. Just for you, Sister Michael, I received the host in my cupped hands. Mom loved the opportunity to receive the Body of Christ in her hands when it was finally permitted. I must admit, though, I am indeed a tongue person.

Setting #4: All Saints Cemetery, North Haven

Dad told us recently that Mom had asked him about arranging for their “final resting place” about a decade ago. This fall, he and Harry conducted some research. They discovered that space had recently become available close to where Mom’s parents were at All Saints Cemetery in nearby North Haven.

Apparently, those two plots had already been purchased for future use, but as the owners were planning to spend the rest of their days in a warmer climate, they made the plots available. I’m not sure it’s too appropriate to get all excited about burial plots, but they’re right next to where Mom’s sister, Bunny, and her husband have space reserved. The Cassidy women, with their loving husbands, will rest in peace together.

The deacon who gave the final blessing was from nearby Saint Peo Church. He graciously took into account the chilly temps and aggressive wind (a “biting” wind, as Mom would call it) and kept his comforting prayers and remarks to the point.

Since we were in the neighborhood, a number of us decided to pay Grandma and Grandpa a visit, and share a few of Mom’s flowers with them. The headstones are flat and on the surface of the ground, so the search ended up looking more like an Easter egg hunt as we scratched autumn leaves off the stones.

“Grandma! Where are you?” I called out, rather pathetically.

Ah, our grandparents were resting closer by than we’d realized.

Shivering a bit, I stayed to chat with Cousin Jane, who grew up with Mom in New Haven. Jane told me her red hair gave adults the impression she was her older, better-behaved cousin, and that was just fine with her. Mom would write plays for the cousins to perform, charging their mothers a nickel for a front-row seat.

There’s just one poem remaining for this post and it’s the traditional, simple:

Irish Blessing

May the road rise to meet you May the wind be always at your back
May the sun shine warm upon your face The rains fall soft upon your fields
And until we meet again
May God hold you
In the palm of His hand.

“but one” © 1976 Joan Cassidy Vayo. All rights reserved.
“The Back Way” © 2004 Joan Cassidy Vayo. All rights reserved.
“metamorphosis” © 1994 Joan Cassidy Vayo. All rights reserved.

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