Eulogy for Our Dad

In the decade that I have written my blog, I have never put up a post by a guest blogger. But this is a special post: the eulogy delivered at the funeral yesterday by my brother Tom for our dad, who died Feb. 2, age 101. Both my brother John and I think that no better summary could have been given of the meaning of our father’s life than what you’ll read here. 

My brothers and I would also like to thank Fr. Joe O’Brien and Fr. Tom Quinn, the concelebrants of the beautiful mass at St. Cecilia’s Church in Englewood, NJ, where our dad was a fixture at the 10 am mass each Sunday for nearly 60 years.

In the past week, many people remarked how amazing it was that my Dad Mike (or “Mickey,” as they called him in his birthplace, County Clare, Ireland) lived beyond 100. And yes, he was amazing. He was truly “one of a kind”! He was a great man – largely for the way he lived life to its fullest.

Mike was defined by his great personality, his unrelenting work ethic, and his faith in church and family. My dad could light up any room he entered. While short in stature, he was big in heart. He was lively and sociable, a true “people person” – always wanting to meet old friends and make new ones.  He was at his happiest when he could expand his circle of friends that he could share stories with. My brothers and I called him the unofficial Mayor of Englewood – certainly the “Mayor of West Street”. [He seemed to like that distinction!] He was loyal, dependable, and genuine, and his mind was as sharp as a tack – Nothing got past him. 

My dad never went past grade school, but he taught me everything I needed to know to run my life – just by watching him as a kid!  With the strength and determination of three men, he deserved my mom’s nicknames for him: “Man of Steel” and “Superman.” Once involved in a project, he finished it, no matter the time of day or difficulties. 

For all his persistence, he was the ultimate realist too, squaring-up to ANY adversity and accepting whatever fate dealt him. He was accustomed to that from tough conditions and his farm life in Ireland …. Money and “things” were always in short supply back then– but he looked forward to bettering himself. When I was back at the family farm w/ my Dad, taking long walks outside Cree village, I asked, “How did you ever leave a place so beautiful?” He said, “I left with nothing, but then again I HAD nothing. I had to look forward and not back.” Upon arriving in New York, he didn’t aspire to succeed in traditional ways. He was a simple, unassuming man - simple clothes, car, lifestyle, and house. He didn’t need more than that when he could find innovative uses for duct tape around the house! But he achieved success through raising 3 devoted sons, living comfortably, and making countless friends. 

The only things truly important to him were: church, family, and making a living. Saint Cecilia’s church was his “real home” for so many years. Like for all the Irish, the Church was his haven that welcomed him and made him feel as if he belonged. In terms of family (similar to my Mom), he was most proud of his boys. 

My Dad was also a devoted husband, taking such good care of my Mom for so long, but especially when her health declined sharply toward the end. And his grandchildren brought him so much joy in his later years. 

When it came to making a living, he knew one thing: how to work long and hard. He never had just one job; he worked 2-3 jobs to make ends meet. He never stopped! – even after retiring at age 72.  It inspired us to see how driven he was. Somehow my Mom and Dad made sure we had all our needs met and then some. We brothers never needed to worry – my dad made sure of that. Actually…his favorite perspectives on life were: “things could be better…but they could also be worse” and “If you have your health, you have everything.” 

Everything about my Dad was Irish: his listening to Fordham’s radio program, “Ceol na nGael,” his music CDs in the living room, his optimism, his funny Irish expressions (some, we suspect, that he invented!), his twinkling eyes, his impish grin, his storytelling, his practical jokes (which he sometimes spent hours planning), and his endless teasing (mostly about our girlfriends, real or imaginary). 

When he was about 87 yrs. old, still endlessly energetic and seemingly indestructible, I thought he would never die. He often asked strangers how old they thought he was (with a gleam in his eye) and then have them guess. It gave him great pleasure to fool someone and he would laugh about it for weeks. Like most of the Irish, he loved to recall his childhood and youth. My brothers and I heard the same 20 stories about 1,000 times. He became disappointed if you didn’t let him finish, because it prevented him from laughing once again at his pranks. Some of the best belly laughs I ever had came after hearing one of my father’s Ireland stories. However, Mickey did also have a famous Irish temper if things went wrong – but it would disappear in a matter of minutes. 

I would be remiss today if I didn’t thank a number of people here that kept my dad going long past 90:  Bernadette and Lois (his caregivers), the “Edward girls” (as my Mom would say), all the doctors at Leonia Medical Associates, my Aunts Peggy and Mary for their frequent phone calls, the various kind neighbors, … but mostly my brother Michael. Both John and I owe a debt of gratitude to you, Mike.  You had the hardest job of all over the past 10 years with Mom too.  Sometimes I don’t know how you kept it together at all, Mike. 

This past month my dad only suffered a short time. His brain was still active and aware; it was just his body (with 101-year-old parts) that ran out of steam. There is one advantage of reaching 101 … there’s already lots of friends and family in heaven waiting for you to arrive. I envision my Dad re-united with my Mom, dancing to an Irish reel w/ broad smiles on their faces, and roaring with laughter once again with his brothers Tom and Paddy. 

And so it goes …even leprechauns don’t live forever.  Goodbye Dad.  We love you and are forever thankful for all you and Mom sacrificed for us. Our memories of you will always bring smiles to our faces, twinkles to our eyes, and that sense of unconditional love.

Quote of the Day (Thornton Wilder, on Tributes to the Dead)

"The highest tribute to the dead is not grief but gratitude."--Attributed to Pulitzer Prize-winning novelist and playwright Thornton Wilder

Eulogy for My Mother

I delivered the following in memory of my mother at the conclusion of her funeral mass at St. Cecilia’s Roman Catholic Church in Englewood, N.J., this past Monday. I don’t ordinarily share much personal information about myself or my relatives on this blog, but this time, the example of my mother’s life called for an exception.

First, on behalf of myself and my family, I’d like to thank everyone in this beautiful church that my mother loved so much—and many other people who couldn’t be here today—for the care you showed us and our mother throughout a prolonged, painful period.

We have just heard in the Gospel about Our Lord’s grief over the loss of his friend Lazarus. But the story of Lazarus didn’t end with loss—it turned into affirmation. And so it is here today, as we celebrate the simple life but infinite value of Nora Tubridy.

We remember that Mom felt blessed that she survived a sickly childhood to go on to live a long life, filled with family who adored her.

We remember what Fr. Hilary at yesterday’s wake and Fr. Joe in today’s homily spoke of with characteristic eloquence—that God’s promise of eternal life through the Resurrection—the same promise my mother believed so devoutly all her life—is being fulfilled now in her case.

And we remember not what we lost these last few days, but what we gained over a lifetime—an extraordinary example of thoughtfulness, generosity and self-sacrifice.

Our mother suffered, among other ills, from heart disease. You could say, in that superficial, physical sense, that she had a bad heart. But in the senses that really mattered—emotionally, spiritually—she was the great beating heart of our family.

Nobody put into practice more what she always preached to us: “Self-praise is no recommendation.”

In fact, if there was a single thing I would have changed about her, it might have been her great shyness. Otherwise, far more people would have realized that she was an inexhaustible source of something all but impossible to find in ordinary life: unconditional love.

From the moment she met Dad in the summer of 1951 in the Catskill town of East Durham, N.Y., in the “Irish Alps,” she was supportive and attentive to anything he could want.

For her three boys, she was sensitive to unvoiced anxieties and sorrows: about a grade, a job, or worst of all, a girl. She would give us more than enough time to work out our feelings, but also know the exact moment to step in, with that tough Bronx love, to tell us we would get over it—and we should.

She was our greatest cheerleader and promoter. She believed each of us had special stuff, and helped us find it through the sheer force of that faith and love.

She treasured all her life Grandpa, Nana, my aunt Mary, my uncles Johnny and Ben, but what was especially extraordinary to us was her role, for 26 years, as caregiver for her twin brother Pete, who, like her, was quiet and unassuming. She did this until she was well into old age herself and experiencing the first symptoms of Parkinson’s. Quite simply, she sustained his life.

Over the years, we became familiar with so much about her:

* daily calls to her beloved sister and best friend, my dear Aunt Mary;
* the exclamations “Ah, gee” or “the poor thing” over something you said or did;
* her delight in tickling her three rambunctious boys;
* the way, during our life growing up in the Bronx, she would spot my brother John near a corner hot-dog vendor, wrap 35 cents in a napkin, and drop it out the window so he could buy a hot dog and Yoo-Hoo;
* saying multiple rosaries;
* listening to Dorothy Hayden’s Irish music show every Sunday night;
* cooking as many as four meals a day to accommodate the schedules of the four males in the house;
* waiting up till one or two in the morning for the return of whichever son was out;
* her questions, when we returned from a road trip or event, about everything we ate;
* standing in the middle of West Street, when a son was heading off to college or returning to an out-of-state home, waving until the car disappeared around the corner, then turning back into the house with a catch in the throat and a tear in the eye;
* the clear but elegant handwritten letters—virtual models for the old Palmer Penmanship method—that she mailed those of us away from home.

There’s nothing momentous about this list. But each small act mattered. Our mother showed the enormous power of St. Therese and her “simple way.”

All our lives, we knew how gentle this woman was. But I think it was only in the last few years, when she endured endless heartache—including the deaths of two beloved brothers, a sister, and brother-in-law all within 15 months—and interacting, debilitating complications from Parkinson’s, heart disease and macular degeneration—that we learned how tough and brave she really was. She even managed to crack a joke as her condition worsened in the hospital, two nights before she died.

She lost up to 60 pounds, yet somehow the beauty of those blue eyes shone all the more. And one morning during her last week in the hospital, when she woke to find me at her bedside, as weak and exhausted as she was, barely able to talk, she repeated exactly what she did with our whole family throughout our lives—she reached out with a hug and kiss.

As understandable as it is, we must not mourn her unduly anymore. Instead, we should rejoice that she left the best of herself in each of us—and that even now, she is our personal angel, saving a place for us in Heaven, ready to warm our hearts with hot tea and that soft, sweet voice humming “Toura-lura-lura.”

Quote of the Day (Peggy Noonan, on Eulogies)

“I love eulogies. They are the most moving kind of speech because they attempt to pluck meaning from the fog, and on short order, when the emotions are still ragged and raw and susceptible to leaps. It is a challenge to look at a life and organize our thoughts about it and try to explain to ourselves what it meant, and the most moving part is the element of implicit celebration. Most people aren’t appreciated enough, and the bravest things we do in our lives are usually known only to ourselves. No one throws ticker tape on the man who chose to be faithful to his wife, or the lawyer who didn’t take the drug money, or the daughter who held her tongue again and again. All this anonymous heroism. A eulogy gives us a chance to celebrate it.”—Peggy Noonan, What I Saw at the Revolution: A Political Life in the Reagan Revolution (1990)

I don’t share Noonan’s romantic conservatism, but the memoir by the White House speechwriter-turned-Wall Street Journal columnist is one of the best-written peeks inside the bubble surrounding the President and those working within his circle. Besides her sharp profiles (see her take on how Michael Deaver took a form of revenge on the Reagans for having temporarily dumped him in the 1980 primary season by securing Edmund Morris as the President’s authorized biographer), it also offers interesting insights such as the above quote (which is itself an outgrowth of equally fascinating reflections on the Irish “certain affinity for death,” especially as manifested in the wake).

What she has has in mind in the above quote, I think, is the send-off given to the type celebrated in Thomas Gray’s “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard,” where the poet conjured up “some mute inglorious Milton” or “rustic moralist” laid to rest. It was not the wildly over-the-top goodbye to Michael Jackson the other day.

Eulogies often address two audiences: those who knew the deceased well and those who might not have. Aside from the enormously difficult task of addressing the raw emotions of the listeners (with the speaker sometimes having to surmount his or her own), there is also the issue of honesty: i.e., how to acknowledge the faults of the deceased without losing sight of virtues.

Federalist politician Gouverneur Morris was faced with this delicate task when his friend of 30 years, Alexander Hamilton, was killed in a duel. In his diary, Morris bemoaned the impossibility of the job.

Even though he looked to Hamilton as a party leader as well as a friend, Morris also was keenly aware of his faults: “He was indiscreet, vain and opinionated.” In the end, Morris took at least some account of the violent emotions stirred by the fiercely partisan Hamilton by noting that he bore his heart “as it were in his hands.”

The best eulogies that I’ve heard have managed to maintain the delicate balance that Morris despaired of finding, often by offering aspects of the deceased’s character that one never knew and by using these to account for the fault. I’ve remembered those parting sendoffs years after the event, and hope that, when my time comes, someone will treat me with similar humanity—with measured rather than exaggerated assessments of my life and character.

Few such assessments were in order at the Staples Center tributes to Michael Jackson. Some in the media—notably NBC’s Brian Williams—were barely able to hide their squeamishness over live coverage of the proceedings for someone who, after all, did nothing to move the nations of the world closer to world peace.

The most egregious offender was—surprise—Al Sharpton, who credited the singer’s music with helping to elect Barack Obama President. (Sorry, Rev: I think that Martin Luther King Jr., and Congressman John Lewis—not to mention countless civil-rights workers who, over the years, were despised, lost their jobs, beaten, and even killed for their efforts—had just a wee bit more to do with the election of America’s first African-American President. But I guess we should be glad you didn’t take credit for the deed.)

But Sharpton really flew into the face of reality by telling Jackson’s children (including the one that the deceased had named Prince Michael Jackson, or “Blanket”) that there “wasn’t anything weird about your daddy. It was strange what your daddy had to deal with.”

Who are we trying to kid here?

Weirdness by itself is not enough to put someone in legal jeopardy, or otherwise virtually every showbiz celeb on the stage at the Staples Center would have fallen into the clutches of the police.

But there was, as Denis Hamill noted in his Daily News column the other day, something creepy about Jackson’s “disturbing fixation on prepubescent boys.” Like Hamill, I believe that Jackson’s money and fame enabled him to settle for more than $20 million a pedophile civil suit in the 1990s, and that this saved him from jail.

The next time we want someone to celebrate, we had better look around to the people in our own lives who, whatever their very human faults, strive to live in a responsible way, demonstrating the “anonymous heroism” that Ms. Noonan celebrated. Celebrating a celebrity hopelessly ballyhooed in death sends a horrible message to children about what we value as a society.

Quote of the Day (Christopher Dodd, on “The Goal of Every Irishman”)

“It’s the goal of every Irishman to be able to be a witness to your own eulogy.” –U.S. Senator Christopher Dodd (D-Conn.), quoted about his ailing longtime friend, Sen. Ted Kennedy, quoted in Mark Leibovich, “Hold the Eulogies, Kennedy Says,” The New York Times, Feb. 22, 2009