One for Mom

When my son is 14, I really hope he's not the way I was in 1994.

It's not that I was "bad" kid, but instead I could have been accurately described as a a bit of a pain. In fact, I would attribute nearly all of my pre-teen transgressions to either pure stupidity or just waiting to get a laugh. Regardless, I must have be a handful for my parents especially my mom. I rarely had good grades and schools always seemed to be calling home about me, starting with Mrs. Devine in 5th grade and ending with Residential Life at Fordham. Throughout it all, my mom was always my greatest supporter. As I moved through high school and college she continually reminded me that, sooner or later, I would "get it together." When I got my Masters and started teaching, we were both able to smile that I finally had.

Last summer, my mom got sick. After a brief and difficult illness, she passed away on September 21st, one year ago today.

I've been avoiding writing this blog for 365 days. I wrote about my dad when he passed but have not been able to sit down and write about my mom. I couldn't bring myself to do it; it was just too hard.

There are things that I will never understand about my mom's death. I have a tough time accepting both how she went as well as when she went. The last few months of her life were not easy as we tried in vain to get her better. I will never accept that she didn't get the chance to meet her grandson,  my beautiful son, Francis. I often imagine the two of them together and how much she would have adored him and while it can make me smile, it also leaves me sad.

While things were difficult at the end, I can't let it define the memories I have of my  mom. Both of my parents were tremendously influential on my life and since they passed I have come to realize one very important thing: my father shaped the life I lead but my mother made me the person that I am. She was a wonderful, caring person who would do anything for you (unless you crossed her that is) and gave of herself to not only family and friends but strangers as well. She raised three children and managed to live with my father for almost 44 years, a challenge that I would put before any person. She had a career as a mom, secretary and grandmother while also finding time to volunteer at soup kitchens and beat lung cancer. My family and I met people at her wake who spoke of her as an amazing co-worker, neighbor and friend. We weren't surprised as much as we were happy to know that she nearly meant as much to others as she did to us.

She did everything for me, from the small but wonderful like writing my name on my lunch bags in calligraphy to the big and powerful like supporting me when times got tough. When I faced a major challenge in my teaching career she vowed to "write a letter" to the powers that be once I received my tenure. While she knew that I received my tenure (she was the first person I called) she never got a chance to write that letter before she got sick but it didn't matter. It was just one more example of her having my back, even though I was 30 years old and married.

As I write this long delayed entry, I realize that I cannot let the way that she died define the life that she lived. She was an amazing sister and daughter, wife, mother and friend. She taught me how to care for others, love my family and be strong in the face of overwhelming adversity. I think about her everyday and will always miss her but I am blessed to have had her for a mom.

Bringing Dad Home

Me and Dad- July 8, 2012

Just a note before the post. I am eternally grateful for my sisters who have been amazing siblings and friends throughout my life, but especially over the past six months. I don't know where my family would be without them. It was an honor and a pleasure to take this trip with them

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The story of my father’s emigration to America is one of legend.

Every New Year’s Eve he would tell us the story of his departure from Ireland on that day in 1959 and each year the story seemed to get bigger and bigger. If you sat down and made a list of people who were documented as making the trip down to Cobh, it would well exceed the maximum capacity of the Morris Minor that took them there. He was just 16 years old when he said goodbye to his family that night. He was a teenager on his way to a new life in a new land.

My dad spent 54 years in America. He built a home with my mother and watched his children have children. Although the majority of his life was here in New York, Ireland was never far from his mind. Once in America, he sent money home to his mother, kept a strong connection with his brothers and sisters and visited as often as possible. Always aware of the important role that both places played in his life, my father decided to be cremated and asked us to leave his ashes in those places that defined his time on Earth.

This weekend, my sisters and I brought our dad home.

We brought him to Clones, County Monaghan, Ireland.

We brought him to the house where he was born and spent the first 16 years of his life.

We brought him to the church where he was baptized and received his first communion.

We buried him alongside his mother and father.

His brothers, sisters, cousins, nieces and nephews were all there to say goodbye.

After a beautiful mass and burial, we had a family lunch attended by over a hundred McCaughey and McElroy cousins. There were relations from all over the country, the large majority of whom I had never met before. They came out for my dad and many introduced themselves and shared wonderful memories of both my mother and father.  Later that day (and well into the night) over twenty of my first cousins gathered at the Cosy Bar in Clones. It was a wonderful night of pints, stories, songs and chips. The only thing more satisfying than the Guinness was the thought of how happy my dad would have been to see me and my sisters with our Irish cousins.

On Sunday, a dozen of us drove up to land in County Tyrone that has been owned by McCaughey’s for 270 years (for my American friends, George Washington was a teenager back then). It is the place where the history of the McCaughey’s was written. It’s where my grandfather was born and my father and uncles spent the summers of their youth. It was a part of the official Frank McCaughey tour of Clones with each trip to Ireland leading to an inevitable visit.  We went and explored the house, said a prayer and shared stories. On the way out, my cousins and uncle climbed the hill overlooking the house and the loch and left some of dad behind. It makes me happy to think of him being back there.

The lane to Clogher

The Hill

My sisters and I were in Ireland for just over 48 hours. Each minute was accounted for and each minute was wonderful.  Although we know that things won’t ever be as they once were, the trip and the task we completed provide a certain amount of closure. After all that our father gave to us, this weekend we were able to give a little back to him. I look forward to next New Year's Eve when we can not only tell the story of how dad came to America but also how we brought him home to Ireland.