Mom's Day & the Scientific Method

When our own government is demonizing, oppressing, and undermining women, the rule of law, the nature of diverse and loving communities, the grace of forgiveness and the scientific method itself, I thought it would be a bit of "good trouble" to share a little bit of the eulogy I gave at my mom's passing some 24 odd years ago.

My sister and brothers couldn't face, at that moment, doing the eulogy. We got together the night before the service at the dinner table. Me with sketchbook in hand wondering how I would get through it. They did their part to stir our collective memories at a moment when frankly everything was a dense fog. They suggested bits of history and family lore, reminded me of moments in her life. They wished me luck, too choked up to speak themselves, knowing that I was, after all, the big mouth.

I compiled my list and entitled it: "The 10 secrets of being Mary" I thought I'd make it just about up to the introduction and break down.

I was raised catholic in the fine tradition of Irish catholics in the city of Chicago, in the 1960's. Nod knowingly if you understand what that meant at the time, and at this moment as well. My father and brothers read from the bible. The priest spoke of Jesus and his leadership by washing other people's feet. Simple things that echo through my mind at quiet moments. He noted that my mom had spent most of her life teaching an ecumenical worldview (I had to look that one up and it was a good word for the way she lived).

I could feel my body rebelling against me, legs shaking, chest heaving for air as I walked to the front of the chapel. As I looked down on her casket, out on our family and friends (some I had not seen since childhood), up at the light streaming through the stained glass, over at her little brother. I knew I'd be fine. She deserved a good word in honor of her shining life and love.

I took a deep breath and told the world about growing up with Mary Margaret McManus as my mom.

The 10 secrets of being Mary

1 that light in her eyes She had a playful intelligence that couldn't be dimmed. She would laugh and smile and play word games and when we'd sit around the dinner table we'd always learn new words. My dad would write them down and puzzle over them (he acting the naive blue collar mechanic, she the patient teacher). She loved sharing her knowledge. Even when her body was more burden than fortress her mind was alight, her eyes would shine.

2 the scientific method (the family as experimental medium) My mom was a scientist, a researcher and later a school teacher. We were her most ambitious experiment. We drank Tang, mixed powdered milk, ate moon bars used by astronauts, invented deep dish crustless meatzas. She was doing something right, each child grew to be bigger and more strapping than the last (oldest was 5'10", second was 5'11", third... well, fourth was 6'4" and fifth was 6'5" and some change). We were a red headed culture that grew far past our petri dish. We learned from her that science was power, that knowledge held the key, and that the world was open to us.

3 keys to the kingdom It was a little thing, I didn't even remember it until my sister brought it up. My mom had the keys to everyone's house in the neighborhood and they hung on the wall in our kitchen. Even when the kid down the street, that I was currently in a heated war with over some world shaking childhood slight, even when he would come to our door, locked out of his home, perfect moment for revenge... no words were said... I gave him the keys under the universal sign of neutrality and peace that was my mother's will. I learned that the community was just a bigger part of the family. There was no gradient of love and family. As an aside I wish I could be just a bit more like my mom, I fear that I channel her mother more than her sometimes with a fiery glare and desire to spit steel bits of caustic humor when I should just chill out... I'm working on it though.

4 mi casa es su casa or the six degrees of Mary McManus We were wealthy beyond imagination because we had a place to call our own, a house, a home. She loved to meet new people, she invited them home and if they needed a place to stay for a night to lay there weary heads, or a week or a year, they could stay. We didn't lock the doors until everyone was home and safe for the night. She opened her arms wide (and she had long arms, which you'd know if you ever cracked wise or punched your little brother in the back seat of the car when she was driving).

5 wealth without bounds I thought the powdered milk was just a part of the experiment, the straining of clumps between our teeth a little game my mom would play on us to test our courage. I thought everyone walked the alleys to find furniture for the porch, parts for the cars. I just assumed we were rich without bounds. We had encyclopedias, books covered every open space on walls from floor to ceiling, we had tools, like irons and garbage bags that happily became inflatable moon habitats on lazy summer days. We had things that could cut things and things that could put them back together in new and odd ways, and a basement full of wonders that brimmed with adventure (when it wasn't blazing from some mishap... firemen not far behind). I think with the engine parts in the living room and the rocket powered skateboards and bodiless VW dune buggy experiments cruising the streets as we dreamed of sand dunes, we were actually more like the poor white trash, black sheep of the neighborhood. We never knew it, we never doubted for a moment that this was what it was to be rich without bounds.

My dad approached me after my eulogy and said I had hit a bit close to home, shyly embarrassed by my comments about our wealth or lack thereof, proud man, mechanic at heart. But he knew, as she did, that riches were measured in conversations, inventions and the playful interchange of the mind with friends and family. He just gave me a hug and whispered "just a bit close, Mick."

6 a glass of water and a little reverse psychology When I was about four I threw a temper tantrum and would not, could not, stop. My mom grabbed a big glass of water and said "stop now or you will be very wet my friend,." I kicked and screamed and cried and she threw that water in my face. I stopped. She had a way of raising children that said everything was alright. You could do no wrong. But, if you stepped over the line you would get wet. I laughed a bit when my son was three and a half years old and throwing a tantrum and without thinking I grabbed a giant glass of water and said "Stop now or you will be very wet my friend." I have now proven that it works in two successive experiments in which the subjects have never exhibited tantrums of that sort again. If you're tracking this of course it is all part of number 2, the scientific method.

7 fire and brimstone and indestructible women Raising a child is pretty complicated stuff. My mom was raised by someone who really knew how to light up the fire and brimstone. My grandmother was a piece of work. I mean that in a wonderfully Irish way. She raised an amazing woman and all her children were wonders to behold from scientists to engineers, to teachers to makers. My grandmother set the tone and was the template for spit and vinegar, carried a pearl handled .22 and ran a business as a single mom in the male/mob dominated stockyards of Chicago in the 30s. I said before I think I channel my grandmother more than my mom when dealing with my own child (minus the .22)

I often try to think of how my mom would deal with things. In the same situation that I might just rail at the moon with much gnashing of teeth, she would come up close and say "well friend, what are we going to do about this one," as if she were a co-conspirator. But she was an indestructible woman and I don't think she passed away at all as long as we channel her occasionally as our better nature.

8 unconditional love I saw for forty seven odd years how my mom and dad lived together and there was never a question that they were in love, that we were loved. I never heard an argument, never stumbled upon a fight simmering below the surface. It was us against the world and the world wasn't such a bad place.

I remember saying to my mom at 18 that "I don't think I want to go to college, I'm going to Atlanta become a roadey for the Police, and maybe become a film maker for those newfangled things on that channel called Mtv that had just been born." I remember sitting on the porch swing telling her this, knowing that in our family of course you went to college, got a Masters or PhD you must become a scientist. She said "ok, we'll be here, the house will be here. Good luck." That was how she raised us, she gave us a little room to grow (and knew all about how to exercise catholic guilt). Sure enough 6 months later I was back, hungry for school, not quite ready to face the music of real life, ready to fail at anything in college rather than have to live the life I had just left in Georgia.

Unconditional love was just a part of being Mary, she would always hold you, no matter what crazy scheme you got up to. A hug would pull you back. I learned later that to be a good coach you needed to actually believe that the person could grow. They call it "unconditional positive regard." Methinks we could use far more of that when we rush so quickly to demonize someone having never walked a mile in their shoes.

9 the grand adventure and that light in her eyes Everything was a grand adventure to my mom. When my new young family was embarking on a trip to Arizona (from Chicago) and only made it to Springfield, Illinois before the oil rushed out of the engine in a glorious midnight burst of black smoke, I called my mom and dad and 12 hours later there was another car sitting in Springfield. They had enlisted my brother and his wife to drive one of our other spare cars (did I mention my pop was a mechanic and couldn't resist buying junkers and restoring them?) down. Of course we never left home without a VW towbar kit in the trunk. They would go see a movie and maybe catch a bite to eat, tow the VW back and we would take the keys to a fine 1966 Dodge Coronet and continue on our way. No big deal.

Just another weekend adventure. About a year or two before she passed away I had a chance to spend another adventure with mom. We spent some time in a road trip across the country. Not an expected one. We had to spring her from some evil doctors in a SWAT operation to save her from a slow decline towards death at the hands of a well meaning but decidedly barbaric hospital establishment on the shores of the Atlantic sea. We carried her across the country. She couldn't walk or even sit up in the car, I had to carry her like a child from car to wheelchair to hotel bedroom and back. She turned it into just another grand adventure. She cracked wise about all manor of roadside attractions and the minor mishaps of a body struggling to keep things together and weirdly enough we had a wonderful time. I struggled with embarrassment and guilt and shame at not coming sooner, not doing more, not beating the doctors to within an inch of their lives for such a sham bit of witch doctoring and I finally got to show her that I was big enough to hold her up for once. That I wasn't at all embarrassed to carry her and make up for all the times that she had carried me.

10 shut up and hold tight (squeeze til they squeak) Now I should just shut up and hold someone, because that was her most basic and profound answer. Just hold them as tight as you can, until they squeak. That's what she would do (did I mention that she was part of the big and tall women's club at 5'11 and had long, strong arms?) I think she held the world, her family, her friends, together in her arms more times than I could ever have imagined.

After the burial my mom's little brother (only child left at that point) came up to me and gave me a hug and thanked me for my words, for the small glimpse into what it was like to be raised by Mary. For sharing what he was too choked up to put into words.

I came back home adrift.

Who would I impress now?

What did it matter?

I was loose in the world as if the last ropes that had moored me to the surface had been cut free.

It would have been easy to just lose it at that point. To walk away from the buzzing noise of a long lifetime stretching out ahead of me with no anchor. I couldn't work up the energy to care about much of anything for months.

Of course if I told my mom about such small self-centered and pitiable thoughts she'd have just smiled and given me a hug.

She'd say "well friend..."