I never expected to fall apart when I read the first line of my mom’s remembrance (see previous post) yesterday. I think what happened was I actually conjured up that sensation, much more vividly than when I wrote the line. In that moment, I felt like I was back in my mother’s arms and I was overcome with emotion. A good thing.
I was knocked out by my siblings’ tributes and the sum total was an overwhelming testimony to our mom’s virtues.
Two of my mom’s cousins on the Tierney side spoke, both of whom grew up with my mom in the same Rosewood Terrace neighborhood. Joe O’Keefe told me a story about their common grandmother, a Kelly who left Dublin on a ship bound for New York as a caretaker of an elderly man. She was supposed to return but she fell in love with a Walsh. They married as soon as they landed but only on the condition that Walsh drop his affiliation with the Church of England and get right with Catholicism.
During the ceremony Joe described my mom as somewhere between Erma Bombeck and a saint. On his way out the door he told me they used to hold these teen dances all over the city and kids would usually go without dates. He said he always made sure he danced with my mom and said he was determined to find a Mercy girl like my mom. And he did, my mom’s good friend, Ginny.