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Casually Amazing
My mom, Ruth Swinburg McCarthy, passed away early on December 6th, 2008. I stayed on a cot in her hospice room for the week she was there. Her voice weakened steadily, and within a few days even her soft mumbles died away. But a couple of nights before the end, she asked in a clear, strong voice, “are the children all right?” Her six kids, fourteen grandkids, and twenty great-grandkids were everything to her.
You may remember that the moon was hanging with Venus and Jupiter about then, in a casually amazing way. Natural spectacles are always effortlessness, it seems -- there’s this miracle over here, by the way; no big deal if you miss it. A perfect patience seems integral. There will always be another display.
Similarly, there will always be great moms. They are infinitely unique in their quirks and perfections, but much alike in the honor they deserve. Like some, mine was generous to a San Andreas Fault. We all became cagey about speaking of our desires, because she would literally give the clothes off her back. As a teenager, I developed the habit of scouring the kitchen for anything edible before answering her daily question, “did you get enough to eat?” Occasionally we engaged in ridiculous tabletop skirmishes. She was dextrous as Meadowlark Lemon in faking me out and getting food from her plate to mine.
Only Jeanette McDonald and Nelson Eddy came anywhere close to her kids in her affections. She was thrilled when my birthday turned out to be the same as Jeanette’s. She loved romance -- not schmaltz, but well-crafted, evocative stories. We had great discussions about movies right up to the end. Not surprisingly, she felt modern films continually missed the point, and, like me, often preferred old gems to new, over-the-top epics.
She let me help her write and publish her memoirs, so her offspring have great insights to pass along. We understand with what pluck and generosity she and many of her relatives weathered the Great Depression. We can envision the hyper-extended families huddling under small roofs, yet welcoming more mouths to feed. We realize that Mom’s health and longevity may have been a result of her not knowing, as a girl, what pizza was.
All Ruth’s children, including the great- and grand-, carry blessed pieces of her: wild hair, an exasperating selflessness, a fondness for Toddler Truth, or an ethereal, casual relationship with time and space. That last trait can be a trial. We don’t have “moments” of abstraction; we have hours, days, or even months. To all my relatives who, like me, sport the time-space quirk, I think Mom would say, don’t worry. You too have a place in the world. In fact, the world needs you desperately.
Mom passed peacefully, as if, characteristically, she didn’t want to be any trouble. In that instant, I pledged to her at that we would make the most of our lives. Since the night she asked, we have continually answered. Mom, the kids are all right.
Kevin Patrick
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