A Poem about Passings

Passings

how sad

the passing of time

and with it

the passing of those

we love 

eem/September 2022

Remembering Ruth Finley: Remarks at my Mom's Memorial (2002)

My mother died 23 years ago at the age of 79. She was a lovely and in some ways remarkable woman. I say this from the perspective of having observed the so-called Second Wave of the Women's Movement influence my mom's gentle evolution from traditional housewife and stay-at-home mother of three into the well-respected member of her community that she became. 

At the time she passed, I was a busy mother of three myself, living several cities away, and preoccupied with my own life changes and attempts to figure things out. Consequently, I was only marginally connected with my parents' day to day lives. 

Not that we weren't close--we were. And not that I wasn't proud of her accomplishments--I was. But my attention was turned elsewhere. I was distracted. Busy. And consequently, less involved, less aware. I regret this self-absorption. 

We commemorated my mom's passing in January of 2002 at a local park in Huntington Beach. There were a lot of people in attendance, including former mayors and council members who had worked alongside my mother over the years in local politics. Several of them approached the podium and spoke highly of my mom. They spoke of a woman I only knew from afar.

As the ceremony neared the end, I also approached the podium. I had prepared my remarks and read from my notes. Then, as they say, the years passed. I never thought to save my comments. I either lost or misplaced the document, not thinking (at the time) of a future when I might want to recall my words.

But, funny the things you discover when you start the process of preparing for your own end. A few weeks ago, clearing out boxes of old papers, I found the document. I apparently hadn't saved it on any accessible computer or hard drive, so I had to re-type it. I'm posting it here. 

For the kids. 

And their kids. 

Maybe they'll be better organized when it's their turn to step up to the podium.

****** 

Memories of Ruth Finley 

Central Park 

Huntington Beach, California 

 January 20, 2002 

I think, if you were to ask my friends what they remember most about my mom, the first thing they wouldn’t say is, “strong leader” or “quick-witted, feisty councilwoman,” or even, “great Girl Scout leader." What they would probably say is, “Mrs. Finley never really did learn how to drive a stick shift.”
 

For those of my friends who suffered through stomach-churning years of carpooling back and forth in the Volkswagen van or the Volvo sedan, all I can say is, “Talk to my dad." He’s the one who didn’t get any of us a car with an automatic transition until we kids were grown and gone. 

What my mom lacked in the area of smooth transitions from second to third gear, she amply made up for in her own unique life-saving technique. If you’ve ever been the lucky passenger seated beside her in the front seat during a moment of (too) rapid approach to a stoplight, you’ll know what I mean. In the days before seatbelts became mandatory in cars, that strong right arm thrust firmly across your chest was, if not dignified, at least reassuring. 

Listening today to the reflections and tributes from people who remember my mom both personally and professionally, I marvel at the woman you knew. Unfortunately, self-absorbed teenager and young adult that I was, I missed out on a lot of what Mom was doing when she was in her prime. My sister Laura and I spent this past summer going over newspaper clippings and articles of my mom. It’s been fun reading about the woman you know. 

Of course, none of those articles highlighted the details of the woman I knew. 

The woman I remember is the one sitting somewhere—anywhere—it could be a quiet corner of a room, a small boat on a lake in Maine, or the crowded bleachers of Dodger Stadium—reading a good mystery. 

It’s the woman you might occasionally find at the end of a hectic day, seated at the piano, plunking out a few chords of a favorite hymn. 

The woman I remember is the one who always promised to “keep her fingers crossed,” who never hesitated to apprise you as to the contents of your head (usually it was “rocks”), and who was always quick to reassure new and sometimes frustrated young mothers that “this, too, shall pass.” 

“Housewife” may not be the first item on my mom’s resume, but the Ruth Finley I knew was, in addition to her outside involvements and commitments, a full-time mom. If all dinner consisted of was iceberg lettuce tossed with Wishbone Italian dressing, really overcooked pork chops, and a bowl of buttery, salted peas, dinner was on the table every night—even on those nights my dad came home from work at 8:15.

 

Betty Crocker she was not. She admittedly hated housework. But she was there when we got home from school. There are a lot of things that I admire about my mom, but for some reason, that ranks among the top. 

It’s possible my mom might have accomplished a lot more in life than she already has were it not for a husband, three kids, and a couple of dogs. But if you were to ask her today if she has any regrets, I think she’d raise her eyebrows, look at you as if you had rocks in your head, and say, “Not a one.”

Notes on Mom 

Born November 30, 1923 in Ramsey, New Jersey 

Died January 14, 2002 in Long Beach, California 

Laid to rest 

 

Redeemer Cemetery 

Church of the Redeemer

Mahwah, New Jersey

Published Obituaries

Daily Pilot 

(may be behind a paywall, sorry)

Dayle McIntosh Center

Pictures

A family classic

Mayor Ruth with my sister
(where was I?)
July 4th Parade
(1981)
Huntington Beach, California

The Little Prince and the Merchant: A Lesson for Today

 "Good morning," said the little prince. 

"Good morning," said the merchant. 

This was a merchant who sold pills that had been invented to quench thirst. You need only swallow one pill a week, and you would feel no need of anything to drink.

"Why are you selling those?" asked the little prince.

 

"Because they save a tremendous amount of time," said the merchant. "Computations have been made by experts. With these pills, you save fifty-three minutes in every week." 

"And what do I do with those fifty-three minutes?" 

"Anything you like . . ." 

"As for me," said the little prince to himself, "if I had fifty-three minutes to spend as I liked, I should walk at my leisure toward a spring of fresh water." 

The Little Prince, by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry (chapter 23)

Small chapter, big message. 

There's a metaphor here. I realize the author's life pre-dates our current technological advances, but the message here resonates with my suspicions regarding artificial intelligence. 

It all sounds so novel, so convenient. It saves us time. Frees our brains from the tedious minutiae of thinking. 

Adults are beguiled. 

Merchants see dollar signs. 

But I worry for my children's children. Babies, toddlers, kindergartners, school children, growing up where information is available instantaneously. What's not to like? Today's "merchants" make it all seem so marvelous. I read recently about Bill Gates fantasizing about the time when people will only have to work two days a week. Think of the time saved. 

But, at what cost? I've heard it said that work, no matter how menial, has its own rewards, that too much leisure has its downsides. Work—things like reading, building, creating, thinking. Things AI can now do for us in half the time. 

Perhaps the story of the little prince's encounter with the merchant is a metaphor for today:  the physical act of drawing water from a well, the pleasure of tasting, swallowing, drinking water, represents the satisfaction of being productive, of work, creativity, thinking, learning. 

 Time consuming, maybe. Laborious, perhaps. 

But has its own rewards?

*****

For a similar view, here's an article by a journalist in Paris. 

How I Realized AI Was Making Me Stupid--And What I Do Now

by Sam Schechner, Wall Street Journal (April 3, 2025)

Maybe There's "The Rest of the Story"

 A Plea to Calm Down

Lots of sturm und drang about Donald Trump's recent appearance at Arlington Cemetery. 

I've seen memes, posted even by friends I know (or thought I knew), actually wishing for Trump to die a horrible death because of this supposed faux pas. To say I'm disappointed in my friends might be an understatement. 

 If I'm understanding the situation correctly, it's not Trump's behavior that should be questioned here, but that of President Biden and Vice President Harris, as well. Apparently, all three of these officials were invited by members of the Gold Star families who lost loved ones at Abbey Gate, yet neither Biden nor Harris even accepted the invitation (see article, below). Needless to say, some of these families are furious at the president and vice president. 

This is less a rant than a plea to friends and acquaintances. 

Maybe wait for all the facts to come in before reacting to the latest news. 

Consider accepting the possibility that maybe there's "the rest of the story." 

Maybe take a moment to re-read "Desiderata," still lovely after all these years. Published in 1927, the poet encouraged us to "go placidly amid the noise and haste" and to "keep peace in your soul." 

He reminded us that, "With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world." 

Maybe try to remember, too, the words of our mothers--the wise ones, anyway--"This, too, shall pass." 

I will try to do the same.

**** 

This, Too, Shall Pass, or, Why I Prefer Trump to Harris

A Time for Choosing 

My best and only answer to why I’d prefer Trump to Harris is that, at least if Trump is elected, the press would “do its job.” With Harris (or any Democrat, for that matter), the press is actually doing everything but its job. It’s become advocates for the party, both in terms of how they cover the candidates and what they choose not to cover. 

When a society loses the press to party loyalty, we’re in trouble. Frankly, that’s what I fear more than a Donald Trump administration. 

Trump will be gone in a while. We can recover from him. I don’t think we can recover from the corruption of the Fourth Estate.