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
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
(may be behind a paywall, sorry)
Pictures
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A family classic |
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Mayor Ruth with my sister (where was I?) July 4th Parade (1981) Huntington Beach, California |
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