For the past two weeks I have been with family in New York after the passing of my mother, Irene Magel. My mother was not sophisticated, but she was wise. She was not a celebrity nor was she known to all that many, but she was loved by all that knew her. She was not rich but she did possess a wealth of love and respect that comes with the life-long struggle of raising seven children. Most importantly, armed with her faith and convictions, she faced death without fear or question and with the satisfaction that her work on earth was not simply over, but was in fact, complete.
As I was growing up, history fascinated me. Reading about the early 20th century and how far we had progressed in that short span of time amazed me. It seemed like such a brief moment between the first flight of the Wright brothers and the supersonic Concorde; Goddard’s miniature rockets and the Apollo 11 moon landing; Marconi’s wireless and the cell phone. I attended the New York World’s Fair in 1965 and marveled at the bright, shiny future that was predicted for us. If only a portion of that was to come true, what a fantastic world it would be indeed.
I spoke with my parents about what it was like as they grew up; witnessing the vast differences between what was available to them in their childhood compared to the marvels of the modern world. I was a bit surprised that my mother didn’t find it all that amazing. It never dawned on me that looking at the quantum leap in the quality of life between 1920 and 1980 retrospectively, was entirely different than living through those changes one day at a time. After all, the earth didn’t move when cassette tapes gave way to CD’s or when pocket calculators were replaced by personal computers because those advances happened in incremental steps. Instead of listening to her stories of awe, I found that my mother’s perception of those changes were no different than my own experiences of living life in a dynamic and constantly changing world; mundane and hardly worth the attention. Instead, she found all of her joys and sorrows in the people that surrounded her life and paid very little attention to such trivial appliances.
My mother did tell me about the challenges she faced over the years. She was a mere eight years old when the stock market collapsed in 1929; thrusting her world into chaos and uncertainty. She rarely spoke about her own hardships during those years but as many that lived through that nightmare, she developed a compulsive frugality and would let nothing go to waste. I don’t think anyone that was alive during the great depression ever felt secure again and they would be haunted by a nagging fear for the rest of their lives that those dark days could return at any time and without warning.
Irene was born into a modest existence in Brooklyn, New York and while her childhood was unremarkable, it was still a part of the experiences that would shape her into the person she would become. The meager times and rough neighborhood could have taken her in any direction but she was devoutly religious and her faith would guide her through the years; steeling her against the influences that so many others fell pray to. She would eventually meet my father at a neighborhood party where my father volunteered to accompany her on her task to pick up hamburgers for the crowd. As they walked, they found a curious interest in each other. Before they ordered everyone else’s food, they decided to eat their burgers at the café while they sat and talked. My mother confessed that she wasn’t all that sure about my father because he was eleven years older than she was and to her, that was pretty darn old! Still, one thing led to another and despite the protests from her mother (my grandmother) she married my father just as World War II erupted.
My mother and father had very different personalities but unlike many couples today, found out that those differences complimented each other and that together they could accomplish things that neither would have been able to do alone. My father worked as a truck driver delivering home heating oil and would return each night exhausted and reeking of fuel oil. My mother worked to make a home for them and manage the meager pay my father earned at a time when so many others were out of work. Even though they struggled, their struggle must have seemed like a blessing compared to those that were living in makeshift shacks that dotted the edges of city dumps and vacant lots. While they were better off than many, they still faced the daily hardships of life during those stressful and unnerving years. To add to her list of hardships, my father would be drafted and deployed to the European theater while my mother was expecting their first son, Henry junior.
Unable to keep their apartment while my father fought in the war, my mother moved into her parent’s home while she awaited the arrival of her baby. As soon as she was able, she would work installing aircraft instruments not only to help provide for her son but to do her part for the war effort. While she labored in the factories, my father stormed the beaches of Normandy and would eventually make his way across France with General Patton’s Third Army. There were many nights my mother would shake in fear as the news broadcast the horrific stories of the casualties of war wondering if young Henry would ever meet his father. Though he was wounded several times, my father would survive the war and return to try and figure out how he would live with everything he had witnessed during that horrible campaign and my mother would forever be at his side to help him.
My mother told me the stories of how my father would push her from the bed and throw imaginary hand grenades in his sleep. Only God knows what he saw in the dark because he would never speak of what he faced during the war or what he would fight each night in his dreams. I do know that as my father approached his own death in 1986, he consulted a priest because he was deeply concerned about what he had to do during the war and how to reconcile God’s commandment against killing another human with the actions he was ordered to carry out. It was the one and only time I know of that he cried. Although the priest comforted him, reminding him that the destruction of that evil regime was in keeping with God’s plan for him and that his sins were already forgiven, I couldn’t help but feel a wave of profound sorrow for my father as I realized the heavy weight of the guilt that he had carried silently with him for over forty years.
My father’s experiences had shaped him and he would pass his sage wisdom on to me over the years. He provided me with a very clear view of right and wrong; good and bad, in terms that were rigid and painted in sharply contrasting black and white images. It would be my mother that softened the harsh lines between those two polar opposites and the small measure of gray that she added taught me compassion and forgiveness. It is her influence that gives me the ability to see the bigger picture; to add that little bit of understanding and empathy that makes me just a little more complete. To be perfectly clear, she was not contradicting my father but rather, adding the softness he kept hidden in his heart that we would not find his words. Like so many men of my father’s day, emotions did not come easy and he relied heavily on my mother to add that special touch for us.
I am not ashamed to say that I will miss my mother terribly, she was very special to me and we shared a bond that was unique, even among the others of our family. Thankfully, she also shared her faith with me so I am absolute in my belief that she is now in God’s hands and knowing her devotion to God, I am certain that she is basking in His Glory finally free from all of the pains and fears she suffered during her long struggle on this harsh planet. My children were equally blessed to have been a part of her life and all but my two youngest grandchildren were touched by her as well. Her funeral was surrounded by photographs and memories from our past and it was comforting to see that the services became a celebration of her life and not a statement of our grief over her passing.
Hers was a life of toil and sacrifice but she was neither bitter nor sorrowful. She gladly gave so that her children would have more than she did. She was meek and humble and never worried about how she would be remembered beyond the thoughts of her own children. She couldn’t begin to understand that she had more influence on my life than the most illustrious hero that ever lived throughout the ages. After I returned, I sat and rocked my grandson as I thought about my mother. I looked down at that sleeping child and saw some of my mother’s features on his tiny face. It was then that I realized that she isn’t really gone; she lives on quite happily in her children and her children’s children and that this was her final lesson for me.
Good night Mom, I love you.
Paul
As I was growing up, history fascinated me. Reading about the early 20th century and how far we had progressed in that short span of time amazed me. It seemed like such a brief moment between the first flight of the Wright brothers and the supersonic Concorde; Goddard’s miniature rockets and the Apollo 11 moon landing; Marconi’s wireless and the cell phone. I attended the New York World’s Fair in 1965 and marveled at the bright, shiny future that was predicted for us. If only a portion of that was to come true, what a fantastic world it would be indeed.
I spoke with my parents about what it was like as they grew up; witnessing the vast differences between what was available to them in their childhood compared to the marvels of the modern world. I was a bit surprised that my mother didn’t find it all that amazing. It never dawned on me that looking at the quantum leap in the quality of life between 1920 and 1980 retrospectively, was entirely different than living through those changes one day at a time. After all, the earth didn’t move when cassette tapes gave way to CD’s or when pocket calculators were replaced by personal computers because those advances happened in incremental steps. Instead of listening to her stories of awe, I found that my mother’s perception of those changes were no different than my own experiences of living life in a dynamic and constantly changing world; mundane and hardly worth the attention. Instead, she found all of her joys and sorrows in the people that surrounded her life and paid very little attention to such trivial appliances.
My mother did tell me about the challenges she faced over the years. She was a mere eight years old when the stock market collapsed in 1929; thrusting her world into chaos and uncertainty. She rarely spoke about her own hardships during those years but as many that lived through that nightmare, she developed a compulsive frugality and would let nothing go to waste. I don’t think anyone that was alive during the great depression ever felt secure again and they would be haunted by a nagging fear for the rest of their lives that those dark days could return at any time and without warning.
Irene was born into a modest existence in Brooklyn, New York and while her childhood was unremarkable, it was still a part of the experiences that would shape her into the person she would become. The meager times and rough neighborhood could have taken her in any direction but she was devoutly religious and her faith would guide her through the years; steeling her against the influences that so many others fell pray to. She would eventually meet my father at a neighborhood party where my father volunteered to accompany her on her task to pick up hamburgers for the crowd. As they walked, they found a curious interest in each other. Before they ordered everyone else’s food, they decided to eat their burgers at the café while they sat and talked. My mother confessed that she wasn’t all that sure about my father because he was eleven years older than she was and to her, that was pretty darn old! Still, one thing led to another and despite the protests from her mother (my grandmother) she married my father just as World War II erupted.
My mother and father had very different personalities but unlike many couples today, found out that those differences complimented each other and that together they could accomplish things that neither would have been able to do alone. My father worked as a truck driver delivering home heating oil and would return each night exhausted and reeking of fuel oil. My mother worked to make a home for them and manage the meager pay my father earned at a time when so many others were out of work. Even though they struggled, their struggle must have seemed like a blessing compared to those that were living in makeshift shacks that dotted the edges of city dumps and vacant lots. While they were better off than many, they still faced the daily hardships of life during those stressful and unnerving years. To add to her list of hardships, my father would be drafted and deployed to the European theater while my mother was expecting their first son, Henry junior.
Unable to keep their apartment while my father fought in the war, my mother moved into her parent’s home while she awaited the arrival of her baby. As soon as she was able, she would work installing aircraft instruments not only to help provide for her son but to do her part for the war effort. While she labored in the factories, my father stormed the beaches of Normandy and would eventually make his way across France with General Patton’s Third Army. There were many nights my mother would shake in fear as the news broadcast the horrific stories of the casualties of war wondering if young Henry would ever meet his father. Though he was wounded several times, my father would survive the war and return to try and figure out how he would live with everything he had witnessed during that horrible campaign and my mother would forever be at his side to help him.
My mother told me the stories of how my father would push her from the bed and throw imaginary hand grenades in his sleep. Only God knows what he saw in the dark because he would never speak of what he faced during the war or what he would fight each night in his dreams. I do know that as my father approached his own death in 1986, he consulted a priest because he was deeply concerned about what he had to do during the war and how to reconcile God’s commandment against killing another human with the actions he was ordered to carry out. It was the one and only time I know of that he cried. Although the priest comforted him, reminding him that the destruction of that evil regime was in keeping with God’s plan for him and that his sins were already forgiven, I couldn’t help but feel a wave of profound sorrow for my father as I realized the heavy weight of the guilt that he had carried silently with him for over forty years.
My father’s experiences had shaped him and he would pass his sage wisdom on to me over the years. He provided me with a very clear view of right and wrong; good and bad, in terms that were rigid and painted in sharply contrasting black and white images. It would be my mother that softened the harsh lines between those two polar opposites and the small measure of gray that she added taught me compassion and forgiveness. It is her influence that gives me the ability to see the bigger picture; to add that little bit of understanding and empathy that makes me just a little more complete. To be perfectly clear, she was not contradicting my father but rather, adding the softness he kept hidden in his heart that we would not find his words. Like so many men of my father’s day, emotions did not come easy and he relied heavily on my mother to add that special touch for us.
I am not ashamed to say that I will miss my mother terribly, she was very special to me and we shared a bond that was unique, even among the others of our family. Thankfully, she also shared her faith with me so I am absolute in my belief that she is now in God’s hands and knowing her devotion to God, I am certain that she is basking in His Glory finally free from all of the pains and fears she suffered during her long struggle on this harsh planet. My children were equally blessed to have been a part of her life and all but my two youngest grandchildren were touched by her as well. Her funeral was surrounded by photographs and memories from our past and it was comforting to see that the services became a celebration of her life and not a statement of our grief over her passing.
Hers was a life of toil and sacrifice but she was neither bitter nor sorrowful. She gladly gave so that her children would have more than she did. She was meek and humble and never worried about how she would be remembered beyond the thoughts of her own children. She couldn’t begin to understand that she had more influence on my life than the most illustrious hero that ever lived throughout the ages. After I returned, I sat and rocked my grandson as I thought about my mother. I looked down at that sleeping child and saw some of my mother’s features on his tiny face. It was then that I realized that she isn’t really gone; she lives on quite happily in her children and her children’s children and that this was her final lesson for me.
Good night Mom, I love you.
Paul
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