Eulogy to My Mother Bertha Downing, 11/1/1919 ‚ 9/7/2005
Presented at the Mass at Lady of Sorrows Catholic Church, 9/10/05

Its pretty hard to summarize the life of a person, especially when father Ignacio said I only had 45 minutes‚ just kidding‚ he said I had five minutes.

So I will cut to the chase. If you knew my father, you know that he was the head of our family. I don’t just mean he was the head of our family, I mean he was the HEAD of our family‚ the analytical, thinking, logical part, and he imparted to all of us the practical and analytical skills for life.

Well my Mom was the HEART of our family. She taught us about loving.

She taught us to love deeply, which she demonstrated with unreserved love for her children, for her husband Emerson of 52 years, and for all our family members, even ones that may have been temporarily estranged through life’s sometimes entangled circumstances.

From her we learned that expressing our feelings was a show of strength and not of weakness. She often felt and expressed our own feelings for us, when we could not get in touch with them ourselves.

She taught us to love broadly, through the nurturing of friends near and far, cultivated through their rich social lives in Mexico and Texas, and through their travels in Central America, Europe, and Canada. She nurtured relationships and mourned the deaths of friends near and far throughout her long life.

She made many friends here in the Valley, including people in her literature class, many of whom are here today, and she loved and admired their teacher, Dr. Rovira.

Our friends were also her friends, and she was warm and accepting of them, and always welcomed them into her house. (And I brought home some pretty strange people)

She taught us to express our love creatively, through her painting, playing the piano, preparing loving and nourishing meals, and creative writing (though the painting unfortunately never stuck with any of us).

She taught us that the boundaries of love were not limited to this physical world, through her deep religious faith and her relived and re-told memories of family members that had passed on.

The three of us had the fortune to spend her last few days at her side, have the last rights administered, and encourage her to let go and join Pop. On the morning of her death, after we had said our final good-byes and her cold body was removed from Cristy’s house, the three of us hugged each other, and one of us whispered “She is gone now, it is not up to us to keep her love going.

As for Cristy and Carlos, they have already been doing this through caring for her in their house all these years. And Lilly and Chet also, both close at hand, and Chet always thoughtful of her, bringing her books and suggesting food he thought she would enjoy.

For me, I can only hope that I learn to grow my heart large enough in my remaining years to fill the void that Bertha leaves behind.

She touched the lives of many, as all of you in attendance today know personally. Many that are not able to be here have emailed remembrances and poems that we put together on the large poster some of you have seen. I would like to share a couple of these with you.

The first was sent by my best friend in Boston, Michael Miller, who met my parents in way back in 1969 and several times after that.

Twenty years ago, shortly after Dan and Linda were married, I dropped by Sunnyside Lane to see Dan’s visiting parents. It was summer, it was humid and it was hot. That morning I’d grabbed a pair of white pants that were no longer work-worthy and ripped off the legs at mid-thigh. I thought I looked pretty good in my new shorts.

As I walked up to Bertha in the living room, flattered to be in the presence of this woman who taught Dan about emotional strength, I said, “Welcome to Lincoln.” She greeted me with a broad smile and an open heart as she had the first day we met, some ten years earlier. With Emerson I sometimes felt I had to prove myself, with Bertha I only felt I had to be myself.

She sat upright, with her perfectly combed dark hair, her hands crossed on her lap, and exuded elegance. I suddenly felt that maybe these new white shorts with the frayed legs weren’t so nifty. Bertha must have sensed my unease because she said, “Take off those shorts and I’ll hem them.”

I slipped my pants off in front of her and then, fifteen minutes later, back on, newly hemmed. I looked down for the third time that day and I thought, “Bertha made a better me.”

Bertha, you made all of us better. We’ll miss you.

This second is from my cousin Stephanie Bloem now living in North Carolina:

I remember Tia Bertha as being immensely kindhearted and loving and I remember these qualities as being especially noticeable when she visited her older (and – we all know meaner) sister Aida, my mom …

I remember how my dad (Bill Clark) used to call her “the Pink Lady” because she always did such great volunteer work at the hospital …

I remember her pastel Moctezuma …

I remember her singing Mr. Sandman …

I loved her very much and if I close my eyes I can see her playing canasta with your dad and with my parents somewhere on the other side …

This last one is from my son Greg.

I remember Aba best, through the eyes of a child.

As a child, I lived for her smile, for her laugh. I remember the feel of her and the sound of her voice; gentle, loving, calling me ‘sweetie’.

I remember the softness of the couch in her old home. The pine trees that would stand in the corner on the Christmases that I visited. The fruit trees that sat in the back yard that I would sit and look out at.

I remember, amusingly, that she bought me my first hand-held video game, though I cannot remember the name of it. Only her smile and my joy at her gift.

It is through the eyes of the child that I was, that a part of me will always hold her, wishing for those simpler days again. But it is with the heart of a man that I love and miss her so terribly now.

Wind to thy wings, Aba.

I will close with a poem by Hugh Robert Orr, sent by my favorite mother-in-law, retired Unitarian Universalist, Reverend Polly Guild:

They are not gone who pass
Beyond the clasp of hand,
Out from the strong embrace.
They are but come so close
We need not grope with hands,
Nor look to see, nor try
To catch the sound of feet.
They have put off their shoes
Softly to walk by day
Within our thoughts, to tread
At night our dream-led paths of sleep.

They are not lost who find the sunset gate,
The goal of all their faithful years.
Not lost are they who reach
The summit of their climb,
The peak above the clouds
And storm. They are not lost
Who find the light of sun
And stars and God.

They are not dead who live
in hearts they leave behind
In those whom they have blessed
They live a life again,
And shall live through the years
Eternal life, and grow
Each day more beautiful
As time declares their good
Forgets the rest, and proves
Their immortality.

Presented at the Roselawn Cemetery, 9/10/05

While they finish preparing the grave, now that we have all the time in the world, I would like to read another memory, this one from my cousin Pinky from Guatemala.

I remember with special tenderness watching her on Sundays celebrate Holy Mass. I found Mass boring in those youthful days, but Tia gave me something to think about — seeing her kneeling, attentive to the teachings, and absorbed in her meditation when the little bell rang during the consecration.

So mystical her conduct — that was the seed that grew in my heart: the desire to know what she knew and feel what she felt.

God bless you Tia — your example was the backbone of my life. Thank you for your patience and your kindness.

Good-bye Mom. By the way, I asked Chet if he had a good book to leave with you…but the said that he hopes instead now to inherit some of your prized ones.