Dear Katty, Maura and Erin,

One of the joys of my life is being able to share your adulthood with you. Mom and I have seen you grow and mature into caring, thinking, and curious young adults, navigating your unique journeys. Hopefully, fate will allow us to continue to witness those journeys for many years to come. As a result, you, also, have been able to experience life with us during your young adulthood, for better or for worse. That was not the case for me with my parents as both my mom and dad died at a relatively young age. Since you never knew them, I am hoping to give you a sense of who they were through my recollections of growing up as their son. Here is the story of my mom, your grandmother – “Grandma”, based on those recollections.

The Wonder Years
The 1960’s and the 1970’s were a particularly transitional time in history and an interesting time to come of age in the United States. Music saw arguably its most drastic change during this period as artists appropriated and began to incorporate the hard pounding drums, (and sometimes horns), of the Big Band Era, the slick guitar riffs of Black rhythm & blues, country music and the thematic lyrics of folk artists all combined to create Rock and Roll. For the first time in history, media, especially TV, put news and events into the homes of most Americans. Civil rights protests and resulting laws, Vietnam War protests and the violent overreaction by the government, the 60’s drug culture, the moon landing, Woodstock, the Watergate scandal, the Summer of Love, etc. were all changing the social and political landscape for our generation. 50 years later we still refer to this period as a benchmark. New scandals regardless of genre usually have “gate” attached to them in reference to Watergate, (Governor Christie’s “Bridgegate” in 2013 is an example). Each protest march is compared to the 1963 civil rights “March on Washington” and each music festival is compared to Woodstock, are a few examples.

I can remember all those events unfolding and seeing them almost in real time while sitting in our living room watching our black and white, and then later color, television set. We had a very small house that was located on a cul-de-sac street in Riverdale, NJ where every other house was identical; either a modest Cape Cod like ours or an even more modest one-story ranch. Our living room had a TV, one couch, and one armchair in which my dad would sit every night smoking his Chesterfield cigarettes one after another. My mom would be sitting on the couch and my brother Bob usually sat on the floor and I, in true mama’s boy fashion, would lay on the couch with my head on my mom’s lap. Jim graduated high school in 1965 and was off at college, so we didn’t see him that much during those years, except in the summers

The culture of the Kerns household was very different to what was unfolding on our TV screen. We were a very traditional, patriarchal family. As a young cisgender boy, especially during this time, it was not unusual to identify more with my father than my mother, although as I alluded to above, I was told that I was a bit of a “mama’s boy”. I have often reflected on my father’s influence on my life, and it wasn’t until just recently that I came to understand the impact that my mother had on who I became as an adult. In many ways her influence was more profound. This is grandma’s story as remembered by me.

Mildred Veronica McGuire
Your grandmother, Mildred Veronica McGuire, (Millie), was the 6th child of eight born to John and Agnes McGuire on May 9th, 1923, in Jersey City NJ. She graduated high school, which was an early indication of her silent determination as this was not guaranteed for a young woman in the early 20th century. I have not found pictures of her high school graduation but here is her 8th grade diploma and 14 year old Millie wearing her 8th grade graduation gown.

Here are some early pictures of Grandma

Millie married James Milton Kerns on May 18th, 1946, after he returned home from serving in the Pacific in World War II.

For any outside observer my parents’ marriage would not have seemed any more remarkable than any other marriage during that time. It was quite provincial, in fact. My brother, Jim, was born on March 17th, 1947, and was the quintessential Baby Boomer. Everything was lining up that they would continue to live by the traditional patriarchal familial formula of the father working and the mother staying home to raise the number of children that were sure to come. However, grandma had some medical issues after Jim was born and the possibility of having additional children was put in doubt.

I assume my mom and dad must have resigned themselves to the fact that Jim would be an only child as years went by without any more pregnancies. That is until 7 years later when they became pregnant with their second child and Bob was born on February 11th, 1955. My birth followed three years later; on May 25, 1958.

My recollection of your grandmother during my childhood was that she was a very calm determined woman who took care of household chores and the responsibilities of raising her children, while my dad worked 9 to 5, 5 days a week. (That’s not to say she didn’t have her excitable moments). My parents’ lives were very “1960s”! Their parental roles checked all the traditional boxes with dad being the bread winner and disciplinarian, while Millie took on the role of stay-at-home mom and homemaker (while also being a disciplinarian in her own way). In these roles, Papa Kerns Sr’s influence over me was obvious, however Millie’s influence was more subtle. I recall several events that showed her quiet independence which, in hindsight, were just as influential in my life as dad’s overt guidance, and, as I said above, in some respects maybe more so.

The Happy Homemaker
Grandma took the role of homemaker very seriously. In my recollection she was always cleaning or ironing our clothes and sheets (yes, sheets), and of course she cooked. I would be remiss if, in a story about my mom, I didn’t describe her cooking. Let’s just say she was the perfect cook for the meat and potatoes man that was my father. Both my mom and dad grew up in very poor Irish American families in Jersey City, NJ. The McGuire family lived in a tenement building on Johnston Avenue near what is now Liberty State Park, and The Kerns family rented many places in the Heights section of the city that sits above Hoboken. Out of economic necessity, gourmet meals were not on either families’ top priority list. There was no famous family recipe that was handed down from generation to generation, with one exception - mashed potatoes. I know that sounds very stereotypically Irish, but honestly, grandma’s mashed potatoes were the best. All others have been compared to hers over my life, at least by me. With regards to the rest of what she cooked; it was all about my dad. He liked his beef with just a hint of pink, so my mom cooked her roast beef medium well. Dad liked calves’ liver, so mom cooked calves’ liver. Dad did not like Italian food, so we rarely had pasta, unless it was Franco American Spaghetti in a can. In fact, I can recall that dad would have Franco American Spaghetti and tuna fish (from the can) on many a Friday night. We were Irish Catholic after all, and no good Catholic ate meat on Friday. It got to the point that my mom wouldn’t even make tuna salad; grandpa would just have an opened can of Starkist tuna fish next to his plate that was filled with the gooey salty pasta. I could go on about her tasteless meatloaf and vegetables from a can, but you get the point. Finally, any discussion about grandma and cooking would not be complete without mentioning beans. I hate beans, truly! They’re sticky and gummy and pasty all at the same time. While it has become a bit of a joke over the years as to how much I actually hate beans, it was no joke to me as a child. If, perhaps, I was introduced to beans in Mexican food or other interesting cuisines then I might have a different reaction to these disgusting creations of nature. However, my introduction to the world of legumes was canned, smelly, mushy, gummy lima beans (shudder). Once again, it was all about what dad liked. Dad loved lima beans, so my mom force fed us lima beans. At least that’s what it felt like. Damn, they were disgusting, and unfortunately all other beans are compared to those green/yellow slippery, gummy things that came in those cans. Ugh!

Interestingly enough, grandma’s Thanksgiving and Christmas feasts were amazing. I wonder if that was because those were the times that the McGuire family allowed themselves the luxury of enjoying a lavish meal, so perhaps that is their culinary legacy. I was a very picky eater in my youth, (not just with beans), but my mom was not one to cook something different for me, (sometimes she would let me have a bowl of Cheerios). I remember a few nights when there was a battle of wills between me and her and I would end up staring at a cold plate of food for hours because I refused to eat it. She never yelled about it, or lectured me about starving children in the world, but would also not give in. As a final point to the very traditional and bland meals that we ate, it wasn’t until I was a junior in college before I even tried something remotely as exotic as an egg roll, and that was because I only had $0.50 to my name while out one night and a food truck was selling egg rolls for $0.50 each.

When Duty Calls
Millie was one of the first mothers in our neighborhood to get a job. (With the exception of Mrs. Annick who was a grammar schoolteacher. The Annick’s lived across the street from our house, and Tom Annick was one of my childhood friends). She became a “lunch lady” at my grammar school, and then soon became the dreaded playground monitor. At the time, nothing could have been more embarrassing to me since she would discipline the kids who would misbehave on the playground, and some of them were my friends. I was mortified. Of course, I had no idea that my parents needed the extra money to help pay for expenses as Jim started college in 1965, and grandma swallowed her pride to take this menial job. The location was ideal, though, as the school was walking distance from our house, and she could be home by the time Bob and I got home from school. The pay must not have been very good, and the hassles of dealing with the shenanigans of grade school children must not have been very enjoyable. However, my parents needed more money and Millie figured out a way to get additional income for the family while still being available for her children. She was successful at straddling the expected role of stay-at-home mom while still contributing to the financial security of her family. As impressive as that is, all I cared about was that my mom was the tough “playground lady” and my friends were torturing me.

As we grew older and more independent grandma would take other more lucrative jobs to help with finances. Most of these jobs were in retail. One of those jobs was working the candy kiosk at Klein’s Department Store in the West Belt Mall in Wayne, NJ. We all loved when she had that job as she would often come home with candy and nuts. This is when I developed my compulsion for Swedish Fish, chocolate covered peanut clusters, and cashew nuts.

Not soon after Millie started working at Riverdale Elementary School, she also volunteered to teach CCD classes in our home. CCD religion classes are to teach young Catholics about their religion and in our St. Mary’s parish these classes were taught by volunteers in their homes during the week. At that time my mom was a devout Catholic having been raised by strict Irish Catholic parents, (well, her mother mainly). During one of these classes, she was comparing the bible of the Old Testament to the New Testament, and she said that the stories told in the Old Testament were parables. When one of the kids in the class asked what a “parable” was she explained that they were stories to teach a lesson or make a point. That child went home and told his mom that Mrs. Kerns said the bible wasn’t true and that they were made up stories. That other mom complained to the parish priest, and the CCD class was taken away from her without notice. She was crushed and embarrassed, felt betrayed and became disillusioned with the church. She was still a devout Catholic, but instead of being humiliated by attending the same church that insulted her she made the strong and difficult choice to continue her faith on her own.

At about the same time as the CCD travesty occurred, I had gotten into a fist fight with another 6th grade boy (Andy) after school. It was a fight that started with a bit of pushing and shoving during school, but it was broken up by the Vice Principal before it got really physical. We secretly vowed to continue it after school. Apparently, it wasn’t so secret as by the time Andy and I met at our chosen location, which was the church yard just off school grounds, there was a crowd of kids. When the fight started a roar erupted from the small crowd which got the attention of the Vice Principal who was getting in his car to go home for the night. He quickly came over and broke up the fight, (which was good for me as I was getting my butt kicked). The Vice Principal told us to see him first thing in the morning. When I got home my mom saw my black eye and wanted to know how the other kid looked. When I said I got the worst of it, she sighed, “boys will be boys”, and then nonchalantly said that I hope I learned my lesson about choosing violence to solve problems. I was a bit taken aback that she showed little concern for my bruised face and my bruised ego, but I was also relieved that she was not mad. The next morning the Vice Principal suspended Andy and me for fighting which was a suspendable offense at our school. My mother wasn’t having it.

The school called our homes for someone to come collect us, and my mother came in on fire. In front of me, Andy, Andy’s mom, and a few teachers she unleashed her fury on the Vice Principal, (who, by the way, was also her old boss). She told him he had no right to discipline her child for actions that took place off school grounds. That was her job!! She demanded that not only my suspension be vacated but Andy’s as well, as long as that was ok with Andy’s mom. We both returned to class. GO MOM!

Grandma and her Siblings
Grandma loved her siblings very much and she was the happiest when all of the families would get together, which was often. Most of these get togethers would take place at the home of two of her sisters; Grace and Betty (who we called Aunt Peach for some reason). Grace and Betty lived with their families in a two-family house in North Arlington, NJ and these get togethers were usually fun loving affairs. Often her brother George and his family would join in the fun as well. There were many barbeques, New Year’s Eve parties, etc. There were many cousins that would all get along and it is all the picture of happiness in my mind. Looking back, what made it so, was the laughter. My mom and her sisters would sit and talk and reminisce and laugh. It would be the type of laughter that included happy tears and complaints of stomach hurting from laughing. Just writing that last sentence brought a smile to my face.

Millie’s siblings in order of birth were John, George, Francis (Ike), Agnes (Sis), Millie, Betty (Peach) and Grace. I believe there was another child who was the first child who died very young. As of the date of writing this, there are 2 surviving siblings: Grace (95 years old) and Betty (97 years old).

THE MCGUIRE CLAN
Top Row: Betty, John, Agnes, Ike, George and Grace. Bottom Row: my Grandmother - Agnes, Millie, Papa Kerns Sr., my Grandfather - John

Top Row: Millie, George, Sis Top Row: Adele (George’s wife), Betty, Rich (Grace’s husband), Grace, Agnes Bottom Row: Grace, Great Aunt Mae, Betty Bottom Row: George, Grandpa, Grandma (holding your cousin Carrie), Ike
(My uncle John is not in the picture as he died just a few months before this picture
was taken)

Random Stories
There are a number of random events and stories that have stuck with me over the years, and as I conjure them up now it occurs to me how much they influence who I have become as a person. Of course, you don’t know or appreciate that when they occur, but I’m glad I have taken this time to reflect.

The Early Years
As I have already mentioned we lived on a suburban cul-de-sac street. It was a typical 1950’s suburban development during a time that many of these cookie-cutter developments were being built to accommodate the big demand resulting from “white flight” from the cities. We were the initial owners of 92 Newbury Place, Riverdale NJ. As a small boy this was my world. It was the only one I knew, and I loved being there. I have some very early memories growing up in this house and in that neighborhood. Our house was 2-minute walk down the street from our local elementary school and as a preschooler I could not wait for the day that I would join the big kids and walk to school. The Riverdale Elementary School had a full-blown music education department that included a concert band, a marching band, and a chorus. While there were no football games for the marching band to perform, they did march in the town’s annual Memorial Day parade. To practice marching, the band would march up and down Newbury Place. As a small pre-school age child, I would get so excited when on practice days I would hear the bass drum in the distance. It was springtime and the air was getting warm, the buds were popping on the trees, daffodils were pushing up in the garden and my mom and I would go out and sit on our front stoop to watch and listen. The smells and sights and sounds are all still very vivid. It was a scene of innocence. A 4-year-old child with his mom enjoying something so exciting it made him laugh with joy.

It was an elementary school band after all, so the quality must not have been great, but I do remember that my mom really seemed to enjoy it as much as I did, but maybe it wasn’t just the band.

Fast forward a few years to when I was old enough to be in that marching band. When we would march up and down Newbury Place practicing for the Memorial Day Parade there was my mom sitting on the front stoop watching us, tapping her feet, and smiling.

Discipline
My parents, as a rule, hardly ever used spanking or other physical forms of child punishment. In fact, I can remember only three instances when a hand was raised, and only one of those times was it raised in anger. The first instance is memorable, not because it was harsh – in fact it was quite lame – but because it was the first time. Bob and I were quite young and still bathed together. We must have been fighting about something and my father was a bit frustrated as he yelled for us to stop a few times. We were naked as we came out of the bathroom as our pajamas were in our room and had to walk by his chair to go upstairs. As we passed him, we each got one quick smack on our naked butts with the back of his hand. As I said it didn’t even hurt, it just surprised us. Neither one of us had ever been spanked before. Of course, I cried like he took a belt to me. The other two instances involved grandma.

I am known to be a bit of a pyromaniac when it comes to fireplaces and firepits. I love sitting in front of roaring fire and meditating. The attraction of fire started at an early age. I got caught “playing with matches” more than once and when it was found out that I was throwing lit matches into the small stream that ran at the end of our street in the presence of a 5-year-old (I was probably about 10 years old), that was enough for my mom. She confronted me and when I fessed up to my crime, she told me to pull my pants down and bend over her knee. She calmly counted out 25 smacks. Again, these were not hard smacks (they did sting a bit, though) but the humiliation was too much. Once again, I cried like a baby.

The final instance was actually pretty scary. I was about 11 years old. Grandma was now working more hours at a retail store, so Bob and I were to take care of ourselves after school. On one such Autumn day after school when the weather was starting to turn brisk, I left the door open to the house when I went out to be with my friends. There was a screen door, but the main door was wide open. Since it was cold outside the heat in the house was blasting and the house was like a steam bath. I happened to walk in the door just after my mom got home from work and she was very angry. I had never seen her this angry before (at least at me). She was screaming about my lack of responsibility and that she had to work because we couldn’t afford all the bills and expenses and here I was “HEATING THE WHOLE GOD-DAMNED NEIGHBORHOOD”. I was standing next to the kitchen table, and she picked up her high-heeled shoe and raised as if to hit me. I backed away from her and hit my head on the corner of the table. It was hard enough that it drew blood. She went from angry to remorseful in a split second and began sobbing, hugging me, saying she was sorry and pleaded for me to forgive her. I was scared from the fear of almost being hit with a high-heeled shoe, but more so by her emotional swings. I didn’t know what to do. She calmed down and began making dinner. At 11 years old I had no concept of what menopause or perimenopause was, but whatever the cause I didn’t like it at all. There was more of that to come in the years that followed, but most of it was directed at my dad.

As an epilogue to this event, the next time she yelled at me for something I did, that probably justify being reprimanded, I, thinking back at that event then asked her, “So, mom. Are you sorry again?” Not a good move, and one that wasn’t going to be repeated.

Sing Along With Mitch
Both of my parents grew up with alcoholism in their families, however neither of them drank all that much. I have often spoken about a bottle of Seagram’s 7 Whiskey that sat in the cabinet above the refrigerator for my entire childhood. I imagine seeing the effects of alcoholism at a very early age may have been the reason they stayed away from drinking. That said, they were known to imbibe at the occasional family party. One such occasion stands out in my memory.

As I have said, Millie loved being with her siblings and we often visited them. We were at a party at her sister Grace’s house for some event that I don’t recall. Coming of age in the 1940’s music was a big part of the “Greatest Generation”, and my parents, aunts and uncles were not immune. Many of these family get togethers would include a lot of very bad singing along to records. At this particular party my older brother, Jim, had a reel-to-reel tape recorder, which was really exciting. Think of it….none of us had ever heard our own recorded voices before and the adults were simply fascinated. That fascination seemed to grow the later in the evening it got and the more alcohol that was consumed. One of the records the adults would sing to was called, appropriately enough, “Sing Along with Mitch Miller”. Grandma could not remember his name and kept on calling him Mitch Mitchell. When Jim played back the tape with them singing and Millie continuing to say “Mitch Mitchell” they all roared with laughter. A great memory!

Mom the Protector
Baseball was a big part of my childhood and most of my baseball memories with regards to my parents involved my dad. That’s not to say that grandma wasn’t a fan. She, along with grandpa, would attend as many of our little league games as their schedules would allow. There was one game that stands out. I was about 8 years old and not yet old enough to play little league, but Bob was. He was playing in a game that, it turns out, included my other brother Jim as one of the umpires, (no favoritism, I swear). Jim was in college at the time, and he was just picking up a little extra summer spending money as an umpire. My parents were both in the bleachers watching the game and I was playing in a nearby playground with my friends. This was the epitome of Americana, a virtual Norman Rockwell painting. Those summer nights at the ball field encompass many of my summer memories as a child, most of these are the memories that bring a sense of safety and comfort. Then….there was this game.

Bob’s team, the Pirates, were playing the Dodgers. The parent who coached the Dodgers was a known hothead. He was one of those obnoxious competitive sports parents who had lost sight of the purpose of little league. The type that wants to win no matter the cost.

The Pirates, Bob’s team, was in the field and the Dodgers were batting. In addition to Jim, who was the field umpire, another college kid by the name of Bobby Kopp, was the umpire behind home plate. There was a close call at the home plate and Bobby Kopp called the Dodger runner out. The coach went ballistic. He ran out of the dugout and started screaming at poor Bobby and even started to push him. Luckily Bobby was wearing the chest protector that umpires wore in those days. Jim then came over to try to calm the coach down, but the coach turned around and took a swing at my brother. He missed, but that was all my dad had to see. He came rushing out of the bleachers and tried to tackle the coach. No more Normal Rockwell. My father was adamant that no one, other than he or my mom, had any right to touch one of his sons, not even one of the other sons. Here’s the thing though, Dad was only 5’ 6” and the other coach was much bigger and stronger. Soon after my father rushed on to the field all the other dads who were watching the game ran onto the field to try to break up the fight. Let me rephrase that…it was all the other dads and one mom. Our mom! I was sitting in the dirt of the playground watching all of this unfold and the sight that stays with my 8-year-old mind was that of my petite little mother jumping up and down on top of the dads on the field yelling, “DON’T YOU HURT MY SON! DON’T YOU HURT MY SON.” The last image I have of this event was Bobby Kopp getting to his feet in the middle of the melee and shouting, “GAME CANCELED”.

The Master Wrapper
You girls know that I wrap all the gifts in our family (even the gifts for me), and I have done so since you were babies. In fact, I would pride myself on my wrapping prowess and I would challenge myself every Christmas to end up with as little paper waste as possible. There is one reason for this: grandma’s arthritis, and your mom, of course, was happy to relinquish this activity to me. Millie suffered from arthritis in her fingers for as long as I remember which made wrapping gifts very difficult. At a very early age I would help her wrap the gifts for other members of the family. I always wondered why, in Christmas movies and TV shows, Santa would always leave wrapped presents under the tree, but the presents under our tree were never wrapped. It was too painful for my mom and my dad, well…that’s something he wouldn’t have done, so Santa’s toys were always unwrapped when we came down Christmas morning. Over the years I became the sole wrapper, and I became quite good at it. Me staying up to all hours on Christmas Eve/morning to finish wrapping presents by the roaring fire in the fireplace (and a glass of scotch or two) is one of the Christmas traditions of your youth, and it started when I was a young boy wrapping presents because my mom was unable to do it. Those long Christmas Eve’s were very enjoyable to me, and not just because of the joy it would bring all of you when you woke up the next morning. It was a time for me to reflect and reminisce about my childhood.

Wrapping remnants and the Christmas Eve fire

On Her Own
I do not recall any specific stories or events that stand out during my teenage years with regards to my relationship with my mom. My relationship with my father was another story as he was the one who dealt with those awkward years of sexual discovery and the other usual pre-teen and teen issues that arise. However, as I made the transition into young adulthood tragic circumstances required that my relationship with my mom, once again, was to become front and center.

Around 1975 my father decided to retire from his job at the Bendix Corporation. He was about 55 years old, and this was going to drastically change my parents’ life. The had never traveled alone together and they planned a cross country road trip to visit Jim who was living with his family in Orange, California. They were really looking forward to this trip, or so I thought. Apparently, my dad was not in good health at the time. This was something he kept to himself for the most part, but my mom knew that a cross country driving trip was not a good idea. Turns out she was right. By the time they arrived in California my dad’s angina was so bad that they didn’t know if it was safe for them to take the chance to do the return trip by car the east coast, but they did.

After they got home and after finally seeing a doctor about his condition my dad was scheduled for a quadruple bypass surgery. This was a case of “the operation was a success, but the patient died”. He had the operation in the fall of 1979, and they discovered that he had stage 4 lung cancer. He died on December 21, 1979. Grandma was devastated and terrified!

As I have previously mentioned, my mom took on the role of homemaker, and for her generation that meant taking care of “domestic chores”, which did not include finances. My father was careful to take care of one financial item, however. He structured his life insurance policy so that the death benefit was enough to cover the remaining mortgage on the house. Beyond that, grandma was left with nothing, and was frightened of the unknown future. Because grandpa was a veteran, she did receive increase Social Security death benefits which was at least some form of financial security, but she knew that she had to go back to work if she was to keep the house. My dad also did not do a very good job training me on handling household finances either, and with Bob being in his period of heavy drinking and Jim being out in California the care-giver responsibilities had to fall on me. With some help from Jim and others I was able to at least guide her, and she soon became comfortable with taking care of the finances, albeit with some trepidation. BUT there was another major hurdle to clear. Millie had never learned how to drive. Now at the age of 56, if she was to keep the house she needed to go back to work and mass transit was not going to be an option. She was going to need to learn how to drive. I volunteered to teach her.

She was making progress with her driving, although learning how to drive at 56 years old must add a bit of anxiety as you are not as adventurous as 16-year-old teenager. She was very nervous at times but was making progress until it was time to teach her the 3-point turn, also known as the K-turn. I wanted to find a spot that was remote enough so the chance of an encounter with another vehicle would be slim, and at the same time was an actual road. I thought I found that perfect spot. It was the road leading to the Lady of Magnificat church in Kinnelon, NJ. The road was only used for the church and had the added benefit of being in a bit of a “bowl” whereby the road was flanked by hills on both sides. Thanks to Google Earth here is a bird’s eye view of this road and I highlighted where it is in that bowl.

To teach her the technique I did the 3-point turn a few times and explained each step until she indicated she was ready to give it a try. When she started, she turned the car to the left up to the opposite curb and then went to apply the brake, but instead she pressed down on the gas pedal. The car lurched up the side of that hill and instead of taking her foot off the gas, she panicked and put the gas pedal to the floor. We got stuck in some heavy brush and mud and the wheels were spinning in the mud as she continued to press the gas pedal. My pleas for her to put her foot on the brake went unheeded as she was stuck in an all-out panic attack. I reached my leg over to the driver’s side, applied the brake and put the car into park. As you can see from the photo, we were on at least a 45-degree angle staring up into the sky. The car’s front seat was a bench style, so I told her to move over to the passenger side while I got out and navigated around the car, holding on to the car since the hill was very steep. I got into the driver’s seat, backed down the hill and asked her if she wanted to try again. Grandma said, through her tears, “Bring me home.”

I really thought grandma was done with trying to learn how to drive, but she was actually done learning how to drive with me has her instructor. As was the case throughout her life, her quiet determination kicked in and she hired a professional driving instructor to take over. She ultimately did get her driver’s license and got a job working in retail a few towns over from Riverdale. She did not like to drive and did not venture to many other places, other than maybe to the supermarket. However, one day she did take a big risk and drove the 30-minute ride to her sisters’ house in North Arlington which is not an easy drive. We were all proud of her when she did it, but she said she would never do it again. She was terrified.

This was a tough time for my mom, and as I look back on these years, I realize just how tough they were. I do regret not being more patient with her. I was 21 years old when my dad died, but from a maturity standpoint I really was much younger. I was not prepared for the role that was thrust upon me, which was being caregiver for my mother. At first the role was more of a “substitute partner”, if you will. I had to teach her how to manage the finances of the house (after all I was an accounting major), although I had never done so on my own, nor was I taught how. She needed to learn how to drive, and I attempted to teach her. As I mentioned, Jim was in California, so distance prevented him from participating all that much and Bob was struggling with his alcoholism. However, through all of this Millie persevered. She did manage for many years on her own.

One Way Ticket
During the years when grandma was doing relatively well mom and I thought it would be a great idea, as a Christmas gift, to send her to visit Jim and his family in California. She had no obligation at that time (she had since retired), so after speaking with Jim we bought her a one-way ticket. I was the brunt of some good-natured ribbing when folks heard that I bought a one-way ticket for my mother to leave town, but we wanted her to know that she could stay and visit with Jim and his family for as long as she desired. Unfortunately, it did not turn out as we had planned.

This was the early 1980s and mom and I did not have much in terms of savings, so we couldn’t afford an expensive plane ticket. We were able to get a good deal on a flight which had a layover in Denver, Colorado. Grandma was very nervous as she had never been on a plane before, and as much as we tried to reassure her it would be fine, she was still scared. We had everything laid out for her including what to do when she got to Denver to find her connecting flight.

We felt badly that our attempt to bring her joy by giving her a chance to see her Jim, his wife Kathie and her grandkids, Carrie, and Kelly, was bringing her such anxiety, but we thought that once she got to California it would be worth it. She did arrive in California safely, but it was not without a major incident. When the flight got to Denver there was a snowstorm that grounded all flights leaving Denver. Millie became paralyzed with fear. She didn’t know what to do. According to her she just stood there in the terminal crying. Fortunately, one of the flight attendants noticed her and asked her if she was okay. Even though the airline was providing hotel rooms for the passengers and made announcements with instructions, grandma stood there totally helpless. This very kind flight attendant was able to assist her and made sure she made it to the bus that brought the passengers to the hotel. She did make it back to the airport the next morning and was able to board the flight to California.

We did not find out about any of this until after grandma reached Jim’s house and Jim called us to let us know that she made it there safely. If I recall correctly, her visit wasn’t the happy reunion we had hoped it would be as the trauma of the flight to California stayed with her during her visit and she was anxious about the eventual flight home. Like they say, “The path to hell is paved with good intentions.”

Despite the trip debacle, for about 5 years or so, Millie lived a quiet, independent life. Then illness took over.

Emphysema
As long as I can remember grandma had this persistent cough. Not so much as a cough, as much as it was a tickle in her throat. Occasionally, however, she would endure a prolonged coughing fit which was a bit scary as it would be violent and go on for a few minutes until her face was beet red and she couldn’t breathe. Because of this she would always keep cough drops and/or mints in her purse. Sometime in the early to mid 1980’s she developed persistent shortness of breath and went to the doctors to have it looked at.

Our family doctor’s name for my entire childhood was Dr. Thomas Shivey, but he was just a general practitioner, so he sent her to see a pulmonologist. I went with her when she visited Dr. Bergman when he told her she had Emphysema, a progressive, incurable disease that would eventually be fatal. This frightened her immensely.

As a result of the CCD incident with St. Mary’s Church back when I was in 6th grade, grandma had long since stopped attending mass. This led to skepticism regarding all the Church’s teachings, including the existence of heaven. As a result, she became very frightened of death. After being told that her disease would eventually take her life, she lived the rest of her life, about 8 years, in fear of dying. This saddens me to this day.

For those 8 years my relationship with your grandmother became that of a caregiver. I would visit her often, do her shopping and even cut her nails. Mostly she needed company. The disease did begin to take her breath away and she eventually needed an oxygen tank 24 hours per day to help her breathe. Her one joy during this period from when my dad died until her passing was being able to see her grandchildren. She spent some time with your cousin’s Carrie, Kelly, Jimmy, Joey and, also, Katty for short while. But when breathing became difficult even with the oxygen, the illness began to take its toll. It was at this time that I saw that quiet determination leave her. Grandma was so frightened and bitter that she became very ornery and unpleasant. Even though she feared death tremendously, she would rather face it then live every day fighting for each breath. When the disease got so bad that she was unable to function without 24-hour care, we needed to place her into a nursing home, which sapped any remaining fight from her and she died very soon after that, on September 16, 1992.

Grandma’s Legacy
Girls, your grandmother was someone who kept her emotions mostly to herself until later in life. Her relationship with her children did not include showing affection or even saying that she loved us. It wasn’t her way; however, she showed her love for her family in that quiet determination when she was taking care of the household, her children, and her husband.

I wish I realized sooner the impact that my mother had on me, how much her influence aided me as I navigated through the challenges of life, and, ultimately, how she influenced who I have become. I wish I could have realized all of this when she was still alive. I would have told her often. I miss my mom.

Love
Dad

“We never touch people so lightly that we do not leave a trace.” Peggy Tabor Millin

Mildred Veronica McGuire - May 9, 1923 - September 16, 1992

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