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Remembering a mother and grandmother

Editor’s note: My mom died on May 17 at age 99. I gave the following eulogy at her funeral and changed it only slightly for print publication. I wrote about her for the Lifestyles section several times. The last article I did about her was for our Mother’s Day edition.

Josie was an inspiration for some of my best writing, and I am sure she will continue to be. To the right are reflections by her grandson, Ray.

By DIANE?R. CHODAN

Lifestyles Editor

My Mom was known by many names my husband called her “The Matka (which means mother in Polish). My brother, sister and I have called her mama, ma, mom, mother (sometimes as in “Oh mother!”). Others have known her as Grandma, Busia, Great-grandma, Aunt Josie, Josie, Jo, or one of her favorites, Grandma Josie – given to her by her honorary great-grandchildren.

Her life was remarkable for its length. Not quite 100 years, as the Polish song we sang for birthdays, but pretty close.

She aged gracefully. She matter-of-factly talked with me about dying. I was her health care proxy, and her nephew Neal was the alternate. She made pre-arrangements for her funeral. Her greatest concern was making it easier for her family – which was why she purchased a place in the mausoleum next to her husband and talked to Rick Mackowiak many years ago. Some items she did not choose to address. She was not interested in designating a charity. (“People should do what they want in my memory.”) About readings and songs and service she told me to do what I liked since she wouldn’t be there. I objected that she would be there in spirit. She said it will be different and it doesn’t matter.

What she was interested in was that after the funeral, people could stay for brunch. So of course everyone was invited to the Kosciuszko Club after Mass. It was part of her mother’s instinct to make sure everyone was fed.

Mom expressed amazement that she had reached an old age. She also told me it made no sense for anyone to cry for her, since she had lived so long and had a good life.

“I can’t complain,” she said. I don’t think not crying is possible, but she said it in a way that made me laugh at the time.

Two things Josie taught me, and I think many other people, is little things are important and a good time doesn’t have to involve spending money. One of the many wonderful things she did for my daughter Anneke as a child was placing a small present for her under her pillow each time she came to visit. It might be a crocheted favor from a card party, a cat knick knack she found for Anneke’s cat collection, or a dollar bill.

She played left right center with her great- grandchildren and watched the chaplet with them. She watched Sabres games with some of them.

Josie appreciated people and what they did for her. The one thing she cried about at my dad’s funeral was the flower arrangement Neal sent.

“Neal was always so good to dad, and what a beautiful arrangement.” she said.

John Woloszyn and his wife, Nancy, took mom to Bingo during a time I was working.

My friend Pat would remember her birthday and Christmas with a card.

“Patty never forgets me,” she said.

Mollie Staley effectively intervened in health matters for her a number of times.

“What a good nurse Mollie is,” she said.

Josie loved the phlebotomists at Brooks Hospital – Kenny and Amy and others who knew her by name. Carol Pachol, in admissions, always made things easier for her in the outpatient section. Jeanie, the manager at Community Bank, knew her by name and would come out of her office to give Josie a hug. Josie reminded Jean of her own grandma.

In her 80s Josie was still shoveling snow. She would help me clear out the area around my car and remark how much fun it was. (That was an “Oh mother!” moment).

She also delighted in learning new things. She discovered s’mores later in her life. At first we cooked the marshmallows over the charcoal fire; later she found instructions for microwaving s’mores and enjoyed them all year round.

When Josie said someone is a pleasant person, that was high praise. “I like Ray’s (her grandson’s) wife Debra very much,” she said. “She is such a pleasant person.”

She told me how lucky I was to be working with Vicki Notaro whom she knew from the County Home when Dad was there. Other pleasant people were her great niece, Natalie, Cindy at Dr. Satha’s office and Dr. O’Brien at Seneca Eye Care who did her cataract surgery and was thrilled when her sight improved.

A true mother, she loved children – her own children, her grandchildren and great grandchildren, nieces and nephews, great-nieces and nephews and honorary great-grandchildren or just a child that caught her eye at Mass.

Many of the pictures on the boards I prepared showed Josie holding babies or sitting with children. My dad once said she would like a child if the child had fallen into a manure pile.

She said, “Yes, I would. The child can be washed off.”

One particular incident I think demonstrates her great wisdom as a mother. When my niece Caroline (on my husband’s side of our family) was young and my husband, my daughter and I were visiting overnight, Caroline decided she wanted to sleep in the bathtub. My sister-in-law was not happy and told her she could not. An argument ensued, escalated into a tantrum and went on for quite some time. It was not a pleasant night. After telling Mom the story, I said I would have just picked up the child, put her into her own bed, and let her scream if she chose since she was screaming anyway.

Without even taking time to consider the matter, Mom laughed and said, “Sleeping in the bathtub – what an interesting idea. I would have let her. She wouldn’t want to stay there for long.”

Some of you will have your own favorite memory of Josie. I hope you will share them and remember her fondly.

Send comments on this page to dchodan@observertoday.com

Remembering a mother and grandmother

I lost my grandmother on Sunday, May 17. Sometimes I deplore euphemisms. I lost my grandmother. Where oh where did I leave her? Where could she be? Although passed away is still a euphemism, I think I like that one better.

My grandmother passed away at the age of 99. Why does everyone say it’s such a shame that she didn’t make it to 100? Is a life better if it lasts longer? Does it become magically more meaningful if it lasts an entire century instead of over 99 percent of one? More likely it is just a passing observation of friends that is spoken aloud in an attempt to dull the pain of loss. I appreciate people being sympathetic – and I appreciate the fact that my blood relative had such a long life.

From what I can gather my grandmother’s highest praise was to call someone a, “pleasant person.” It says a lot when you stop and think about it. The most important thing is to be pleasant. I think that is something that deserves deep contemplation and more than just a passing effort, the quest to be a pleasant person. I am lucky to have so many friends that have already mastered that.

I am not a person who people would call conventional. I am going to say something that many of you may find rather shocking. It’s OK, I like to shock people. Conventional wisdom says that funerals are sad events, but I must proclaim, I enjoyed the trip to Dunkirk N.Y. for my grandmother’s funeral. I truly enjoyed it.

Please don’t condemn my soul to hell just yet. I am not an unfeeling fool. I, along with many others, cried when my wife sang “Amazing Grace” at the funeral. It was impossible to not share the pain of my father and aunts losing their mother. Death is a difficult and misunderstood event. Still, Grandma’s death gave me an excuse to spend time with some of the most pleasant people I know. And I love to travel. Moving away from the normal routine is a great time to re-evaluate. A time to explore. I wonder if Grandma is aware of the gift her funeral was.

She remarked to my aunt that she didn’t need to plan her funeral; in her words, “Do whatever you like, I won’t be there.” People with true faith find peace, and I know that Grandma’s soul has found hers. Did you know that Grandma loved to watch the squirrels? As I lay my head on my pillow tonight, I will smile knowing we share a love for watching squirrels.

Death is change. My grandma is no longer residing on Lord Street in the beautiful city of Dunkirk N.Y. – that seems such a shame.

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