Mom’s Eulogy given July 10^th, 2009 at Maple Hill Cemetery, Plainfield, Indiana

I want to thank everyone for coming today. It’s great to be with family and friends again to honor an exceptional woman. For some, the journey here was local, the same neighborhood that was mom’s home for most of her life. From Ben Davis, and Plainfield, and Avon, and Bridgeport. For others of us, the trip back was from across the continent. Her far-flung family has returned to honor her. Mom was always about a ‘sense of place’. She knew where she belonged. “Once a Hoosier, always a Hoosier”, she would always say, and she proclaimed this to the end, to me and all the other ladies of Sharon Village apartments in Charlotte, and anyone else who would listen. In those final days, she told me often that she was looking forward to coming back home to Indiana this summer, as we always did. Now, she has made the journey back for the final time, to forever take her place beside her beloved Wendell.

Mom, you were a child of the depression, the fourth of five siblings, growing up in the small southern Indiana town of Jasonville, It was a mining region at the time, and many of your relatives worked in those mines. In the photos of that era, you appeared to be tiny, and delicate, not much bigger than your baby dolls, and with big bright eyes. Unlike your big sister Mary, who insisted on playing football with her older brothers, you were a refined little lady. You liked to take tea with your aunt Mary or sit for hours with your grandpa Faught. But you were certainly no saint. Mix some German Faught and lots of Irish Cahall, and along with the love you get some stubborn, and feistness, and a lot of determination.

Like the time you took the Lord’s name in vain at the breakfast table when asking for the ‘biscuits and gravy” and instead you got a trip to the basement and a desert of lye soap. I always got the impression, though, that despite the hard times, you and your family were very happy during those early years in Jasonville. In those photos taken by your dad of outings to Shakamac and visits to relatives in Linton, you can plainly see the love and togetherness and hope. And later on, after your father’s death, you moved to the west side of Indianapolis to a little burg called Ben Davis, just a little crossroads on the old National highway. It was suddenly the war years, but that didn’t seem to slow you down. Marjie, the bobby-soxer, had met your true love, Wendell, and even the years of separation during that conflict, couldn’t dim your love.

After the war, you two were married and almost immediately joined in the baby boom. You and your sister were among the first ‘working girls’, balancing a family and a career. The 50’ were good, so good that Wendell even talked you into getting a boat. But I’m not sure if you ever rode in it. You were afraid of the water, couldn’t swim, and seemed to be darn proud of it. In the 60s, you and Wendell developed an interest in bowling and golf. Sometimes the scores were good and sometimes not so good, but the important thing were the many friendships that you developed, and those of you here today who played those rounds and bowled those frames can attest to that. With Wendell’s passing, you felt a loss like no other, but with her usual fortitude, you threw yourself into your work, your faith, and your friendships. I always marveled at the close, lasting bonds you had with all who came in contact with you.

As your son I want to thank you for all those times you nursed me through sickness, that chemistry set you got me, those fishing trips with dad to Minnesota, and the prayers and caring that kept me safe in war. Most of all I want to than you for being my mother I consider myself blessed for having been your son. In my heart you will always be there.