“The Big D”
Remembering Tom, and Yaya
My dad called my Yaya, “The Big D”. Her name was Dolores, Mary Dolores. She also went by “Del”, “D”, “The Big D.” She was about 5 feet wearing heels, and at her prime weighed about 135Lbs. But, she was big in heart, personality, opinion, and generosity. Yaya was my mother’s mother. She lived with us for eight years when the kids were young. So, she and my dad spent a fair amount of time together late in her life when he would come for visits. She outlived my father by three years, and after he died, she continued to share memories of him. She was amazingly sharp and witty through the end of her life. She and my father shared a love of humor, and their own versions of flirtatiousness. My dad was a bit more on the perverse end, but she made him chuckle with her claims of purity; absolute hypocrisy.
Her birthday was this week, April 10th, just one day after my dad’s. She always remembered his birthday – she always remembered everyone’s birthday; all four of her kids, their spouses and her 11 grandkids, as well as her orphanage sisters.
I was thinking about my dad and Yaya. Funny stories he shared about her. Her fondness of him. Their lives. And I remembered I wrote a eulogy for her memorial service when she died. The week of what would be her 93rd birthday seems to be a good time to share it. My dad would have appreciated it. I like to think of their kindred spirits as ruckus raising together. When I think of them both and their appreciation for each other, I smile.
David Whyte, an Irish poet who I have been enjoying lately, wrote a piece after his mother’s death titled “Farewell”. A letter that he says came to him from her, after her death. Writing my Yaya’s eulogy felt very much like that for me; the story she wants us to know.
Yaya’s Eulogy
“I was brought up as an orphan”
“I was raised up with a lot of children”
“I was very very active”
Mary Dolores Dawson. The Big D, Del, Mrs.Dawson, Mom, Ma, Mother Dear, Yaya – which she was for just about ½ of her life.
When I was sitting at Yaya’s bedside one night during the past few weeks, I was reading through some books and poetry for her. In the book “The Gift of Time” there is a passage that says
“picture yourself years from now, quietly sitting on a bench, under a tree, overlooking a park. The sun is setting in the silence of the evening hour. You smile as you reflect on your life. What is your smile about?”
What do you think her smile was about? Perhaps you had the chance to ask her in the last few weeks of her life, or some other time. We talked about it often in the years she lived with me. It was you. Her family, her friends, but especially her children. She was so proud that she had her children. When she had Lee, my mom, she just couldn’t believe she was a mother and that Delima was her very own. She was overcome with joy. We all know Richard’s birth story, it is the one she shared the most often. She was proud that she had a son and she would share that he was the only boy in the nursery and all the other mothers were jealous of that. One even asked if they could switch which of course she replied something like hell no. Denise, was her very own nurse and how very proud she was of that, having never become a nurse herself. And Dodie, her babe, her namesake. When she made her calls on Sundays, Dodie was always the first one she asked to call (true confessions).
And Heather made her a grandmother, a yaya and the Matriarchy was truly born. With 11 grandchildren, 19 great grandchildren (one on the way) and a great-great grandchild, Yaya’s Matriarchy has obviously flourished. This is what her smile is for.
And what is our smile for. What do we think about when we remember Yaya. She told me a few days before she died, remember me, just remember me Farrah. Make sure they all remember Yaya.
If we sat and shared Yaya stories we would be together for days, perhaps weeks.
There are so many memories and stories. What is the first one that comes to you when you think of Yaya?
Only her dear sister Pauly, or Goody as Yaya called her remembers the earliest stories of Yaya’s life. And her dear caretaker Nancy can recall all the stories, for she likely spent the most hours with Yaya in final years of her life and how blessed Yaya was to have that true caring companion and how blessed we all are now that Yaya brought her to us.
Now instead of depending on Yaya to share her stories with us, it is up to us to share her stories with others –
Remember when Yaya was about 13. Her class was asked to write an essay about their mothers for Mother’s day. Yaya decided she didn’t have a mother to write about, but she did have the Blessed Mother. She always considered her to be her mother and so she chose to write about Mary. We don’t have the essay, but we can imagine, she wrote about Mary’s love of Jesus and of her and of all children. About Mary’s unconditional presence and her admiration for Mary’s strength in the face of fear and hardship. Yaya’s essay was shared throughout the sisters of Mercy. It was a story she shared with pride until her last days. Mother’s Day meant so much to her, that she lived to see her 70th Mother’s Day on Sunday and was visited by all of her children and many of her grandchildren.
My favorite Yaya story is the time she caught wind of a special celebration in the orphanage. Delicious food was to be served, the kind she and the children were not privy to. Meats, soups, breads and cheese. And dessert, lots of dessert. Yaya left the kitchen window unlocked, early in the day, planning her Robinhood return. When she knew the kitchen was left unattended, she climbed out of her dormitory window, down the exterior fire escape and into the kitchen window 2 or 3 floors below. She gathered as many goodies as she could hold in her apron and pockets and made her way back up the fire escape to the anxious and excited children. They were so excited with the goodies and excitement that the noise they created alerted a nun to their mischief. Yaya was promptly punished and demoted to the lower dormitory for her actions. “Would I do it again?”, she would end the story with – “oh yes, again and again.” It was so worth it to her to bring joy to others.
It’s no wonder sweet treats provided Yaya with such pleasure later in life, Pepsi, Oreos, Devil Dogs, pudding.
Yaya’s sense of style is another favorite topic of conversation, and although she never found her Daddy Warbucks, she was never fully dressed without a smile, and without black, and gloves, a hat and jewelry, hose and a slip. Oh and heels, very particular heels. When she first came to live with me, I had her shoes mended about five times before they finally said – there is nothing more we can do with these. And then it took about 5 new pair before she was happy with what we found. She knew what she wanted, and what looked good. Even if she couldn’t see it with her own eyes. In a photo dated 1944, at 18 years old, she wrote “some of the girls are dressed decently” referring to an outing with her friends. She did not lack for opinion.
She even had style in the pool – nylons under her bathing suit, a cap and sun glasses. In the water or out she was her own version of style and class.
Pool parties, garage birthdays, back yard egg hunts, oversized swing sets, black Cadillacs, collections of dolls and cats, dogs of all kinds, car seat furniture, egg crate van seats, lamps with tassels, chips on a rope.
We laugh because her yard had more dirt than grass, her pool had more murk than water, her pasta had more oil than sauce, her cookies had more stale than crunch. But her home had more fun, her heart had more good, and her attitude had more hope than…, well than anyone any of us has ever known. than the stars in the sky.
I went on a hike yesterday morning, up mount Uncunoonic. Not far into the hike you can choose an easier path or a more challenging, steep path. I chose the steep yesterday. Just seemed like the right thing to do. As I was climbing and huffing and puffing, there would be a tree, placed ever so perfectly, to grab on to, to propel me up, support me, a branch to catch me, a rock to step up on. As I climbed I thought about Yaya. She was the tree, the branch, the rock, to lift us up, propel us, support us, catch us, a place to stay, a safe haven, open arms, food (all be it questionable). Even when it wasn’t perfect, she gave us everything she had, the very best of what she had, physically, emotionally, spiritually.
As I climbed the mountain I continued to wonder. Who was her tree, her branch, her rock? Who propelled her for 91 years? Through heart ache, through life’s challenges, through grief, yes through trauma, suffering and even abuse. Who was her safety net, that allowed her to continue to love others so completely and unconditionally and without expectation as her life came to a close.
Well, it was her faith, God. And it was also us. She created family, friendships and community. And she created the supports on her mountain of life.
And we may not have the exact same idea of God, religion or spirit as she did or the same way to practice our faith, but the beauty in that is she was perfectly accepting of that. For she too had many ways of knowing and loving the divine. Her Catholic Faith was certainly one way.
Yaya was an orphan,
And the truth is there is a little bit of orphan in all of us. In part because we come from her, but also because the orphan in each of us is the child within us who had to leave home. To grow up, to find the self, to discover truth.
And home is sometimes a physical place, but it is also a place of first beliefs about ourselves and the world. The orphan asks – Am I good enough, am I loved, what have I done wrong, am I welcomed, am I accepted for who I am? Where is home?
In reading her letters from when she was a teen, I could hear her struggle with these questions.
And in her death, she still struggled with them, as we all do. But what did she finally know in the end and what truth does she want you to know?
You are loved, you are good enough, you are loveable, you are welcome here.
And home, home is where you find your won truth, your own way, your own path, own self.
Dare to be that truth, in the face of doubt and doubters, in the face of fear and struggle, hurt and pain.
Find joy. Dare to be true to your own heart and soul and if you do, you will honor Yaya’s legacy all the days of your life.
***This is the 25th part of a 30-piece writing series dedicated to my father, Tom Sheehan. His last visit was five years ago and he died a few months after he left. He stayed for about 30 days. I write 30 pieces in memory of him and in honor of these last 30 days he spent with us which we fondly refer to as his farewell tour. I write to share bits of him with the world so that he may live on in it and in us. You can find my posts on my blog at FarrahSheehan.com or on fb at https://www.facebook.com/pg/redheartliving/posts/
