Tuesday, July 10, 2007 at 12:12am
Your last words
Column: Writing Down Your Soul
My 94-year-old mother died on July 2, 2007. My brothers and sisters and I have been anticipating her death for months, so when I got the call in the middle of the night, I knew exactly what to do. Some of my brothers and sisters made phone calls, some dealt with finances and funeral homes, some organized the wake and the service. My job was to write her obituary.
When my father died in 1992, I acquired an odd habit: I started reading obituaries. Obituaries, if you haven't noticed, are a strange art form. Most are flat little things that state little more than a few facts: where he was born, where she died, what degree he earned, what religion she followed, where he worked, where she lived, his wife's name, her husband's name, who died before and who survives after, and where the services will be held.
Sometimes the facts are accompanied by a photograph. I always look at the picture and try to intuit who this person was — not just the facts, but the feelings. I wonder what heartaches and joys are hidden between those few lines, and what secrets or mysteries are going to the grave. I wonder if someone is heartbroken to lose this person or if someone is breathing a sigh of relief. I wonder, but I never know, because there are so few words on the page.
It's one thing to read (and critique) obituaries; it's something else altogether to write one.
My mother was obsessed with history: the history of the church, the history of the country, and the history of our families. She spent years researching the Cunningham Irish on her mother's side and the Koenig German on her father's. Both families met and merged in the latter 1800s in heavily immigrant Catholic Chicago, so Mom was able to focus her search in Chicago city and church records. When she proudly finished that genealogy, she turned her energies to her husband's Conner history. That was tougher, because the Conner family is peopled by a colorful cast of characters from Ireland, England, France, Germany and even Alsace Lorraine, who left Europe over a span of centuries. Mom was ecstatic when she discovered that the earliest ancestors were French Huguenots who left Brussels on the ship that arrived right after the Mayflower! Now, that was genealogical pay dirt!
Watching Mom work, I realized that, in the end, we are just a few pieces of paper. We begin with a birth certificate. For those born into a religious family, there might be a baptism or other religious initiation record. Then, there will typically be a marriage certificate and perhaps a legal record of the purchase of land. A search of local newspaper files might unearth a marriage or birth announcement or, if you're really lucky, a mention in a news article, but most people are remembered only by their obituary. It is the capstone, the summation, the whole story of one human being. Writing my mother's, I realized that I was telling her story not just for my brothers and sisters but for generations to come. I imagined my son's son one day asking, "Hey, Pops, tell me about my great-grandmother. And then, 30-odd years later, that child's child asking about her great-great-grandmother. And so on, until people I cannot fathom are conducting a genealogical search back into the very distant 1900s trying to create their family's history. Staring at the blank white computer screen, I felt that what I was writing was important — so much more important than simply capturing the bony facts of my mother's 94-year life.
Yes, she was born Laurene Koenig in 1913 in Chicago.
Yes, she graduated from Immaculata High School in 1930.
Yes, she married Jay Conner in 1938.
Yes, she had five children: Jay, Claire, Janet, Larry and Mary.
Yes, she moved to Marshfield, Wisconsin, in 1964.
Yes, she died in 2007.
Yes, she had eight grandchildren and four great-grandchildren.
All those things are true and accurate and necessary to include in the obituary. But what made her special? What made her heart sing? What made her Laurene? I didn't want anyone now or 300 years from now to read her obituary and walk away not knowing something about my mother.
So I called Aunt Stelle, the eldest of my mother's two surviving sisters. From Stelle I learned things that my brothers and sisters and I did not know. We had heard, for example, about how Mom had to drop out of college during the Depression. But it turns out there was much more to the story. My grandfather worked for John V. Farwell, the second largest dry goods wholesaler in the country. Shortly after Farwell was acquired by Carson Pirie Scott, the Depression set in, and all the Farwell employees were let go. My grandfather was unemployed for two years. Two years! The carfare to Normal (the teachers' college my mother was so excited to attend) was 7 cents. And 7 cents was suddenly too dear. Mom, along with 25 percent of her fellow students, quit college. She and her next two siblings went to work, turning their paychecks over to their parents. Mom went from dreaming of becoming a home economics teacher to buying and selling fine jewelry at Marshall Fields in downtown Chicago. Now, that's a story that tells something about Laurene. So, I put it in her obituary.
We all knew that Mom and Dad were deeply anti-communist. But I didn't know that Mom was appointed by the mayor of Chicago to the Captive Nations Committee. Not bad for an obscure housewife in the '50s! That's important. I put it in the obituary.
My brothers and sisters and I are proud recipients of the bound genealogies she worked so hard to create. That's definitely Laurene. It had to be mentioned in her obituary.
My mother and I agreed on little. She was a staunch Republican and an orthodox Catholic. I'm neither of those things. But I was writing her obituary, not mine, her life story, not mine, so I struggled to find words that would somehow convey the depth of her devotion to her faith and her country. She loved nothing better than to sit in the dining room all day long reading, clipping and filing newspaper articles and then spend months researching and writing detailed treatises that substantiated her fears about changes in the church. That was important to her, so I put it in her obituary.
I wish there had been room for all the stories I learned about my mother: How much she was loved by the German maid, Annie, who carried her around the house. How she learned to sleep like a motionless board because she had to sleep with her fussy Aunt Agnes (a very weird mystery finally solved!). How she and her high school friends bought one pattern and sewed the same dress in six different colors for their prom. So many stories, so few inches in the paper.
Someday, my son will write my obituary. And someday, someone will write yours. Someone will choose your final words — the words that will define you forever. May they be rich words that convey your heart and your soul. May they leave a little stamp on the world saying, "Here she was" or "Here he was." May they tell your story fully and well.
If you'd like to read my mother's obituary, here's the link to the Marshfield News Herald.
— — —
Janet Conner, S.E. (Spiritual Explorer), is the creator of the Spiritual Geography map and author of the Spiritual Geography book series. She is currently working on a new book, "Writing Down the Soul: How to Activate and Listen to the Extraordinary Voice Within," for Conari Press. The Spiritual Geography books are available through Amazon or Spiritual Geography. Janet would love to hear about your experiences with soul writing at {email janetconner@tampabay.rr.com}janetconner@tampabay.rr.com{/email}. © copyright 2007 by Janet Conner.
When my father died in 1992, I acquired an odd habit: I started reading obituaries. Obituaries, if you haven't noticed, are a strange art form. Most are flat little things that state little more than a few facts: where he was born, where she died, what degree he earned, what religion she followed, where he worked, where she lived, his wife's name, her husband's name, who died before and who survives after, and where the services will be held.
Sometimes the facts are accompanied by a photograph. I always look at the picture and try to intuit who this person was — not just the facts, but the feelings. I wonder what heartaches and joys are hidden between those few lines, and what secrets or mysteries are going to the grave. I wonder if someone is heartbroken to lose this person or if someone is breathing a sigh of relief. I wonder, but I never know, because there are so few words on the page.
It's one thing to read (and critique) obituaries; it's something else altogether to write one.
My mother was obsessed with history: the history of the church, the history of the country, and the history of our families. She spent years researching the Cunningham Irish on her mother's side and the Koenig German on her father's. Both families met and merged in the latter 1800s in heavily immigrant Catholic Chicago, so Mom was able to focus her search in Chicago city and church records. When she proudly finished that genealogy, she turned her energies to her husband's Conner history. That was tougher, because the Conner family is peopled by a colorful cast of characters from Ireland, England, France, Germany and even Alsace Lorraine, who left Europe over a span of centuries. Mom was ecstatic when she discovered that the earliest ancestors were French Huguenots who left Brussels on the ship that arrived right after the Mayflower! Now, that was genealogical pay dirt!
Watching Mom work, I realized that, in the end, we are just a few pieces of paper. We begin with a birth certificate. For those born into a religious family, there might be a baptism or other religious initiation record. Then, there will typically be a marriage certificate and perhaps a legal record of the purchase of land. A search of local newspaper files might unearth a marriage or birth announcement or, if you're really lucky, a mention in a news article, but most people are remembered only by their obituary. It is the capstone, the summation, the whole story of one human being. Writing my mother's, I realized that I was telling her story not just for my brothers and sisters but for generations to come. I imagined my son's son one day asking, "Hey, Pops, tell me about my great-grandmother. And then, 30-odd years later, that child's child asking about her great-great-grandmother. And so on, until people I cannot fathom are conducting a genealogical search back into the very distant 1900s trying to create their family's history. Staring at the blank white computer screen, I felt that what I was writing was important — so much more important than simply capturing the bony facts of my mother's 94-year life.
Yes, she was born Laurene Koenig in 1913 in Chicago.
Yes, she graduated from Immaculata High School in 1930.
Yes, she married Jay Conner in 1938.
Yes, she had five children: Jay, Claire, Janet, Larry and Mary.
Yes, she moved to Marshfield, Wisconsin, in 1964.
Yes, she died in 2007.
Yes, she had eight grandchildren and four great-grandchildren.
All those things are true and accurate and necessary to include in the obituary. But what made her special? What made her heart sing? What made her Laurene? I didn't want anyone now or 300 years from now to read her obituary and walk away not knowing something about my mother.
So I called Aunt Stelle, the eldest of my mother's two surviving sisters. From Stelle I learned things that my brothers and sisters and I did not know. We had heard, for example, about how Mom had to drop out of college during the Depression. But it turns out there was much more to the story. My grandfather worked for John V. Farwell, the second largest dry goods wholesaler in the country. Shortly after Farwell was acquired by Carson Pirie Scott, the Depression set in, and all the Farwell employees were let go. My grandfather was unemployed for two years. Two years! The carfare to Normal (the teachers' college my mother was so excited to attend) was 7 cents. And 7 cents was suddenly too dear. Mom, along with 25 percent of her fellow students, quit college. She and her next two siblings went to work, turning their paychecks over to their parents. Mom went from dreaming of becoming a home economics teacher to buying and selling fine jewelry at Marshall Fields in downtown Chicago. Now, that's a story that tells something about Laurene. So, I put it in her obituary.
We all knew that Mom and Dad were deeply anti-communist. But I didn't know that Mom was appointed by the mayor of Chicago to the Captive Nations Committee. Not bad for an obscure housewife in the '50s! That's important. I put it in the obituary.
My brothers and sisters and I are proud recipients of the bound genealogies she worked so hard to create. That's definitely Laurene. It had to be mentioned in her obituary.
My mother and I agreed on little. She was a staunch Republican and an orthodox Catholic. I'm neither of those things. But I was writing her obituary, not mine, her life story, not mine, so I struggled to find words that would somehow convey the depth of her devotion to her faith and her country. She loved nothing better than to sit in the dining room all day long reading, clipping and filing newspaper articles and then spend months researching and writing detailed treatises that substantiated her fears about changes in the church. That was important to her, so I put it in her obituary.
I wish there had been room for all the stories I learned about my mother: How much she was loved by the German maid, Annie, who carried her around the house. How she learned to sleep like a motionless board because she had to sleep with her fussy Aunt Agnes (a very weird mystery finally solved!). How she and her high school friends bought one pattern and sewed the same dress in six different colors for their prom. So many stories, so few inches in the paper.
Someday, my son will write my obituary. And someday, someone will write yours. Someone will choose your final words — the words that will define you forever. May they be rich words that convey your heart and your soul. May they leave a little stamp on the world saying, "Here she was" or "Here he was." May they tell your story fully and well.
If you'd like to read my mother's obituary, here's the link to the Marshfield News Herald.
— — —
Janet Conner, S.E. (Spiritual Explorer), is the creator of the Spiritual Geography map and author of the Spiritual Geography book series. She is currently working on a new book, "Writing Down the Soul: How to Activate and Listen to the Extraordinary Voice Within," for Conari Press. The Spiritual Geography books are available through Amazon or Spiritual Geography. Janet would love to hear about your experiences with soul writing at {email janetconner@tampabay.rr.com}janetconner@tampabay.rr.com{/email}. © copyright 2007 by Janet Conner.