Mom's Eulogy (aka "Who Will Bake Our Ham?")

Mom grew up in the funeral business. Papa, her dad, had been a funeral director for 10 years before she was born. Her brother, Ron, became a funeral director. She became a nurse, partly as women funeral directors were likely rare in the early 1960s, but also to strike out on her own while still being able to care for a family in need.  Helping the community was a great part of who she was.

Mom loved and married my dad, Steve, he was working as a funeral director for my grandfather, her dad. She was drawn back into the life of funeral service.

Mom's love for Dad began long ago and transcended his death. They spent much more time together than the average couple. Mom had a lot of jobs working with Dad. She usually applied the makeup, wrote the obituary, and helped to organize things Dad didn't want to do. When someone in the community died, Mom was there to help. One unique thing that Mom did was bake a ham for the deceased's family.  I remember growing up and realizing that the smell of a pineapple glazed ham usually meant that someone in the village had passed away and that there was a family that needed to be fed. A baked ham would help for a few days.

Mom scored the top of the ham in a crisscross, poked cloves into it, placed pineapple rings on toothpicks, propped it up on this little upside-down ceramic dish in her cast iron skillet, and baked it for a few hours. I have to admit, I was jealous. I loved ham, and I was relegated to being a spectator, restricted to enjoying only the sights and smells in our kitchen.  The torture continued as the ham rested on the stove. After seeing countless hams baked and given away, and delivering some myself, I made a choice. I grabbed a knife, tilted up the ham, and I pirated a small slice from the very bottom. Who would miss such a small piece cut away? Not one person noticed. Most importantly, Mom didn't notice. I tried it again next time, and the missing piece was still unnoticed. Each time I wasn't caught I was emboldened and took even more. I got away with it for years. Or maybe mom just loved me enough to pretend not to notice, because one day, she caught Dad doing the exact same thing I had been doing for years and gave him holy hell. As a ham thief myself, I just hid back in the shadows of the kitchen hoping to avoid her wrath. I never found out if Dad had also been stealing ham all those years, or if that had been his unlucky first try.

I had a few somber thoughts driving up last week, one of which was, "Who will bake our ham?"

When she wasn't being a funeral director's wife, then funeral director, school nurse, mom to Colleen and me, or ham baker, she was an active organizer. She lived a life of service. She was sometimes an overenthusiastic participant in all things family, friends, church, and community. Growing up I saw her active in the Monday Club and the celebrity auction thing.

She loved sharing with me how she had helped to organize the Strawberry Social, the Alter Rosary Christmas Calendar, Raffle baskets, and Spaghetti Supper. She felt a true calling to help as she could. Slowly letting go of these ties to the community due to her physical limitations was incredibly difficult. I know she felt no one else could do things quite like her.

Mom was best when she was helping her family, her friends, and her community. We must ask, who will bake your ham?

Mom was a fierce supporter of her family. I could tell early on that she wanted Colleen and me to be close. She gave us complimentary toys. I'd open up the Six Million Dollar Man and Colleen would get the Bionic Woman something or other. That didn't work at all as I just took over and played with everything myself. Nice try Mom. When I wanted to change my room, Mom encouraged us to paint together. Bad idea. As Colleen was painting the wall, I walked up behind her and ran my paintbrush handle down her back, pretending to paint her. She whipped around and caught me in the chest, a small inch of paint soaking through. I exclaimed, "I didn't paint you! It was a joke!" and she immediately dunked her brush into the can and just covered herself in paint pleading, "Don't tell mom. Don't tell Mom!" We were not close friends. Thankfully as we grew up and matured, we've become incredibly close and depend on each other. Mission accomplished, Mom.

Her love and support only grew with a new generation of Callaghans. I know only one of you really knew Mom when she was at her best. But holy cow did she love you all. It was like she was born to become a grandmother. Mom was there for the big moments of your lives, cheering you on. I hope you can hold that love she had for you in your own hearts and draw upon it when you need to. Carry and share that love and support wherever you go in life. It won't steer you wrong.

Mom saw us all for not only who we are, but who we've become, and loves us unconditionally. Whatever we do and wherever we go. It is simply there, everlasting. She embraced us without reservation. The only way we could disappoint her was to not pass the pinochle cards she needed to make her outrageous, unrealistic bids.

Everyone here meant so much to Mom and were big parts of her life. I hope the next time you look at yourself in the mirror, you can, for a moment, see yourself through Mom's eyes and love yourself as she loved you.