My Mom

Hi. I'm back.

So.

I'm Doug Auclair, 'Paula's son, and it's so hard for me to say her name: 'Paula,' because, to me, she was always, "Mom." And I wonder, looking at you, who she was to you and what she meant to you, and, if you want to tell me, I'd really like to know that.

Because I'm going to tell you now who she was to me, and maybe you'll see something in her, from my words, that you didn't see in her before?

But I hope not.

But maybe you will. Because unlike my dad or me, mom wasn't a person who was the speechifying-type, she didn't make grandiose gestures. And, when my dad, or I, or anybody else, for that matter, got into the speechifying-mood, Mom would at best tolerate it for, eh, maybe two and a half minutes, but you could be sure there would be much eye-rolling from her during a ceremony like this which would appall Mom, who would wonder why all this fuss! ... over little old her?

No, she was a very private person, but, if you earned it, sometimes, some very few times, she would open her heart to you, just a little bit.

So.

I'm going to say three words to you:

Sudoku.

Boo-ray.

... and this last word is a fun one for me, d-mn yankee that I am: Pecans.

Those were some of Mom's favorite things in the world! Did you know that? Probably not. And if you did know that, God bless you, because you were that close to her that she shared these private joys of hers (especially WINNIN' at BOO-RAY!) with you.

Mom, ... God!

When Beki and I arrived at Mom's apartment, it was if we just got home from school, you know? The TV was on, if we could walk a straight line across the room, it was because you were driving a bulldozer. What a mess!

But Mom didn't care about that, because you know why? Because Mom was comfortable with who she was and where she was in life, ... and in death. My wife, Diane, asked me, "Do you think your mom has any regrets?" My answer was "No." Mom lived her life exactly the way she wanted to live her life, because she choose who she was, every single day, and she lived by her choices.

Beki and I discussed this. I said to Beki that Mom chose to be herself. Beki laughed because Sof said those same words to her when Sof was a little girl, and Beki hasn't heard that since until I mentioned that about Mom. But what does 'being yourself' mean? We hear that all the time.

Mom lived her life fearlessly. A lot of people when they're faced with the decision: "Do I tell this person what they're doing is wrong? or hurtful? or disrespectful? or unhealthy?" Most people will say: "Eh." which really translates not into: "Oh, I don't want to bother them" which is a little lie they tell themselves, but instead, they are really saying: "I'm scared."

If you saw my mom, you saw fearlessness. And you need look no further than my sister Beki to see that legacy live on.

Mom would have that conversation with you, and she would do whatever she had to do to break through your own fear, or prejudices, or ignorance, to get you to see things differently and better, even if you didn't like it, and even if you didn't wanna.

She held you to the highest possible standard.

Why?

Michael told Beki this last night. "I loved your mom. She treated me like a human being."

Mom demanded you be your best self, courageous and wise, because when you live in fear, you are no longer a human being, you are a slave, and Mom hated slavery, in any of its forms.

Mom demanded you be your very best, and she was uncompromising about that, but that was only fair, because what she demanded of you, she demanded of herself at least twice as much: she didn't demand she be her best self: she demanded she be better than her best self, as a true follower of Christ should.

In the end, maybe you're not going to remember me, and you're not going to remember my words, but I do ask that you honor the memory of my mom. How? Live your life fearlessly. Every time my mom faced something scary she had to do? Was she scared? Yes, she was. She was scared sometimes. I saw it. But did she do what she felt she had to do, even if she didn't feel like it?

Yes, she did, every single time. And, doing what she had to do, every single time, she lived her life as herself, as nobody else could, and, that's how she could live her life freely, and without regrets.

And that's how you can live your life freely, and without regrets, and when you do that scary thing that you thought you couldn't do, or have that scary conversation that you thought you couldn't have, say a silent prayer of thanks: "Paula Auclair, Mom, you fearless woman, you let me do this. Thank you. Amen."

---

Now I'm going to become my dad for one more minute and reintroduce my cousin, Leila, who is going to sing the Trisagion, which you may know as the "Holy, Holy"-prayer, but we, Mom and me, and probably some of you of Lebanese descent, know as the Qadishat Aloho, which is the most important prayer of the Mass after the Abba, Our Father-prayer. And my Momma, being here, to hear her niece sing the prayer that her granddaughters, Elena Marie and Isabel, sing in ancient Syriac or Aramaic from memory, my mom would be so pleased, and so proud, and so happy to have her niece sing to her aunt's memory a beautiful song of one of the central tenets of our Faith: "Holy God, Holy Mighty One, Holy Immortal One." God is great, and Blessed be the Name of the Lord. Leila?

Dad's eulogy to Mom

Before I start, I'd like to preface my remarks with gratitude: for my family, of course, my sister, Lynda, Uncle Jeff, Aunt Gretchen, their children, ... and their children, Sissy, the Verandah staff and residents, Lonelle and the staff at the Johnson Funeral Home, but especially to Beki. If you know me, and you know Beki, as most of you do not, then you know what an honor, and what great trust Beki has placed in me in asking me to speak in these closing remarks. And, if you look at Beki, and I ask you do look at her, you will see her power, poise, grace, and dignity, and kindness.

Hello, I'm Doug Auclair, the shy and quiet son of Paula.

I'm going to ask those of you who are willing, to indulge me for three seconds. In a moment, I'm going to become my dad, so, when I ask you to close your eyes, I'd like you to see in your mind me step away from the podium, and a guy who looks and talks and acts almost exactly like me, because I am my dad, except he's 50-100 pounds lighter and he has this lady-killer baby-blues for eyes, so, now, please, close your eyes for three seconds, and let my dad read this letter to my mom.

Hello, I'm Rod Auclair, please open your eyes. I really appreciate you all coming to this gathering. I'd like to take a moment or two of your time and read this letter.

"Dearest Paula,

About 12 years ago I began a letter to you, but did not finish the first sentence. 

I had just come back from being with you in Lake Charles while you were going through chemotherapy. You came through those uncertain times, and I took for granted you would outlive me. Once again, and to my regret, you showed me how little I know. But what I do know, and do treasure, are those moments, those memories, you – funny, smart, beautiful you – gave me.

Your first postcard when I was stationed in Thule, Greenland: "Happy Fathers' Day, you no-good bum!" in large print for all the postal chain to read. Your croaky voice on our first telephone call over the complicated military communication network by way of the Presidio Army Base, high above San Francisco, as you were just recovering from a tonsillectomy. The way you would bump me sideways while we walked along, just to make sure I was listening. Introducing me to a grasshopper for dessert at our magical dinner at the top of the Mark.

You, in your glorious hand-made by your friend wedding gown, and me, so proud, in my white and black mess dress officer's uniform at our wedding.

You and me, blushing, when I asked Father as he witnessed and blessed our vows by saying, a little too evilly, "May I kiss her now?" and he smiled, shook his head and said: "Not just yet." 

You, so game, about our 3rd floor walk-up apartment on 77 Ann Street, in Newburgh, New York, directly across the street from the city police station where the chief, at the behest of the Mother Superior of Mount Saint Mary's College, where I stopped and asked if I could stay the night, had suggested that I ask the chief of police to stay in the pokey, that was five years earlier on a bicycle trip cross-country from Connecticut to Illinois and back. Talk about deja vu!

That look on our faces as nurse told us in the elevator to: "Say goodbye for now!" as you got on to go upstairs and give birth to our son, Douglas, in April, 1967, seven days before your birthday.

Those tears of joy, release, and amazement when we were together to bring a cranky, bawling, bloody, eyes-shut Rebecca into the world September, 1970, only ten days after my own birthday.

Our two children and your daughter, Lynda, so bright, so beautiful, so different. We are so blessed!

I am grateful for all you brought to all our lives. For the way you gave me insight and perspective into what is just, what is inclusive, boorish, redundant, wise or insensitive. 

Two thoughts, and then I'll let you go. One is from Thornton Wilder in his book "The Bridge of San Luis Rey": "There is a bridge between the living and the dead, and that bridge is love." And one from St. Thomas More: "Pray for me, and I for thee, that we may meet in heaven, pritheely." 

Much love from,

a no-good bum"