Eulogy for a one-of-a-kind Mom
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| Christmas 2017: Thrilled with the gift. |
Thelma Flannery
Wife to Gorden (1941-1994)
Mother to Terry (died 2018), Jean, Luke, Marilyn (died 2016), Dan
Funeral: Wednesday, July 15, 2020
Lakeland Baptist Church, Crandon, Wisconsin
Obituary: https://www.weberhillfuneralhome.com/obituaries/Thelma-Flannery/
It was my honor to be present when both of our parents took their last breath. Mom and I were there with Dad in 1994, and I was with Mom last Friday in Tomahawk.
But, speaking for Luke and Jean — and Terry and Marilyn, who
have passed away in the past four years — it’s been an honor just being one of her
kids.
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| Thelma and Gorden: Autumn 1993. |
A few days ago, Luke recalled words that many of us heard Mom say when we got whiny as kids: “Quit crying or I’ll give you something to cry
about.”
She was an old-school mom who taught old-school lessons of
life that stand the test of time.
She knew when we fibbed. She knew when we hadn’t brushed our
teeth, or mowed the lawn, or pumped water. And one way or another, she let us
know that she knew.
Her views on right-and-wrong were abundantly clear and she did
not tolerate dishonesty from us.
Today, we might say she “leveraged” the lilac bushes in our
yard in Nashville. Those whip-like branches were great switches, used to get our
attention — not daily, not even frequently, but just when our misdeeds needed
prompt correction.
A lilac switch always sat on a shelf in the dining room,
just in case; if one mysteriously disappeared, she made us cut a new one from
the bush.
Mom wanted us to live life correctly, with honesty and
values and responsibility. We have, and we’ve had relationships with her that
only strengthened as time went on. We all remember life under her roof, and we
all treasure those memories, even the painful ones.
She played ball with us. She wrestled with us. She picked
berries and took walks with us. She played guitar and sang with us. We had
campfires and roasted marshmallows and hot dogs. She was with us in church
every Sunday, and made fried chicken and biscuits for Sunday dinner when we got
home.
For countless hours, she heard me play guitar as a little
kid, when I wasn’t very good. She never told me to stop.
“If you don’t keep playing, you’ll forget how,” she said,
and she was right. It was an honor to play for her then, and for the past 24
years when we visited her in the Acorn Apartments. And finally, today.
When we were young, she was an active, involved mom, and
that’s easy to forget if we dwell too much on her final few months. But to be
clear: Who we are today is a direct reflection of who Mom was then.
In her final years, each of us — and our extended families —
helped Mom navigate life. Her kids and their spouses, her grandchildren and
their partners, and others gave back, and she appreciated every ride, every
errand, every call.
But another segment of Mom’s life really informs us about who
she was after we left her house.
Mom died as she lived — quietly. Her passing last Friday was
perfectly peaceful, almost without warning. There was no dramatic build-up to
the end; only a calm, gradual departure. It took a few seconds to realize she
was gone.
Quiet, calm and peaceful is exactly how she lived much of
the second half of her life. The final 24 years were in a one-bedroom apartment
just a few blocks away; the previous 26 years were in a log house on the corner
of G and O, between Argonne and Cavour.
A little over two of those 26 years were on her own, after
Dad passed, and the previous 24 were with him. But on many of those days, she was
essentially alone while Dad roamed in the woods, or worked away from home, or solved
the world’s issues with his pals.
That doesn’t mean the phone didn’t ring, or that family and
friends didn’t stop by, or that there weren’t trips to the grocery store, the
hair salon or to this church — this church that baptized her in the early 1970s.
There were plenty of those days. And as Jean says, Mom was absolutely
certain of where she should have been on Sundays — here, in these pews, in
worship.
But for long stretches of time over a 50-year span — FIFTY
YEARS — there was just her, working, reading the Bible and loving her Lord,
doing word puzzles, cutting quilt squares, threading her sewing machine, putting
her creations on a frame. On her own.
Ponder that for a second, and you'll have a deeper understanding of Thelma Flannery. She created a couple thousand quilts over 60 years, and she craved the work.
“Whenever I’m working on one, I’m already thinking about the
next one,” she told me. She quilted six days a week as long as she could, until
just four months ago.
She said she did not quilt on Sundays because it is the
Lord’s day. “I don’t think the Lord would mind if I did, but I don’t,” she
said.
Quilting kept Mom physically active and mentally sharp for
decades, but it also had a better, higher purpose — it kept her connected to
family, friends, neighbors and everyone who has one of her works.
Making that many quilts, for that many people, satisfied her
need to engage with people — in spite of the quiet, often solitary life she
led.
It was Mom’s way of reaching out, of saying she was thinking
of you, of making your day brighter and better, of helping you celebrate, of
making sure that you’d have a comfort as long as possible.
Many of her quilts went to grade-school kids that needed
love and friendship. Marilyn identified them in her job in the Rhinelander
school district. Many of them went to young people in this church community.
Many of them went to adults who were in their final days, and were comforted by
their warmth and her generosity.
If those acts of kindness don’t scream love, I don’t know
what would.
If you have a Thelma-made quilt, you know this: They
have a lifetime warranty. Your lifetime.
Yes, she had challenges. She wasn’t comfortable in groups of
people, often ready to leave as soon as she arrived at a gathering. She never
mastered small talk, and at family gatherings, she usually sat in a corner or
at the back, nervously waiting for her ride home.
It could be frustrating to see her like that, so anxious to
leave.
But home is where she found comfort. Her work, her Bible,
other books, and her interests.
I loved that about Mom. I loved how she was honest about it.
She knew who she was, and where she wanted to be. Don’t we all want that?
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| Thanksgiving 2019 |
That was Thelma’s zone. Simplicity. Gentle humor. The
knowledge that next Sunday would likely be just as good, just as predictably
pleasant. And then, back to work on Monday.
Mom was proud of her health, her hair, and the compliments
she got from the doctors who occasionally examined her. That was for good
reason — she was amazingly active for a very long time. She slowed considerably
in her last seven months, but until then, her physical ability was on the
stunning side, and her vitals were comparable to those of a 40-year-old.
People asked her how she stayed so healthy. “I tell them Bush’s Beans,” she said. Like a good Kentuck, she ate her share.
“I think I’m going to live to be 100,” she told me more than
a few times. “And when I do, I think I’ll be the cutest little old lady.”
Mom was right, by the way. She was a cute little old lady,
and I’m sad that she didn’t reach that 100-year goal.
Mom was one of the funniest people I’ve known, and must have
gotten that gift from her mother, Mary Ellen Wilson, who was a certifiable hoot.
Mom was funny to the end, and here’s an example: In her final month, a male aide at Riverview Health Services was helping Mom — unable to walk by herself — to the restroom. She thanked him for helping her get seated on the toilet, and said, “When you graduated from college, I bet you didn’t think you’d be doing this.”
Losing a parent is not easy. Most of us here today have
experienced that pain. I see Terry’s four sons — all pallbearers for Mom — and
I’m reminded that over the past 20 months, they’ve lost both parents and their
grandmother, a especially tough time for them.
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| At her 98th birthday party, January 2020. |
I guess that’s true. But it doesn’t lessen the pain.
So, today, we honor a life of purpose and value, honesty and
humor, creativity and faith.
Still, in the decades of work she created, some of which are
draped on these pews, she also left behind a message of kindness, empathy and
love.
Thelma’s was a quiet life. But her legacy will roar for
another lifetime.
She was the best mom we could have wanted, and we’ll honor
and love her forever.
Thank you, Mom.