Mary Alice Carr Langon

Mary Carr Langon

We, or at least those of us who attended Catholic schools, have all heard stories from the lives of the saints: performers of extraordinary miracles, martyrs who suffered dreadful torments, mystics of the desert who willingly gave themselves over to lives of self denial. But Father Victor Hoagland, who is with the Passionist Order in Union City, used to speak in his homilies of a different kind of saint whose names were never known outside their families or circle of friends. They took on the travails, responsibilities, the joys and sorrows of everyday life. Yet their lives were the expressions of Christs spirit in the world. Fr. Victor called them "household saints". Our mother was a household saint. She was a woman of simple but deep and unwavering faith. She had already lived through the Great Depression and three wars when still a young woman she found herself a widow. She who was raised with three sisters faced raising three boys by herself. I believe it was her faith that saw her through, that kept her positive outlook. It seemed for a long time after my father died the last week of every month we faced a crisis with the Social Security check a week or so away. She would say, “God will provide.” And somehow we never felt deprived of what was needed. She also believed in the intersession of St. Anthony. Just this morning as we were preparing to come here, we received a phone call from a friend. Her son had called her to tell her that there had been a mulit-car accident on the Garden State Parkway there was a major traffic tie-up. I called my brothers and we began planning alternate routes. Our friend called back to say that tow trucks had cleared the cars and travel should be normal. I could hear my mothers voice say, "Thank you St. Anthony." They had a very long and close relationship. She would talk to him like a Dutch uncle. Such was her belief. She also believed that if she could just find those special glasses, she would be able to overcome her macular degeneration and see well again. She thought she heard them advertised on Joan Hamberg. She also believed that if you left the house and realized you’d forgotten something and had to return, you had better sit down for a moment or face disappointment. She believed that if you dropped a spoon, it meant “Company soon.” Jesus taught us to love one another. This lesson was written on her heart. She loved others because she was able to see the commonality of human experience and didn’t see herself as essentially different from others regardless of their race, age, or religious belief. OK! She sometimes mentioned those with BIG JOBS and BIG HOUSES, but more often she touched on what we had in common. She would volunteer with the Telephone Pioneers and visit the Medical Center (Pollack Hospital, I believe) where she would dance with men who may have been on the early stages of Alzheimers (or Al Hymers as she called it) and later tell with compassionate humor how one man had slipped her a love note. There were times when she would cause my young, cynical, defensive self to cringe, when on a long bus ride – say the Boulevard bus to visit Catherine- she would strike up a conversation with a total stranger. If you went to dinner with her, whether to the Alps, or one of those new trendy downtown restaurant, the Collonette or the VIP diners, she would end the meal by telling the wait staff, ”My complements to the chef.” Or when she would tell us of the great times she had on bus trips to Atlantic City with B’nai B’rith. She was proud of her Irish heritage and taught my brothers and I that we had roots in that country. It started early on. I remember when I was very young how each Christmas we would have to get a package together to send over to that mythical figure, “Uncle jimmy”, who was keeping the family farm in Leitrim. I remember that around St. Patrick’s Day the Daily News would publish a full page map of Ireland with all the family names associated with each county. We would ponder that map and be somewhat mystified by the connection between our present and our past in that far away country. Of course in later years when we’d ask her how she had celebrated St. Patrick’s Day, her pride in her heritage did not prevent her from going to the Canton Chinese Restaurant for corned beef and cabbage. She also taught us the value of work. Once Tony had started school she returned to her beloved NJ Bell. I’ve never known a person more perfectly suited to their line of work. She loved talking on the telephone and would do so for hours. I don’t remember her ever seriously complaining about going to work. She even welcomed working a split-shift so that she could be home with Tony after school. And if she had to work on a holiday, say Thanksgiving, she would prepare our turkey dinner in the afternoon so that she could go back to work for the second half of her shift. I remember my efforts trying to get in touch with her on Mother’s Day 1963 to tell her her first grandchild had been born. She was working. She took such joy in children and the things of childhood, whether it was the time she spent with Greg and Erin after their mother passed away, or the times she baby-sat Erin, Michael, and Caitlin marching them down to the Cracker Barrel for forbidden treats. She would spend hours tossing batting practice to Michael, and more hours after their bedtime telling them stories of her own childhood – like the time a photographer showed up on Freeman Ave. with a pony to take pictures of the neighborhood children and she and Catherine just set themselves up on the pony had their picture taken and stuck their parents with the bill. She went with Kevin and Kathy and Jennifer to Great Adventure, got soaked in a downpour while on the Log Flume, came over to my house to use my dryer, changed back into dry clothes and went back to Great Adventure and back on the Log Flume. And more recently she could sit with us and blithely carry on a conversation while Siobhan’s Jerry played away vigorously on her accordian and Kara on her electric organ. She marveled at Nico’s energy scooting around her apartment, and at the precocity of Gabriel and Austin. She would say of each of them, ”They must have an old man’s brain in their heads.” Of course, regardless of your age, you could expect a telephone call on your birthday and hear her singing “Happy Birthday” to you. Just last May Sheila and I took her down to visit James’ grave. We walked slowly up the path, but she had to sit on a bench for a minute to catch her breath. But then, with her little white cane she managed to hobble over the last few yards. She stood by James’ grave site and sang him “Happy Birthday.” About two weeks ago in re-hab (she had been aspirating her food and was receiving swallowing therapy), the speech therapist came in to give her her protein shake. The speech therapist, Tsai-win, happened to mention that the next day was her birthday, and Mom, with her oxygen tube in place began singing “Happy Birthday.” When I started putting this together I realized there were so many stories. I’m sure we each have our own stories about her and we should continue to tell them to each other. But I have one more that I’d like to share with you. A few days before she passed from us, I was visiting her in the re-hab facility when it came time for me to leave. “OK, Mom”, I said. “I have to go now.” She tried putting that motherly guilt trip on me. “Oh no! You’re leaving? Already.?” I explained, “Mom I’ve been here a couple of hours and I have some things I have to take care of. I’ll try and stop by later.” And the, teasing her, I said, “You know even when I leave here, somehow, I seem to hear your voice calling me.” And she gave a short laugh – a knowing laugh. I feel confident that I can say for my brothers and all her family that, in out hearts, we still and always will hear her voice calling. I am adding this here because there is not enough room on the memory page. I wrote the following for my mother for her 80th birthday. I actually did find a dead male Cardinal at the end of a driveway. Since Cardinals mate for life and the male is the food gatherer for the family, I saw an analogy to my fathers passing. When Only Harmony Is Heard It stopped me, the cardinals wings splayed and feathers stuck to the asphalt, song silenced and red heart spent at the end of our neighbors driveway. I thought of his life-mate, her dawns diminished, waiting in the thicket and tangle of the nest she wove to his singing, waiting for him to bring the black oil seeds to her and her nestlings. Who would quiet the cry of these forlorn featherlings, teach them to forage the hedgerows, roost in the briar, with only her soft song to hear? But as if hearing her song from a distance, and melody moved memory, I knew that one day they would nest, and sing n the morning sun, and fly. And then I thought of you. - Jim Langon