Eulogy for Ruth Ann Durkin (1941-2024)

It's hard to know where to begin, so I'll begin with gratitude. I know how lucky my brother Glenn and I were. 

One of the circumstances of my mother’s life is that she found herself divorced at a young age, with two raucous toddler boys to care for. It’s easy to forget now, but at the time, this circumstance carried far more stigma than it does today. She could have responded in all kinds of negative ways. Instead, she chose to step up for her sons. 

I’m sure it must have been scary, overwhelming, and lonely for her. But as a child I never sensed that. To me, she was always the one who knew how to size up a situation. Possessed of practical wisdom beyond her years. Confident. Unintimidated by any who dared threaten her home. A single mother is considered an easy mark by some, but I can’t remember her ever being taken advantage of. 

 

There’s a cassette recording of one of my elementary-school birthday parties, and the cacophony of kids is deafening. Occasionally, though, her voice cuts through, with a directive calmly given. An authoritative eye in the storm; firm yet kind. She called it her “teacher voice.” Listening back now, I realize she was creating stability out of thin air for my brother and me.

 

Her extroverted personality made her a keen observer of human nature, and as I got older, she perceived how I was different. “You’re a free spirit,” she’d say. I wonder if she knew that she’d helped with the freeing. She was certainly the first to encourage me to live a life that mattered to me—to follow my proverbial dreams. Being the first, her encouragement was determinative.

 

It remained so even after she began worrying about what she’d unleashed, and how I was going to earn a living. I’m still amazed at how she negotiated that cognitive dissonance. She’d insist on attending my shows, though the music must have sounded to her like the noise of those early birthday parties. She’d fret about the prudence of my moving 3,000 miles away to attend grad school and start a new life—and then she’d turn around and gift me the car to make the trip. 

 

Some of the best relationships happen when you don’t always understand the other person, but you love them deeply anyway. Isn’t that parenthood, ideally? I still have memories of being rocked to comfort by Mom, when I was too young to explain the reason for my hurting, and when I’m sure it was obscure to her. I’m grateful to have been the recipient of such unconditional love. I’m really going to miss it now.

 

Thank you for everything, Mom. I’ll always love you.