Saturday, May 22, 2010
"Strawberries and Joy:" A Eulogy for My Mother, Rita Ladue
Rita Ladue
July 27, 1916, Saranac Lake, New York
April 9, 2010, Plattsburgh, New York
Strawberries and Joy
My mother’s name was Anna Rita Boyer Ladue. Anna Rita. Apparently, there were lots of Anna's around in 1916 which is why her parents decided to use her middle name. I learned that about her two weeks before she died. Wouldn’t you think I’d have known that after all these years?
Amazing, isn’t it, the things we continue to learn about people we’ve known all our lives.
Anna Rita was almost 94 years old. In fact, to be more precise, she lived 34,234 days. How, then, does one measure a life lived as long as Rita’s? No single eulogy could do justice to this much time lived.
Instead, let me bring you back to a single, well-lived day—a day that encapsulated, at least to me, the essence of my mother--Anna Rita Boyer Ladue.
Come back with me less than two years ago to the first full day of summer, 2008. Mom was on the cusp of 92 and had been living at Lake Forest for a year a half. Her days were quietly content. She was losing her sight, and her hearing, always bad, was failing her further. But these things, which could frequently cause enormous frustration, never brought her down. Within her, there was an optimism which often surprised me.
June 21, 2008 was a perfect, first day of northern summer--a day punctuated by soft, pale blue skies and high cumulus clouds. It was neither hot nor cold. Field daisies were in full bloom, Black-eyed Susan’s just opening up.
At breakfast, I’d seen an ad in the paper announcing that the year’s first crop of strawberries was ready. I called to ask her if she like to go to Rolf’s to pick. Now, for those of you who’ve known my mother for many years, you’ll understand that this was no idle invitation. In fact, it was sort of a “Dah” type of question. I knew she’d drop whatever it was that was on her calendar and seize the moment. If there was one single thing that could fuel her passion it was berry picking.
I picked her up and we headed down the Lake Shore Road. The lake was calm and blue; the Green Mountains lined the eastern horizon. It was a gorgeous day.
We were early at Rolf’s. We were assigned a line of berries and started picking. There was no need to talk. This was a shared moment we both enjoyed. Periodically, I’d check her pail and cull out berries that weren't quite ripe.
In time, we filled our buckets, anted up and left. Ten minutes later we were back on the Lake Shore Road. At the southern end of it, I pulled the car off the highway and turned off the ignition. I could see a place for us to sit. Together we just looked at the lake, the mountains, the blue sky, the clouds. She’d always told me we lived in “God’s Country” and on this particular day I had to agree. We didn’t speak much. There was no need to. I, at least, was aware that the day was special. In Mom that day I saw joy. I saw contentment. I saw happiness.
An hour or so later we left, drove north, and stopped at Stewart’s for an ice cream. But the day wasn’t quite done. Just past Stewart’s is an empty field where I knew there’d be wide patches of daisies for picking. She was thrilled. Strawberries, then daisies…all in the same day, with ice cream in the middle. Life didn’t get much better than this. We picked our way through the field, gathering huge bunches of daisies. “Pick a lot,” she told me. “I’ve got lots of arrangements to make.” So we picked, both of us. Every now and then I’d bring over smaller bunches of Black-Eyed Susans. In the end we had a car full of strawberries, bunches of wild flowers, full bellies of ice cream…… and a huge pile of joy!
Joy. Joy is a word we toss around. “Joy to the World.” Peace and Joy. But what exactly is joy? It’s a hard word to pin down, because what’s joyful to you is not necessarily joyful to me. But I’d seen joy that day; I’d been witness to an exhilaration of passion that brought forth great happiness. I knew the real thing when I saw it. In spite of all my mother’s limitations at the start of that summer, a simple, quiet day picking strawberries and wildflowers ignited within her a flame that burned to joy, and I loved watching it unfold.
-----
That was almost two years ago. Time passed. She failed, lost her vision. She fell, broke her back and then had a stroke.
Mom’s death was not pretty. The act of dying is often grim and frightening. I was deeply appreciative of hospice telling us that it would be harder for us to watch then for her to endure. At 1:15 on a lovely April Friday afternoon, my mom’s strong heart finally gave out. Three of us were with her, surrounding her with our love, trusting hospice that hearing was the last to go.
We sat with her for awhile, and then Marita and I left while Vicki stayed with Meadowbrook staff to prepare Mom’s body for transport to the funeral home.
“Blank,” said Marita, as we sat together. “I’m just blank.”
“Blank.” Yeah! That was the word I was looking for.
By Saturday afternoon, when I’d turned off all phones and slipped off to Montreal for a few days, the blank and flat had become the Big Blank and the Big Flat. I hadn’t cried. I was unable to express any emotion. I kept waiting for something to happen—some sort of emotional meltdown. But it never came.
Saturday flowed to Sunday then Monday.
But on Tuesday, four days after Mom died, an amazing transformation took place. I was taking a walk through a pleasant spring afternoon, when I became aware of her presence. And, like my mother, it wasn’t subtle.
I felt an intense, spectacular swirl of spiritual energy surrounding me. My mother’s presence totally enveloped me in its power and its love. I was so totally aware, and so totally stunned, by this dazzle of energy that it literally stopped me. It was powerful—a gorgeously layered spin and tumble of proof that Mom was not just ok, but better than OK. It shouted: “Hallelujah, Dan. I’m alive! I’m whole, complete and fully in the presence of my Creator.”
WOW!
I was never actually aware of the shift, but the Big Blank and the Big Flat had given way to joy—an exuberant joy that flung off the blankness and flatness…. and which has not left me yet.
Joyful! I’d become joyful on that city street on that fine April spring afternoon.
Joyful! If you’d said to me twenty years ago: “Pick the emotion that will best suit your mood four days after your mother died,” I’d hardly have picked joyful. And because it was unexpected, because it was so highly unimaginable, and because I’d been surprised by joy, I just knew that it was authentic and true. There was absolutely no way that I could have manufactured that feeling and kept it sustained since then.
What a gift!
I called Vicki, who was in Nashville, and shared with her what was happening. Why was I not surprised that she, too, was experiencing something similar. We had, after all, walked the same privileged final journey with her, so it made sense that she’d let both of us know that she was thriving.
What an extraordinary, spectacular beam of Godlight filled our souls that day, and the days after.
I later realized that joy had come full circle, that the joy she showed me on that splendid midsummer’s day two years ago had been returned to me. I knew with every fiber in my body that she was with God. I am convinced that my frail, 94 year old, deaf and blind mother, who’d broken her back and then had a stroke, was now complete, whole and in eternal grace.
----------
It was somehow fitting that Mom would leave us in the spring. It was a time of year that exhilarated her spirit—a return to her gardens, a return to the soil she loved to work, and a return to the young plants she’d nurture through summer into fall.
At first I resented the early crocus and forsythia I saw blooming as I traveled to and from Meadowbrook. Initially, they were a reminder of her impending death, and I thought that they’d forever be linked to her dying time.
But as the days turned to weeks, I was able to shift the imagery. Mom was so spiritually ready to go to glory and bliss, that by the time she did die, those flowery blooms no longer reminded me of her death, but, rather, of her rebirth.
In the weeks since her death I have thought often of that summer’s day two years ago, and a myriad other days just like it—a cold walk with her on a winter’s day, a day picking blueberries in August, or a day gathering greens in November. I knew the depth of her spirituality, and her belief in a living God who walks with us daily, and I’ve returned to the 8th Psalm many times. “How majestic is your name in all the earth,” the Psalmist says.
It was a prayer my mother could have recited in her daily acts of pleasure in nature, her acts of kindness to others, and in her positive attitude as she faced her final challenges. “How majestic is your name in all the earth.”
---------
If Anna Rita Boyer Ladue were standing next to me right now, I know this is what she’d want me to tell you: “Stop the crying. Dry up those tears. Get over it!” “I’m alive,” she’d tell us. “I’m alive and gloriously happy. I’m not gone….just gone ahead to the very kingdom God has planned for each and every one of you.”
“Hallelujah!” I say. “Hallelujah.”
Stawberries, ice cream, daisies and joy. I’ve got to ask: “Does a well-lived life get any better than that?
Dan Ladue
May 3, 2010
July 27, 1916, Saranac Lake, New York
April 9, 2010, Plattsburgh, New York
Strawberries and Joy
My mother’s name was Anna Rita Boyer Ladue. Anna Rita. Apparently, there were lots of Anna's around in 1916 which is why her parents decided to use her middle name. I learned that about her two weeks before she died. Wouldn’t you think I’d have known that after all these years?
Amazing, isn’t it, the things we continue to learn about people we’ve known all our lives.
Anna Rita was almost 94 years old. In fact, to be more precise, she lived 34,234 days. How, then, does one measure a life lived as long as Rita’s? No single eulogy could do justice to this much time lived.
Instead, let me bring you back to a single, well-lived day—a day that encapsulated, at least to me, the essence of my mother--Anna Rita Boyer Ladue.
Come back with me less than two years ago to the first full day of summer, 2008. Mom was on the cusp of 92 and had been living at Lake Forest for a year a half. Her days were quietly content. She was losing her sight, and her hearing, always bad, was failing her further. But these things, which could frequently cause enormous frustration, never brought her down. Within her, there was an optimism which often surprised me.
June 21, 2008 was a perfect, first day of northern summer--a day punctuated by soft, pale blue skies and high cumulus clouds. It was neither hot nor cold. Field daisies were in full bloom, Black-eyed Susan’s just opening up.
At breakfast, I’d seen an ad in the paper announcing that the year’s first crop of strawberries was ready. I called to ask her if she like to go to Rolf’s to pick. Now, for those of you who’ve known my mother for many years, you’ll understand that this was no idle invitation. In fact, it was sort of a “Dah” type of question. I knew she’d drop whatever it was that was on her calendar and seize the moment. If there was one single thing that could fuel her passion it was berry picking.
I picked her up and we headed down the Lake Shore Road. The lake was calm and blue; the Green Mountains lined the eastern horizon. It was a gorgeous day.
We were early at Rolf’s. We were assigned a line of berries and started picking. There was no need to talk. This was a shared moment we both enjoyed. Periodically, I’d check her pail and cull out berries that weren't quite ripe.
In time, we filled our buckets, anted up and left. Ten minutes later we were back on the Lake Shore Road. At the southern end of it, I pulled the car off the highway and turned off the ignition. I could see a place for us to sit. Together we just looked at the lake, the mountains, the blue sky, the clouds. She’d always told me we lived in “God’s Country” and on this particular day I had to agree. We didn’t speak much. There was no need to. I, at least, was aware that the day was special. In Mom that day I saw joy. I saw contentment. I saw happiness.
An hour or so later we left, drove north, and stopped at Stewart’s for an ice cream. But the day wasn’t quite done. Just past Stewart’s is an empty field where I knew there’d be wide patches of daisies for picking. She was thrilled. Strawberries, then daisies…all in the same day, with ice cream in the middle. Life didn’t get much better than this. We picked our way through the field, gathering huge bunches of daisies. “Pick a lot,” she told me. “I’ve got lots of arrangements to make.” So we picked, both of us. Every now and then I’d bring over smaller bunches of Black-Eyed Susans. In the end we had a car full of strawberries, bunches of wild flowers, full bellies of ice cream…… and a huge pile of joy!
Joy. Joy is a word we toss around. “Joy to the World.” Peace and Joy. But what exactly is joy? It’s a hard word to pin down, because what’s joyful to you is not necessarily joyful to me. But I’d seen joy that day; I’d been witness to an exhilaration of passion that brought forth great happiness. I knew the real thing when I saw it. In spite of all my mother’s limitations at the start of that summer, a simple, quiet day picking strawberries and wildflowers ignited within her a flame that burned to joy, and I loved watching it unfold.
-----
That was almost two years ago. Time passed. She failed, lost her vision. She fell, broke her back and then had a stroke.
Mom’s death was not pretty. The act of dying is often grim and frightening. I was deeply appreciative of hospice telling us that it would be harder for us to watch then for her to endure. At 1:15 on a lovely April Friday afternoon, my mom’s strong heart finally gave out. Three of us were with her, surrounding her with our love, trusting hospice that hearing was the last to go.
We sat with her for awhile, and then Marita and I left while Vicki stayed with Meadowbrook staff to prepare Mom’s body for transport to the funeral home.
“Blank,” said Marita, as we sat together. “I’m just blank.”
“Blank.” Yeah! That was the word I was looking for.
By Saturday afternoon, when I’d turned off all phones and slipped off to Montreal for a few days, the blank and flat had become the Big Blank and the Big Flat. I hadn’t cried. I was unable to express any emotion. I kept waiting for something to happen—some sort of emotional meltdown. But it never came.
Saturday flowed to Sunday then Monday.
But on Tuesday, four days after Mom died, an amazing transformation took place. I was taking a walk through a pleasant spring afternoon, when I became aware of her presence. And, like my mother, it wasn’t subtle.
I felt an intense, spectacular swirl of spiritual energy surrounding me. My mother’s presence totally enveloped me in its power and its love. I was so totally aware, and so totally stunned, by this dazzle of energy that it literally stopped me. It was powerful—a gorgeously layered spin and tumble of proof that Mom was not just ok, but better than OK. It shouted: “Hallelujah, Dan. I’m alive! I’m whole, complete and fully in the presence of my Creator.”
WOW!
I was never actually aware of the shift, but the Big Blank and the Big Flat had given way to joy—an exuberant joy that flung off the blankness and flatness…. and which has not left me yet.
Joyful! I’d become joyful on that city street on that fine April spring afternoon.
Joyful! If you’d said to me twenty years ago: “Pick the emotion that will best suit your mood four days after your mother died,” I’d hardly have picked joyful. And because it was unexpected, because it was so highly unimaginable, and because I’d been surprised by joy, I just knew that it was authentic and true. There was absolutely no way that I could have manufactured that feeling and kept it sustained since then.
What a gift!
I called Vicki, who was in Nashville, and shared with her what was happening. Why was I not surprised that she, too, was experiencing something similar. We had, after all, walked the same privileged final journey with her, so it made sense that she’d let both of us know that she was thriving.
What an extraordinary, spectacular beam of Godlight filled our souls that day, and the days after.
I later realized that joy had come full circle, that the joy she showed me on that splendid midsummer’s day two years ago had been returned to me. I knew with every fiber in my body that she was with God. I am convinced that my frail, 94 year old, deaf and blind mother, who’d broken her back and then had a stroke, was now complete, whole and in eternal grace.
----------
It was somehow fitting that Mom would leave us in the spring. It was a time of year that exhilarated her spirit—a return to her gardens, a return to the soil she loved to work, and a return to the young plants she’d nurture through summer into fall.
At first I resented the early crocus and forsythia I saw blooming as I traveled to and from Meadowbrook. Initially, they were a reminder of her impending death, and I thought that they’d forever be linked to her dying time.
But as the days turned to weeks, I was able to shift the imagery. Mom was so spiritually ready to go to glory and bliss, that by the time she did die, those flowery blooms no longer reminded me of her death, but, rather, of her rebirth.
In the weeks since her death I have thought often of that summer’s day two years ago, and a myriad other days just like it—a cold walk with her on a winter’s day, a day picking blueberries in August, or a day gathering greens in November. I knew the depth of her spirituality, and her belief in a living God who walks with us daily, and I’ve returned to the 8th Psalm many times. “How majestic is your name in all the earth,” the Psalmist says.
It was a prayer my mother could have recited in her daily acts of pleasure in nature, her acts of kindness to others, and in her positive attitude as she faced her final challenges. “How majestic is your name in all the earth.”
---------
If Anna Rita Boyer Ladue were standing next to me right now, I know this is what she’d want me to tell you: “Stop the crying. Dry up those tears. Get over it!” “I’m alive,” she’d tell us. “I’m alive and gloriously happy. I’m not gone….just gone ahead to the very kingdom God has planned for each and every one of you.”
“Hallelujah!” I say. “Hallelujah.”
Stawberries, ice cream, daisies and joy. I’ve got to ask: “Does a well-lived life get any better than that?
Dan Ladue
May 3, 2010
"Words:" A Eulogy for Rita Ladue by Vicki Maggy
Words
Wisdom
Intelligence
Love
Kindness
Joy
Generosity
Happiness
Sense of Humor
Faith
Grace
One of the days while we were with her, Dan was walking in the room and she said to me, "I love you more than a can of jelly beans."
I knew I was loved because she really loved jelly beans.
The can of jelly beans she had was so big and full that you could not see the bottom of the can.
She will be missed!
Wisdom
Intelligence
Love
Kindness
Joy
Generosity
Happiness
Sense of Humor
Faith
Grace
One of the days while we were with her, Dan was walking in the room and she said to me, "I love you more than a can of jelly beans."
I knew I was loved because she really loved jelly beans.
The can of jelly beans she had was so big and full that you could not see the bottom of the can.
She will be missed!
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
A Remembrance of Rita Ladue by Marita Boulos
Rita's Hand's
My first visit with Rita was in the middle of December last year. She had just been diagnosed as legally blind and was getting used to "feeling her way" around, literally. "It's amazing how much you can tell just by feel," she would say. Her hands were busy all the time: finding her way along the furniture and walls, locating dishes and cups on the table, or twirling small items between her fingers to identify them by their shape and texture.
From the very beginning,Rita liked us to hold hands when we sat and talked or when I read to her. It helped her to focus and she told me she could hear better that way.
Once she was hospitalized, and later on at Meadowbrook, where she could no longer move about on her own (because she had broken her back in a nasty fall) holding hands became more important than ever. It was the only way she could feel anchored in her new and ever changing surroundings. " I feel so safe when I hold your hand," she would say. Sometimes when pain spasms were severe, she asked me to clasp her one hand between both of mine. Somehow that energized her and made the pain seem just a little less intense.
One day she stroked my hand and told me I had "love hands." I guess I felt a little embarrassed, so I joked about it and said I didn't have nice hands like hers, but that mine were big Swedish farmer's hands like my Dad's. Rita gave that deep sigh of hers and said quietly: "I didn't say your hands were pretty, I said they were loving."
Such a Rita statement!
During the last weeks of Rita's life, her hand holding wish was fully satisfied. Not only did she have a crowd of people with her at all times, but there was always someone sitting right next to her bed holding her hand, twenty four hours a day.
It makes me happy to know that our hand holding soothed and reassured Rita, and she knows it meant a lot to me too.
I've held hands more in the last four months than I ever have before, and it has helped to melt my heart.
I am thankful to Dan and Steve that they considered me to come aboard as one of Rita's care givers.
There's an old Gershwin tune I can't get out of my head lately. I've been humming it to myself but only knew the first two bars: "Holding hands at midnight, 'neath a starry sky".
When I finally went to Google it, it all made sense. The title of the song is "Nice
Work if You Can Get It." So for those of you who may not be old-timers who know the refrain, here it is:
"Holding hands at midnight,
'neath a starry sky.
Nice work if you can get it,and you
can get it if you try."
One thing I know for sure is this: if holding hands with Rita is considered work, then I just lost the nicest job that I will ever have.
Marita Boulos
May 2, 2010
My first visit with Rita was in the middle of December last year. She had just been diagnosed as legally blind and was getting used to "feeling her way" around, literally. "It's amazing how much you can tell just by feel," she would say. Her hands were busy all the time: finding her way along the furniture and walls, locating dishes and cups on the table, or twirling small items between her fingers to identify them by their shape and texture.
From the very beginning,Rita liked us to hold hands when we sat and talked or when I read to her. It helped her to focus and she told me she could hear better that way.
Once she was hospitalized, and later on at Meadowbrook, where she could no longer move about on her own (because she had broken her back in a nasty fall) holding hands became more important than ever. It was the only way she could feel anchored in her new and ever changing surroundings. " I feel so safe when I hold your hand," she would say. Sometimes when pain spasms were severe, she asked me to clasp her one hand between both of mine. Somehow that energized her and made the pain seem just a little less intense.
One day she stroked my hand and told me I had "love hands." I guess I felt a little embarrassed, so I joked about it and said I didn't have nice hands like hers, but that mine were big Swedish farmer's hands like my Dad's. Rita gave that deep sigh of hers and said quietly: "I didn't say your hands were pretty, I said they were loving."
Such a Rita statement!
During the last weeks of Rita's life, her hand holding wish was fully satisfied. Not only did she have a crowd of people with her at all times, but there was always someone sitting right next to her bed holding her hand, twenty four hours a day.
It makes me happy to know that our hand holding soothed and reassured Rita, and she knows it meant a lot to me too.
I've held hands more in the last four months than I ever have before, and it has helped to melt my heart.
I am thankful to Dan and Steve that they considered me to come aboard as one of Rita's care givers.
There's an old Gershwin tune I can't get out of my head lately. I've been humming it to myself but only knew the first two bars: "Holding hands at midnight, 'neath a starry sky".
When I finally went to Google it, it all made sense. The title of the song is "Nice
Work if You Can Get It." So for those of you who may not be old-timers who know the refrain, here it is:
"Holding hands at midnight,
'neath a starry sky.
Nice work if you can get it,and you
can get it if you try."
One thing I know for sure is this: if holding hands with Rita is considered work, then I just lost the nicest job that I will ever have.
Marita Boulos
May 2, 2010
Friday, May 7, 2010
"My Rita:" A Remembrance by Gloria Boyer
My Rita
Rita is my dear sister and my third mother. We grew up together at 8 Charles Street in Saranac Lake. My birth mother died when I was an infant, and Rita’s family enfolded me into their home and hearts.
Rita was 11 years old and had been praying all her life for a baby. At the instant that prayer was answered, she loved me “unconditionally." No matter what I did or didn’t do, she loved me anyway….such a rare and precious gift.
She never stopped taking care of me; I have always been her baby sister. When I stayed
overnight with her in October at Lake Forest, she had a miniature bouquet of fresh flowers on the bed side table and a heated pad in my bed. When she was at Meadowbrook, I asked if she would like me to visit her. Her answer was not at all about her, but only about my comfort.
Rita was always happy, busy, and full of energy. She loved people, had lots of friends,
entertained, traveled, baked, cooked, cleaned, redecorated, had hobbies, and celebrated
holidays. She especially treasured her many relatives---Mom and Dad’s large families.
When she and Howard took trips, she would search for her close or distant ones.
And she was always ready for a party, with one person or many. In no time, she would be serving snacks or dinner. Everone loved her pickled beets or coleslaw flavored with sweet pickle juice.
Years ago, when Rita left home for school to work in Plattsburgh, Mom, Dad, and I were lost without her cheeriness. We felt like the sunshine had gone with her, until she brought it back with her next visit. This time it’s different; she has left us, and she will not be coming back to visit. We are devastated with our loss, until we remember that she isn’t gone at all!
She is closer to us than ever before. She is in our hearts this very minute, and forever. As I was awakening one morning, during Rita’s last days, I saw her in my mind. She was a vibrant, healthy young woman with an impish grin, and ready for the next adventure. I believe she was showing me how she looks today and how I will see her when we are all together again.
Rita had no doubts about eternity; she welcomed it with a joyous heart. We recently heard Don Piper, author of “90 Minutes in Heaven”, in person, describe Rita’s new home. There is no question about it; we know for certain that its glory, wonder, magnificence and grandeur are beyond words.
Rita is in perfect bliss in Paradise….home at last with her Lord in Heaven. She is still smiling, rambunctious, determined, and serving our Dear Savior with boundless enthusiasm.
Gloria Boyer
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Anthony’s Restaurant, Plattsburgh, NY
Rita is my dear sister and my third mother. We grew up together at 8 Charles Street in Saranac Lake. My birth mother died when I was an infant, and Rita’s family enfolded me into their home and hearts.
Rita was 11 years old and had been praying all her life for a baby. At the instant that prayer was answered, she loved me “unconditionally." No matter what I did or didn’t do, she loved me anyway….such a rare and precious gift.
She never stopped taking care of me; I have always been her baby sister. When I stayed
overnight with her in October at Lake Forest, she had a miniature bouquet of fresh flowers on the bed side table and a heated pad in my bed. When she was at Meadowbrook, I asked if she would like me to visit her. Her answer was not at all about her, but only about my comfort.
Rita was always happy, busy, and full of energy. She loved people, had lots of friends,
entertained, traveled, baked, cooked, cleaned, redecorated, had hobbies, and celebrated
holidays. She especially treasured her many relatives---Mom and Dad’s large families.
When she and Howard took trips, she would search for her close or distant ones.
And she was always ready for a party, with one person or many. In no time, she would be serving snacks or dinner. Everone loved her pickled beets or coleslaw flavored with sweet pickle juice.
Years ago, when Rita left home for school to work in Plattsburgh, Mom, Dad, and I were lost without her cheeriness. We felt like the sunshine had gone with her, until she brought it back with her next visit. This time it’s different; she has left us, and she will not be coming back to visit. We are devastated with our loss, until we remember that she isn’t gone at all!
She is closer to us than ever before. She is in our hearts this very minute, and forever. As I was awakening one morning, during Rita’s last days, I saw her in my mind. She was a vibrant, healthy young woman with an impish grin, and ready for the next adventure. I believe she was showing me how she looks today and how I will see her when we are all together again.
Rita had no doubts about eternity; she welcomed it with a joyous heart. We recently heard Don Piper, author of “90 Minutes in Heaven”, in person, describe Rita’s new home. There is no question about it; we know for certain that its glory, wonder, magnificence and grandeur are beyond words.
Rita is in perfect bliss in Paradise….home at last with her Lord in Heaven. She is still smiling, rambunctious, determined, and serving our Dear Savior with boundless enthusiasm.
Gloria Boyer
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Anthony’s Restaurant, Plattsburgh, NY
Rita Ladue Obituary
The majestic green gardens of God's heaven are now tended by a new angel gardener. Rita Ladue, 93, formerly of Lake Forest, passed peacefully into eternal grace on Friday, April 9, 2010 surrounded, as she lived, by love, family and friends.
Rita was born in Saranac Lake, NY on July 27, 1916, the daughter of Homer and Alice (Hamel) Boyer. She grew up at a time when Saranac Lake was an internationally known hamlet. Her stories of Cure Cottages and their inhabitants were always interesting. She was witness to the 1932 Winter Olympics and was always proud of her autograph collection of famous Olympians—including Sonia Henie.
After graduating from Saranac Lake High School in 1936, she moved to Plattsburgh to study at Plattsburgh Business School. It was while working at Montgomery Ward that she met Howard Ladue, whom she married on September 15, 1945. He died December 26, 1994.
During the 1950’s she worked as a Welcome Wagon Hostess and from 1960 to 1976 she and Howard owned and operated Plattsburgh Answering Service. After her sons finished school she worked for The Office of Religious Education for the Diocese of Ogdensburg for a number of years. In retirement Rita and Howard spent fourteen winters living in Florida. She loved “sailing” on weekends, cruising the rummage sales of Sarasota and Venice.
Rita’s deep spirituality was the cornerstone of her life. She was a lifelong member of St. Peter’s Church where she was a member of the Catholic Daughters and Altar Rosary Society. However, it was her involvement with both the Regina Maria Retreat League and the North Country Mission of Hope that saw “patches of Godlight”--the manifestation of Rita’s service to God and mankind.
For over 40 years, Rita was involved in almost all activities of the Retreat League. She spent countless hours assisting retreats, tending gardens, and preparing food. She knew everyone and was the liaison between the Retreat House and local churches. Each November she helped chair the annual bazaar, raising needed funds for the Retreat league’s many missions.
Since its beginning, Rita was passionate about the North Country Mission of Hope. She gathered and saved all sorts of things the Mission could use, assisted in packing and was part of the team which dismantled the Base Hospital’s medical supplies that ultimately made their way to Nicaraguan health care facilities.
Rita was most at home in her flower gardens, working the soil, nurturing young plants into glorious blooms. Her gardens on Grace Avenue, Wildwood, and Lake Forest were her pride and joy. Until last autumn, she could be seen with her son, Dan, tending five raised beds of flowers and vegetables at Lake Forest. Never content to keep the flowers for herself, she was always making floral arrangements for her numerous friends.
She is survived by her sons Daniel Ladue and Stephen Graf of Plattsburgh, NY; Richard and Carolyn Ladue of Anchorage, Alaska; and her step-daughter Patricia and Dick Irwin of Potsdam, NY. She is also survived by her beloved sister, Gloria Boyer, of Newark, NY, as well as nine nephews and nieces and countless friends. Rita’s surrogate daughters/friends, Vicky Maggy of Saranac and Pat Ives of Plattsburgh, will forever live with the wisdom she taught them.
Calling hours will be Monday, May 3, 2010 from 9:30 a.m. at St. Peter’s Church, followed immediately by a Mass of Christian Burial at 11:00 a.m. with Father John Yankovig celebrating the Mass.
Arrangements have been entrusted to R. W. Walker Funeral Home, 69 Court Street, Plattsburgh, NY 12901.
Rita always said, “Don’t give me flowers when I’m dead. Let me enjoy them while I’m alive.” To honor that request, memorial donations may be made to the North Country Mission of Hope, PO Box 2522, Plattsburgh, NY 12901. A special focus mission will go to Nicaragua to build homes in her memory.
Go forth, dear angel. Your mission here on Earth is complete. Tend God’s royal gardens and continue sharing their bounty with Heaven’s choir. You will be missed by those who loved you, but we know you are safe, whole and in the presence of God’s glory.
Rita was born in Saranac Lake, NY on July 27, 1916, the daughter of Homer and Alice (Hamel) Boyer. She grew up at a time when Saranac Lake was an internationally known hamlet. Her stories of Cure Cottages and their inhabitants were always interesting. She was witness to the 1932 Winter Olympics and was always proud of her autograph collection of famous Olympians—including Sonia Henie.
After graduating from Saranac Lake High School in 1936, she moved to Plattsburgh to study at Plattsburgh Business School. It was while working at Montgomery Ward that she met Howard Ladue, whom she married on September 15, 1945. He died December 26, 1994.
During the 1950’s she worked as a Welcome Wagon Hostess and from 1960 to 1976 she and Howard owned and operated Plattsburgh Answering Service. After her sons finished school she worked for The Office of Religious Education for the Diocese of Ogdensburg for a number of years. In retirement Rita and Howard spent fourteen winters living in Florida. She loved “sailing” on weekends, cruising the rummage sales of Sarasota and Venice.
Rita’s deep spirituality was the cornerstone of her life. She was a lifelong member of St. Peter’s Church where she was a member of the Catholic Daughters and Altar Rosary Society. However, it was her involvement with both the Regina Maria Retreat League and the North Country Mission of Hope that saw “patches of Godlight”--the manifestation of Rita’s service to God and mankind.
For over 40 years, Rita was involved in almost all activities of the Retreat League. She spent countless hours assisting retreats, tending gardens, and preparing food. She knew everyone and was the liaison between the Retreat House and local churches. Each November she helped chair the annual bazaar, raising needed funds for the Retreat league’s many missions.
Since its beginning, Rita was passionate about the North Country Mission of Hope. She gathered and saved all sorts of things the Mission could use, assisted in packing and was part of the team which dismantled the Base Hospital’s medical supplies that ultimately made their way to Nicaraguan health care facilities.
Rita was most at home in her flower gardens, working the soil, nurturing young plants into glorious blooms. Her gardens on Grace Avenue, Wildwood, and Lake Forest were her pride and joy. Until last autumn, she could be seen with her son, Dan, tending five raised beds of flowers and vegetables at Lake Forest. Never content to keep the flowers for herself, she was always making floral arrangements for her numerous friends.
She is survived by her sons Daniel Ladue and Stephen Graf of Plattsburgh, NY; Richard and Carolyn Ladue of Anchorage, Alaska; and her step-daughter Patricia and Dick Irwin of Potsdam, NY. She is also survived by her beloved sister, Gloria Boyer, of Newark, NY, as well as nine nephews and nieces and countless friends. Rita’s surrogate daughters/friends, Vicky Maggy of Saranac and Pat Ives of Plattsburgh, will forever live with the wisdom she taught them.
Calling hours will be Monday, May 3, 2010 from 9:30 a.m. at St. Peter’s Church, followed immediately by a Mass of Christian Burial at 11:00 a.m. with Father John Yankovig celebrating the Mass.
Arrangements have been entrusted to R. W. Walker Funeral Home, 69 Court Street, Plattsburgh, NY 12901.
Rita always said, “Don’t give me flowers when I’m dead. Let me enjoy them while I’m alive.” To honor that request, memorial donations may be made to the North Country Mission of Hope, PO Box 2522, Plattsburgh, NY 12901. A special focus mission will go to Nicaragua to build homes in her memory.
Go forth, dear angel. Your mission here on Earth is complete. Tend God’s royal gardens and continue sharing their bounty with Heaven’s choir. You will be missed by those who loved you, but we know you are safe, whole and in the presence of God’s glory.
"The Voice of My Father": A Eulogy for My Father, Howard Ladue
Howard Ladue
January 2, 1912, Beekmantown, New York
I never once heard my father speak of ill of someone. I never once heard my father demean another human being. The voice of my father will continue to speak to me reminding me that gentleness is truly the greatest strength.
My father will always live within me. Just last summer, while playing golf 10,000 miles away from here in the Cameron Highlands of Malaysia, I commented that the spirit of my father, who was still very much alive, was so strongly felt. I could feel him telling how to grip the club; I could hear him telling me, “Keep your head down.” We played terribly, but the presence of my dad while we were separated by such a distance, gave me a warm and wonderful feeling that stayed with me long after the game was finished and long after the trip was completed. I learned then what my friends who’ve walked this path before me meant when they said, “The spirit of my father always lives within me.”
When it came time for him to go home, my father taught me one of the greatest lessons he would ever teach. He taught me that in sickness and then in the act of dying that is dignity, nobility and even majesty.
This was not an easy Christmas, nor one that will ever be forgotten. The greatest gifts given and received were never purchased, never wrapped and never put under a Christmas tree.
Hospice nurses, Karen and Priscilla, gave up long parts of their Christmas Eve and Christmas Day to minister to our needs. Thank you, Karen, for teaching me that I could do what I shared I thought I could not do. And, Priscilla, thank you for all the encouragement and thank you for the “bottom line,” and thank you for allowing me to share in the intimacies of your work when he finally moved on.
Friends Coy and Richard, from California, who had come East for a vacation and a white North country Christmas instead unselfishly stayed with us twelve hours on Christmas Eve and eighteen hours on Christmas Day, prepared meals, and kept events on an even keel. They gave us Christmas and provided us with the humor and wit that sustained us through those two difficult days. Thanks! And, Mom, when you remember this special holiday…please… “Remember Christmas dinner.”
Gifts were abundant on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day—sharing moment with my father, holding his hand, tending to his few, simple last needs. But the finest gift came on Christmas afternoon when I said, “I love you, Dad,” and for him to say, “I love you.” We gave him permission to die on Christmas, and he returned the gift by telling us, “No, tomorrow.”
I will never play a game of golf, or walk a beach, or eat a michigan (one of his favorite foods), or attend an Expos game or ride a train without recognizing the spirit of my father in those acts. He loved the act of living as he loved activities just mentioned, and often said, “I’ve had a good life.”
We should not grieve his loss, which has become ours, but rather we should rejoice that he’s with God. In the two remaining hours of his life he began talking to persons who were clearly in the room. We knew the room was full of loved ones come to cross the bridge between life and death. My mother asked him, after he lifted his arms upwards, reaching to someone, “Who’s in the room with you?” He replied, “Mom and Dad.”
I know that my father is in paradise this dark and that knowledge will sustain me through the dark months ahead. Let that sustain you, too. He fought hard, yet, in the end, resisted Dylan Thomas’ admonition to “rage, rage against the dying of the light,” and went, instead, “gentle into that good night.”
Dan Ladue December 29, 1994
January 2, 1912, Beekmantown, New York
December 26, 1994, Plattsburgh, New York
The Voice of My Father
The poet Robert Bly one said that as adults we speak from the mouth of both our mother and our father. I know when I speak from the mouth of my father. When I speak of my work, I know that it is the voice of my father who taught me the important value of work and the honor that comes with it. When I speak of my affection for animals, I know it is the voice of my father who taught me that all creatures are important in the eyes of the Creator. And when I speak softly of someone, I know it is the voice of my father who taught me quietude and kindness.
The Voice of My Father
The poet Robert Bly one said that as adults we speak from the mouth of both our mother and our father. I know when I speak from the mouth of my father. When I speak of my work, I know that it is the voice of my father who taught me the important value of work and the honor that comes with it. When I speak of my affection for animals, I know it is the voice of my father who taught me that all creatures are important in the eyes of the Creator. And when I speak softly of someone, I know it is the voice of my father who taught me quietude and kindness.
I never once heard my father speak of ill of someone. I never once heard my father demean another human being. The voice of my father will continue to speak to me reminding me that gentleness is truly the greatest strength.
My father will always live within me. Just last summer, while playing golf 10,000 miles away from here in the Cameron Highlands of Malaysia, I commented that the spirit of my father, who was still very much alive, was so strongly felt. I could feel him telling how to grip the club; I could hear him telling me, “Keep your head down.” We played terribly, but the presence of my dad while we were separated by such a distance, gave me a warm and wonderful feeling that stayed with me long after the game was finished and long after the trip was completed. I learned then what my friends who’ve walked this path before me meant when they said, “The spirit of my father always lives within me.”
When it came time for him to go home, my father taught me one of the greatest lessons he would ever teach. He taught me that in sickness and then in the act of dying that is dignity, nobility and even majesty.
This was not an easy Christmas, nor one that will ever be forgotten. The greatest gifts given and received were never purchased, never wrapped and never put under a Christmas tree.
Hospice nurses, Karen and Priscilla, gave up long parts of their Christmas Eve and Christmas Day to minister to our needs. Thank you, Karen, for teaching me that I could do what I shared I thought I could not do. And, Priscilla, thank you for all the encouragement and thank you for the “bottom line,” and thank you for allowing me to share in the intimacies of your work when he finally moved on.
Friends Coy and Richard, from California, who had come East for a vacation and a white North country Christmas instead unselfishly stayed with us twelve hours on Christmas Eve and eighteen hours on Christmas Day, prepared meals, and kept events on an even keel. They gave us Christmas and provided us with the humor and wit that sustained us through those two difficult days. Thanks! And, Mom, when you remember this special holiday…please… “Remember Christmas dinner.”
Gifts were abundant on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day—sharing moment with my father, holding his hand, tending to his few, simple last needs. But the finest gift came on Christmas afternoon when I said, “I love you, Dad,” and for him to say, “I love you.” We gave him permission to die on Christmas, and he returned the gift by telling us, “No, tomorrow.”
I will never play a game of golf, or walk a beach, or eat a michigan (one of his favorite foods), or attend an Expos game or ride a train without recognizing the spirit of my father in those acts. He loved the act of living as he loved activities just mentioned, and often said, “I’ve had a good life.”
We should not grieve his loss, which has become ours, but rather we should rejoice that he’s with God. In the two remaining hours of his life he began talking to persons who were clearly in the room. We knew the room was full of loved ones come to cross the bridge between life and death. My mother asked him, after he lifted his arms upwards, reaching to someone, “Who’s in the room with you?” He replied, “Mom and Dad.”
I know that my father is in paradise this dark and that knowledge will sustain me through the dark months ahead. Let that sustain you, too. He fought hard, yet, in the end, resisted Dylan Thomas’ admonition to “rage, rage against the dying of the light,” and went, instead, “gentle into that good night.”
Dan Ladue December 29, 1994
Well, Howard:" A Remembrance by Carole Hull
Well Howard…
Has it been a good life?
I see you sharp and trim on Grace Avenue, getting ready to go golfing.
I see you in the kitchen coming off a shift of your answering service, half-listening to Rita and me as we made last minute plants for a Diocesan ed. meeting.
I see you with a twinkle in your eye listening to one of Bob’s jokes and gearing up to tell one of your own.
I see you and Rita and the wedding anniversary party that Dan and Joe so lovingly put on for you.
I see you watching for sparks to fly when Dan, Joe and I got into one of our discussions about religion.
I see you at Sacred Heart Church in Chazy serving as Joshua’s godfather for his baptism.
Most of all, for me, I see you steady, clear, common-sensed, down-to-earth. You were a rudder for our family, an oasis of stability for me as a young woman riding some emotional roller coaster.
Remember at my wedding how the ceremony shifted from sober to comical when you inadvertently poked me in the eye during the Kiss of Peace and I lost my contact lens? We found it and the marriage ceremony continued? Always bringing me back to reality for my own good. Right, Howard?
Fourteen months ago when we were here for Bill Hartnett’s funeral, Bob and I came to see you. I will never forget your insistence. You waited for us in your weakened condition and made Rita put on Dan and Steve’s video tape of Joe and Carolyn’s wedding. I watched you, tears running down your face, and smiling at the same time. “Isn’t she lovely?” you would repeat, referring to your daughter-in-law. “They may come in March,” you said. I knew then that you would not leave us until you had net Carolyn in person. “Dan did a wonderful job, didn’t he?” referring to the tape. “I watch it over and over.” Your affection for your whole family was so evident.
Bob and I love you and thank you.
This morning I found a quote from Emily Dickenson which captures your life for me, Howard. She wrote, “Instead of going to Heaven at last, I am going all along.”
Carol December 29, 1994
Has it been a good life?
I see you sharp and trim on Grace Avenue, getting ready to go golfing.
I see you in the kitchen coming off a shift of your answering service, half-listening to Rita and me as we made last minute plants for a Diocesan ed. meeting.
I see you with a twinkle in your eye listening to one of Bob’s jokes and gearing up to tell one of your own.
I see you and Rita and the wedding anniversary party that Dan and Joe so lovingly put on for you.
I see you watching for sparks to fly when Dan, Joe and I got into one of our discussions about religion.
I see you at Sacred Heart Church in Chazy serving as Joshua’s godfather for his baptism.
Most of all, for me, I see you steady, clear, common-sensed, down-to-earth. You were a rudder for our family, an oasis of stability for me as a young woman riding some emotional roller coaster.
Remember at my wedding how the ceremony shifted from sober to comical when you inadvertently poked me in the eye during the Kiss of Peace and I lost my contact lens? We found it and the marriage ceremony continued? Always bringing me back to reality for my own good. Right, Howard?
Fourteen months ago when we were here for Bill Hartnett’s funeral, Bob and I came to see you. I will never forget your insistence. You waited for us in your weakened condition and made Rita put on Dan and Steve’s video tape of Joe and Carolyn’s wedding. I watched you, tears running down your face, and smiling at the same time. “Isn’t she lovely?” you would repeat, referring to your daughter-in-law. “They may come in March,” you said. I knew then that you would not leave us until you had net Carolyn in person. “Dan did a wonderful job, didn’t he?” referring to the tape. “I watch it over and over.” Your affection for your whole family was so evident.
Bob and I love you and thank you.
This morning I found a quote from Emily Dickenson which captures your life for me, Howard. She wrote, “Instead of going to Heaven at last, I am going all along.”
Carol December 29, 1994
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Howard Ladue Obituary
Howard Ladue
January 2,, 1994, Beekmantown, New York
December 26, 1994, Plattsburgh, New York
The Voice of My Father
The poet Robert Bly one said that as adults we speak from the mouth of both our mother and our father. I know when I speak from the mouth of my father. When I speak of my work, I know that it is the voice of my father who taught me the important value of work and the honor that comes with it. When I speak of my affection for animals, I know it is the voice of my father who taught me that all creatures are important in the eyes of the Creator. And when I speak softly of someone, I know it is the voice of my father who taught me quietude and kindness.
I never once heard my father speak of ill of someone. I never once heard my father demean another human being. The voice of my father will continue to speak to me reminding me that gentleness is truly the greatest strength.
My father will always live within me. Just last summer, while playing golf 10,000 miles away from here in the Cameron Highlands of Malaysia, I commented that the spirit of my father, who was still very much alive, was so strongly felt. I could feel him telling how to grip the club; I could hear him telling me, “Keep your head down.” We played terribly, but the presence of my dad while we were separated by such a distance, gave me a warm and wonderful feeling that stayed with me long after the game was finished and long after the trip was completed. I learned then what my friends who’ve walked this path before me meant when they said, “The spirit of my father always lives within me.”
When it came time for him to go home, my father taught me one of the greatest lessons he would ever teach. He taught me that in sickness and then in the act of dying that is dignity, nobility and even majesty.
This was not an easy Christmas, nor one that will ever be forgotten. The greatest gifts given and received were never purchased, never wrapped and never put under a Christmas tree.
Hospice nurses, Karen and Priscilla, gave up long parts of their Christmas Eve and Christmas Day to minister to our needs. Thank you, Karen, for teaching me that I could do what I shared I thought I could not do. And, Priscilla, thank you for all the encouragement and thank you for the “bottom line,” and thank you for allowing me to share in the intimacies of your work when he finally moved on.
Friends Coy and Richard, from California, who had come East for a vacation and a white North country Christmas instead unselfishly stayed with us twelve hours on Christmas Eve and eighteen hours on Christmas Day, prepared meals, and kept events on an even keel. They gave us Christmas and provided us with the humor and wit that sustained us through those two difficult days. Thanks! And, Mom, when you remember this special holiday…please… “Remember Christmas dinner.”
Gifts were abundant on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day—sharing moment with my father, holding his hand, tending to his few, simple last needs. But the finest gift came on Christmas afternoon when I said, “I love you, Dad,” and for him to say, “I love you.” We gave him permission to die on Christmas, and he returned the gift by telling us, “No, tomorrow.”
I will never play a game of golf, or walk a beach, or eat a michigan (one of his favorite foods), or attend an Expos game or ride a train without recognizing the spirit of my father in those acts. He loved the act of living as he loved activities just mentioned, and often said, “I’ve had a good life.”
We should not grieve his loss, which has become ours, but rather we should rejoice that he’s with God. In the two remaining hours of his life he began talking to persons who were clearly in the room. We knew the room was full of loved ones come to cross the bridge between life and death. My mother asked him, after he lifted his arms upwards, reaching to someone, “Who’s in the room with you?” He replied, “Mom and Dad.”
I know that my father is in paradise, and that knowledge will sustain me through the dark months ahead. Let that sustain you, too. He fought hard, yet, in the end, resisted Dylan Thomas’ admonition to “rage, rage against the dying of the light,” and went, instead, “gentle into that good night.”
Dan Ladue
December 29, 1994
January 2,, 1994, Beekmantown, New York
December 26, 1994, Plattsburgh, New York
The Voice of My Father
The poet Robert Bly one said that as adults we speak from the mouth of both our mother and our father. I know when I speak from the mouth of my father. When I speak of my work, I know that it is the voice of my father who taught me the important value of work and the honor that comes with it. When I speak of my affection for animals, I know it is the voice of my father who taught me that all creatures are important in the eyes of the Creator. And when I speak softly of someone, I know it is the voice of my father who taught me quietude and kindness.
I never once heard my father speak of ill of someone. I never once heard my father demean another human being. The voice of my father will continue to speak to me reminding me that gentleness is truly the greatest strength.
My father will always live within me. Just last summer, while playing golf 10,000 miles away from here in the Cameron Highlands of Malaysia, I commented that the spirit of my father, who was still very much alive, was so strongly felt. I could feel him telling how to grip the club; I could hear him telling me, “Keep your head down.” We played terribly, but the presence of my dad while we were separated by such a distance, gave me a warm and wonderful feeling that stayed with me long after the game was finished and long after the trip was completed. I learned then what my friends who’ve walked this path before me meant when they said, “The spirit of my father always lives within me.”
When it came time for him to go home, my father taught me one of the greatest lessons he would ever teach. He taught me that in sickness and then in the act of dying that is dignity, nobility and even majesty.
This was not an easy Christmas, nor one that will ever be forgotten. The greatest gifts given and received were never purchased, never wrapped and never put under a Christmas tree.
Hospice nurses, Karen and Priscilla, gave up long parts of their Christmas Eve and Christmas Day to minister to our needs. Thank you, Karen, for teaching me that I could do what I shared I thought I could not do. And, Priscilla, thank you for all the encouragement and thank you for the “bottom line,” and thank you for allowing me to share in the intimacies of your work when he finally moved on.
Friends Coy and Richard, from California, who had come East for a vacation and a white North country Christmas instead unselfishly stayed with us twelve hours on Christmas Eve and eighteen hours on Christmas Day, prepared meals, and kept events on an even keel. They gave us Christmas and provided us with the humor and wit that sustained us through those two difficult days. Thanks! And, Mom, when you remember this special holiday…please… “Remember Christmas dinner.”
Gifts were abundant on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day—sharing moment with my father, holding his hand, tending to his few, simple last needs. But the finest gift came on Christmas afternoon when I said, “I love you, Dad,” and for him to say, “I love you.” We gave him permission to die on Christmas, and he returned the gift by telling us, “No, tomorrow.”
I will never play a game of golf, or walk a beach, or eat a michigan (one of his favorite foods), or attend an Expos game or ride a train without recognizing the spirit of my father in those acts. He loved the act of living as he loved activities just mentioned, and often said, “I’ve had a good life.”
We should not grieve his loss, which has become ours, but rather we should rejoice that he’s with God. In the two remaining hours of his life he began talking to persons who were clearly in the room. We knew the room was full of loved ones come to cross the bridge between life and death. My mother asked him, after he lifted his arms upwards, reaching to someone, “Who’s in the room with you?” He replied, “Mom and Dad.”
I know that my father is in paradise, and that knowledge will sustain me through the dark months ahead. Let that sustain you, too. He fought hard, yet, in the end, resisted Dylan Thomas’ admonition to “rage, rage against the dying of the light,” and went, instead, “gentle into that good night.”
Dan Ladue
December 29, 1994
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