Good afternoon. On behalf on myself
and the Boulé family…thank you for coming today to celebrate
Mary’s life.
May and I go back a few years. During
the many days we visited these past two months, neither of us could
figure out if we met in first grade or in second grade. What I DO
remember, though, was the particular circumstance that is my earliest
memory of Mary Boulé.
It was story our and Mary brought it a
copy of Daniel the Cocker Spaniel. I was mortified, embarrassed.
Years late, well after college, when I brought up the event, Mary
remembered it well. “I brought it in,” she said, “because I
liked you, and I thought you’d like the story, too.”
Even seven years old can misinterpret
well-meaning intentions.
Well, that incident didn’t end our
friendship. From then on the years melded one to another. Grade
school, high school, and even college. We both studied English in
Western New York, 40 miles apart, and many weekends Mary would be in
Fredonia and I’d be in Buffalo. Her Aunt Margaret became my Aunt
Margaret.
We graduated, moved back to
Plattsburgh, spent countless hours together. I’ve thought a lot
lately of summer days spent at the Boulé camp at Valcour, camping
trips on the island and rides into the Adirondacks. I’ve thought
of all the hours sitting around camp fires ‘til late at night, and
I know in summer that I’ll miss Mary the most.
How does one evaluate a life? One, far
more famous, is also being remembered today in this town. [Ron
Stafford] Do we judge a person’s life by all his great and mighty
deeds, or are deeds plain, quiet and simply sufficient?
Mary led a quiet life, and I really
think that life on the corner of Lafayette and Ash, surrounded by
Steffan and his friends, was enough. It’s through these kids that
many of us have come to realize her greatest legacy.
I’d take occasional days off to sit
with her on 5R. We’d reminisce about the old days---summers on the
lake, high school and college, our first years back in Plattsburgh,
young adults, futures spread out before us. We’d be interrupted
by frequent visits from young people—some I knew, but most were
strangers to me. There was awkwardness on their part, young as they
were, unfamiliar with critical illness. Yet there was a need within
them to stand presence with Mary at this time in her life.
“How ya doing’? Steffan (or Parker
or Aaron or Sarah or David or Kelly, or, or, or…someone) told us
you were in the hospital. Here, we brought you some candy.” Or
they’d leave a flower or a plant.
Others told me the same thing.
Whenever they’d spend with Mary, young people would flow in. And
then the stories…of how Mary opened her non-judgmental heart, let
kids tell her their deepest concerns. We learned that kids would go
to Mary when they couldn’t talk to their own parents. “Let’s
go talk to Mary,” Sarah Remillard told me. “She’ll know what to
do.” She was the Mom everyone went to when theirs weren’t home or
they just needed a shoulder to cry on. We learned that Mary always
knew when to listen and when give to advice—the adult these kids
looked to who’d not judge their hair, or their life style, or the
decisions they were making. They’d be accepted simply for who they
were.
When it came time for Mary to leave—at
the end of a gorgeous, early summer’s day—I don’t think it was
mere coincidence that four young people were with her at the time.
They were there to support Steffan, of course, but they were there,,
too, because a huge part of themselves—their second mother—was
leaving them.
Steffan…you have to listen to me.
It’s going to take you a life time
how much your mother loved you. How joyous she was for you to go to
Florida…a week after she’d been given a diagnosis. No holding you
back for something so mundane as pancreatic cancer. No. You were
always first in her heart and she was always happiest to see your
dreams fulfilled. Hold on to this, buddy. Your mother taught you to
be a kind and non-judgmental human being. That is her greatest gift
to you.
And Aaron…Parker..Kelly…Sarah…David…of
you young people who knew Mary as your second Mom…you’ve got to
listen to me. Hold on to each other, take here lessons and work them
into the deepest fabric of your life. Be the kind, non-judgmental,
accepting person she modeled for you. This way she’ll live on,
down through the years, in each and every one of you.
How do we judge a life? Not all of us
hold office; not all of us bring forth Olympic games or have Middle
schools named after us. But we all, each of us, leave a legacy—even
the quietest among us.
Mary. Poetess. Songwriter.
Balladeer.
Mary. Organic gardener, wild flowers
in her hair, feet dangling off the dock at Valcour. Mother. Friend.
Peace maker. Secret-sharer of dreams.
Mary. Maker of the world’s best
macaroni and cheese, indomitable Scrabble player, a “shoot for the
stars” cheerleader of one.
And facing her final battle…a journey
she chose share with some of us…eloquent, graceful, dignified.
Always smiling, thankful for every kind act. Life lessons to the
very end.
Mary loved plants. She’d much prefer
a garden plant to a bouquet of store bought flowers. Over the weeks
she was in the hospital, I’d bring in single pots of summer
annuals—a marigold, a geranium, and this…an impatiens. Even when
cancer spread to her brain, she’d be able to tell me, “Impatients:
the most beautiful flower…but only in pink.” Her hospital garden
brought her great joy and comfort through this difficult spring.
And now this has become my metaphor of
Mary. Of all the summer flower, impatiens are the first to die,
wilting under the slightest hint of frost. I’ll always see Mary in
an impatiens because, like this plant, Mary’s life was cut short by
her own too-early frost.
Mary. Kool Aid Mom to neighborhood
kids. Everyone’s biggest cheerleader.
What a legacy. A legacy that will live
down the years in all the young people who transected her life.
What a great way to be remembered.
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