Mary Rocheford Mulheran, Matriarch

As I said in my Facebook post, I lack the words, but per usual, I'm going to fight through my inevitable shortcomings. My last living grandparent, Mary Rocheford Mulheran, received the sacrament of the sick (last rights) this evening from Father Bob Schwartz. Grandma celebrated her 92nd birthday in July of this year, and the bluntest way to describe her is likely both the most and least appropriate; she kicks ass.

She may quibble with the lack of social decorum tied to that terse description, but I have a hard time summoning a more apropos description of the revered matriarch of the Mulheran rabble. Born in 1920, she has lived through some of the greatest and leanest years in the brief history of our land, experiencing the lows of the depression mixed with the stunning achievements of the "greatest generation" and the onslaught of technological advancement that evolves by the week, day, and hour, if not minute and second. She has endured the crushing pain of losing both a son (my namesake, Paul David) and a husband, as well as a grandchild, siblings, and most (if not all) of her friends. Through such immeasurable pain and strife, she has remained the vibrant heartbeat of our extended family.

If you spoke with all of those who were close to Grandma, especially those in my immediate family, you'd be treated to an infinite number of varying stories that all found their way back to the essence of my dear Grandma. She was stylish. Charming. Witty. A fantastic golfer (I think she could probably take me in match play if we teed 'em up tomorrow). Immensely thoughtful and generous in every facet of both words. God, how do I even begin to tell you how great she was? I suppose the clearest way is that she's secured herself a helluva place (and I suppose that terminology is ironic) with our Maker up there in the great beyond.

As Grandma has made her way through her early 90's, conversations have veered into more difficult territory. She often repeats herself, and asks the same questions several times within a short conversation. This great lady with a sharp mind has little to no short term memory, and will carry on a circular conversation with you if you don't steer her in varied directions. Despite that, she remains a wealth of information, and an endless source of ties to my un-studied ancestry. I find comfort in her stories of her sister making clothes for her (Grandma will always be a better dresser than me, regrardless of how snazzy I think I look. And I think she'd like that I used the word "snazzy".), tales of her incorrigible baby brother, Paul, and other scattered memories painted across the landscape of a life worth more than I could possibly accomplish in five lifetimes. As her sharp wit begins to fail her, the ties to both a recent and distant past tell the enduring story of a life spent building a meaningful and lasting legacy.

I'm visiting Grandma tomorrow, which I guess is now today. I'm scared that I'll break down and sob in front of her, or that I won't know what to say, do, think, feel...but mostly, I'm overjoyed that she gets to reunite with Grandpa Joe, Uncle Paul, and with God. I suck at dealing with death and loss, but as a dear friend reminded me tonight, she's with me and the rest of our family wherever we go, and through all that we do in our lives. Beyond, that, I'm looking forward to holding her hand, telling her stories, listening to her tell stories to me, and catching a glimpse of that wry, knowing smile that I'll never forget.

I love you, Grandma.

More Wine, Please

It started with wine. Chianti, to be precise. My dad, in his own inimitable way, ceremoniously announced over the cacophony of a Mulheran (+McNiff) Thanksgiving dinner that he should probably open up said bottle of Chianti, because he and my mom had decided to take us to the Amalfi Coast of Italy to help celebrate their 40th anniversary together. Still reeling from my third heaping plate of turkey, mashed potatoes, and the like, I think I was too dumbfounded to respond with anything other than a garbled, "are you serious?!?!" While the immediate reaction was not what I think my parents hoped or expected (instead of incredulity and adulation, they mostly encountered panicked inquiries about logistics), when it sank in, I'd venture to say that everyone was pretty damn fired up about the opportunity to go somewhere rather far removed from our suburban Minneapolis ennui.


An excited buzz pulsed through the family as we made the trek through Charles De Gaulle airport in Paris (note: French people suck as much as I thought they would...which is to say, a lot) to Naples, Italy. Despite the minor snafu of Colleen and I not really sleeping on the flights (hey Dad, thanks for the Ambien...), and the major snafu of Dan and Katy's luggage not arriving due to the ineptitude of the curbside check-in guy with more consonants in his name than teeth in his mouth, we arrived at a destination of inescapable splendor.


If you've never been to that part of the world, I really can't describe to you the fascinating beauty at every turn. I know that sounds douchey and elitist, and I'm sort of sorry, but not really. And I'm also sorry that, despite my inadequate words, I'm still going to try to set the scene. The entire coast is a rugged series of cliffs, hills, and fjords. Yes, fjords. At least one of them. Mashed into the side of this craggy landscape are a series of small villages and towns, tumbling down the hillsides to the lapping azure shores of the Mediterranean (or, specifically, the Tyrrhenian Sea). Most of the bare land has been cleverly tiered into rows of olive trees or lemon trees, with breathtaking villas, piazzas, and an unbridled tourist economy filling the towns. One of the aforementioned villas played host to our family for the week, and it's hard for me to imaging staying anywhere more spectacular (or somewhere that required the climbing of more stairs. Yeesh.).


If you have preconceived notions about what my family and I did while there, you're probably pretty spot on. We ate like royalty and drank wine as though we'd never get the chance to do so again. We wandered romantic paths and roads through eclectic shopping districts, churches, and villas, lazily pawing at melty gelato with a tiny plastic spoon. We sunned ourselves while touring the coastline by boat, stopping to leap into the glistening salty abyss. Some of us, despite my mom's vehement protestations, leapt with abandon off our rocky poolside platform into the churning waters of the Mediterranean, some 30-40 feet below. However high it was, there was enough time to think, "holy shit, I'm still in the air".


As a complete change of pace, we also visited Pompeii, which was destroyed (and somewhat ironically, preserved) by an eruption of Mount Vesuvius in 79 AD. The size and scope of the place was pretty overwhelming, and the advances they had already made 2000 years ago were pretty astounding. The ruins included advanced sewage systems, crumbling frescoes left and right, a brothel, which I of course found amusing to no end, and a couple of outdoor amphitheaters with stunning acoustics.


I buried the lede. I always do that. Lost in my loquaciousness is the real reason for all of this, one that I attempted to drunkenly acknowledge one night after about my 600th glass of Amarone. Dan and Carol Mulheran, my parents, celebrated forty years of their lives together. Their desire and willingness to bring me (and the rest of the idiots) with them for such an amazing experience is certainly something that I'll never forget, but the far greater privilege in my life has been to see them, know them, and love them every day for my 30 years on earth. They'll both give me some version of "aw shucks" or "you know, we're not perfect" when they read this, but I can't think of a better way to spend my life than how the two of them have managed to spend theirs, and I'm imbued with a great sense of personal responsibility to live up to the lofty standard they have set; in part because I feel that I owe them my best effort in this life, but mostly because I can't think of anyone I'd rather emulate. Mom and Dad, thanks for staying the course through the rest of this rambling entry to arrive at the main point. I love you both, thank you so much for both an amazing trip and all that you both embody.


And now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go pour myself a glass of wine.

My story of 9/11

Every year as the anniversary of September 11^th approaches, I am filled with apprehension about how I will feel.  Will I be sad? Angry? Or will I, as time passes, be numbed by the distance time creates and begin to feel…nothing?  They say time heals all wounds, and the saying does apply to me as it relates to the events some 11 years ago.  But healing and forgetting are two different things, and as each year passes, I become more and more steadfast to never forget.

Many people have asked to hear about my experience that day and I am happy to share, as well as relay some of the lessons I have learned.  I was a week shy of my 24^th birthday and headed to New York for 3 weeks of training.  I would like to keep this brief and tell you that what happened in a nutshell was:  I arrived for training on the 9^th.  On the morning of September 11^th, I was in training at 7:30, took a break at 8:45, one minute before the North Tower was hit, and began evacuating down the stairwell from the 61^st floor a few minutes later.  At 9:03am the South Tower, my tower, was hit, the plane crashing into the 78^th floor creating a hole between the 78^th and 84^th floors.  I walked down 61 flights of stairs with thousands of others, drenched in jet fuel, and sure, for the first time in my life, that my life was over.  I prayed.  I prayed for forgiveness for my sins and for blessings on all those I was going to leave behind.  The slow trek down the stairs took 45 minutes.  I made it out about 10 minutes before the tower collapsed at 9:59.  The remainder of the day involved a lot of running (in stilettos, no less), and calls to loved ones.  The condition of the city is nearly indescribable.  I exited the towers to be faced with a barrage of dust, smoke, blood, crying, sirens, people… more images I could hope to forget than have the time to tell.  I made it home through divine intervention.  Through the grapevine, my cousin Alex, who was also in New York on business, found me at my hotel.  We made our way to Penn Station and boarded a train for Chicago.  That ride took 3 days and I’m told by Alex I didn’t eat, drink or sleep the entire ride.  I think it’s fair to say I was in shock.  Upon arriving in Chicago, we rented a car and were home in Minneapolis on Friday.  That’s it, in a nutshell.

I could regal you with more of the gory details, but I think it’s best that all those go left unsaid.  What happened on September 11^th was called an act of terrorism because it was truly terrible and evoked terror in all those that were so unfortunate to live out the events of that day.

But none of this is what I think about every Anniversary.  I am sure when I reach the end of my life and imagine the list of pros and cons, moments of pain and love, the experience of 9/11 will be near the top of the 'bad' list.  But when I review the balance sheet of my life, the truth is, I am abundantly blessed.  And September 11^th provides me with the opportunity to every year, be grateful.  To have perspective.  To pause for a moment and give praise and glory to the gifts of my life.

This year, in particular, I have come to know the true value of family.  My children teach me how important it is to slow down, take pause, and shift your focus to what truly matters most; that which gives you love.  I am sure that many of you reading this are people I have hurt, ignored, forgotten.  For any pain I have ever caused; I’m sorry.  Truly.  And for everyone who has given me their support, compassion, friendship and love; thank you.  I know sometimes I get too caught up in my own life to say it, but no act of kindness goes unnoticed.  I am profoundly grateful.   My life is blessed because of all of you.   My life is a life filled with love.  I will never forget.

Mary Regan McNiff, 9/11/12

Requiem for a Hound

I suppose I could trot out trite cliches like "she was just a dog", and quickly refute them with evidence of her anthropomorphic nature, regaling you with tales of how she was more like a member of the family than a pet. But that would be a fiction, and a disservice to the memory of that stinky, obstinate, beloved beast we've known and loved for 15 years. She was, after all, a dog in all the right ways; from her auspicious collegiate beginnings to her nascent years in Minnesota, and all the way through to her deranged, geriatric quirkiness, she was the dog we pretended to love only begrudgingly, but tacitly knew was woven into the fabric of our family.

"Dan, free puppies!" I'm paraphrasing here, but that's how I imagined Bailey wound up in the back of my brother's battered red Ford Bronco on the way to his senior year at Miami University in Oxford, Ohio; some ramshackle, shitty cardboard sign alerting my cousin Joe, hitching a ride back to Indiana, that my brother should snag a four-legged pal for his final booze-addled tour of duty at Miami. However it truly went down, I'd say it's a near certainty that she lived the first year of her life in abject squalor, and that she probably drank more beer and smoked more weed that year than I did in my own senior year of college. And that's saying a lot (at least about the beer). I don't recall the exact conditions, but the sign emblazoned on the outside of the house my brother lived in that proclaimed this decrepit dwelling the "Dawg Pound" was a clear indication that Bailey's first year in life was likely a cross between Tommy Boy, The Jersey Shore, and Animal House. Only filthier. Somehow, she persevered, but my brother was left with a bit of a conundrum upon graduation, as the apartment he had rented in Chicago didn't allow pets. Bailey didn't know it, but she was about to go from the cellar to the penthouse.

Despite the fiasco involved with our previous pooch, Charlie (what a freakin' nightmare that little furball was...), my parents agreed to take Bailey off of my brother's hands. She quickly became my mother's shadow, trailing after her with a drunkard's grin and a hilarious waddle due to her *ahem* sturdy physique. My memories of her adolescence are fleeting, but I recall her omnipresent sunny disposition, and more than anything, the anxious, frothing enthusiasm when she would hear the magic words, "You wanna go to the lake????" Nowhere was she more at ease, disappearing for hours on end to patrol the woods, roads, paths, and yards of our neighbors. She'd amble back, dopey look on her face, reeking like hell and soaked up to her haunches from wading to cool off and lap up some lake water. I'm certain we worried at first, but her aimless wandering around Bay Lake's summer shores quickly became the norm.

Things weren't alway rosy for Bailey up at Bay Lake. Or rather, my parents had to plan for the replacement of several screened doors and windows any time July 4th approached, as fireworks scared the ever-living shit out of our poor hellhound. Their thunderous roar in the sky would send her quivering and panicked through any obstacle, hoping to escape what I'm sure she felt was certain doom. It took us until she was in her teens to figure out that some drugs and a thundervest were a good solution, and by then, she was about as deaf as a stump anyways. It was these stupid quirks that made her our dog, not anyone else's. We knew that thunder and fireworks would send her into a conniption. We knew that if we left her alone for too long, she'd get pissed off and eat some trash out of the trash can. And we knew that, as this rebellious or tempermental behavior slowed, our beast was nearing her swan song.

I moved back to Minnesota on December 1, 2011, and about a week later, I became Bailey's caretaker, because she had run amok in the hands of the folks to whom my parents had entrusted her while they were in Florida. Or, to put a finer point on it, you should have heard to the incredulity in the voice of the man watching her as he related how she had opened doors and windows, and destroyed screens. Welcome to every fourth of July, fella. But I digress...so this smelly beast was my ward, and all she really needed was to bed fed twice daily, given some drugs, and let outside to do her biz in the front yard. Taking care of plants is more difficult. Looking back, I really cherish that I was able to spend some quality time with her in the twilight of her 15 years (that's 105 in human years, FYI). More than a handful of times, I'd return home with a lump in my throat, petrified that I'd be the one to "find" her. Little brought me more joy in my early days back home than to hear the jingle of her tags and collar as she realized someone was here to fill up the trough.

As I pen this missive through foggy, stinging tears, a chilling sense of loss and mortality courses through my veins. On two occasions, loved ones have been spared the permanent slumber brought by death's touch, as my dad wrestled Hodgkin's disease to the ground, and my sister, Mary, madly dashed down hundreds of stairs to escape tower 2 of the World Trade Center almost 11 years ago to the day. Reverberations of anger still pulse through my head at the named yet somewhat faceless adversaries that attempted to steal my loved ones from me. I know death comes for us all, and for dogs, much sooner, and my pragmatism (as well as Bailey's absurd longevity, especially given her general portliness), has allowed me to prepare for this inevitability, and to say goodbye long before I needed to do so. But I'm still sad, I'll still miss her, and I'll still wish she defied the odds and somehow lasted another year. But then, she's just a dog, right?