Mom's Eulogy

Delivered 10/31/06, Holy Family Church


ACTMJJLJN/Jim, Maura, Ellen Mary

Humbling experience for a couple of reasons:

1. Adequately eulogizing Nan Cuddy Costello is in and of itself an impossible task.

2. Half of my siblings will not be satisfied with whatever I say, regardless of what I say.


What defines a person? For many, it‘s what you do for a living. For others, it’s by the possessions you accumulate. For others still, it’s fame or accolades.

For our mother, Nan Cuddy Costello, it was selflessness and grace.

She was the daughter of faithful, resourceful, Irish Catholics. She was baptized in this church, confirmed in this church, married in this church and today will be buried from this church. The Cuddy clan is wide and deep here, as it always will be.

She was a brilliant woman. She was academically gifted. She had a mind for sciences and mathematics. Technically, she earned the honor of high school salutatorian, but was denied that honor because of a chauvinism not uncommon in the day, and was instead given the laurel of Class Poet, one created as a mea culpa of sorts by Father Davie.

Her future service to others was at one point presumed to be in the sisterhood until one Christmas break she returned to Our Lady of Good Counsel College with an engagement ring. She had decided to marry the love of her life - John Thomas Costello, her beloved Jack, that handsome devil.

In an era like today there is no telling what she would have become. A beautiful young woman, graduating summa cum laude from a rigorous curriculum, she could have written her own ticket in business, research, education, law.

But she chose motherhood. She chose life. She chose to give us life, and to show us the way as she had been taught in this faith. Oh, yes, she worked and had a career part-time at the hospital, but even there she was giving care to others.

She did say that she worked for her own sanity. Why any mother of nine children would feel the need for adult interaction from time to time is beyond me. But even in her work at the hospital, she largely gave comfort and encouragement to others.

Our mother was so wholly committed to her husband and to her family she spent not a minute on herself. She was the very definition of selflessness. We cannot recall a time she went on a spa day trip, or had a manicure or pedicure. To her, the idea of “time alone” was grocery shopping.

On one of the very few times she was ill, shingles, I believe, I was about 17 years old and asked if I could help her by getting groceries at the P&C. She agreed, but said “Let me write you a list first.” I had never been grocery shopping. To my amazement, every item on the list was in the order it appeared on the list, aisle by aisle, item by item. What a mind.

Hers was a brilliant mind, though she never in a showy way.

Nan never spoke an unkind word of anyone, nor could anyone of her. She cooked and cleaned, kissed boo boos and dried tears. She organized the disorganized, encouraged the discouraged, gave love to those who felt unloved. She encouraged us to live our Catholic faith in the service of others.

Everyone who knows her knows that her favorite saying was “God give me strength.” And He did. She was the strongest woman we ever met. She was superhuman in some ways. She performed miracles every day- miracles like feeding us all on a patrolman’s salary, or finding ways to keep us all into education and out of trouble – generally.

If there was one thing she did for herself it was this: she loved her husband, our father Jack, with a singular devotion unseen by me ever since. What they had as a couple was special. Gentle humor, genuine affection and respect, and above all, a love that had no end.

She gave him a beautiful picture of herself in the 1940’s that was inscribed “All my love, all my life.” She lived this creed.

My mother ran everything in the house until her stroke in 1995. It was at this point the tables were turned and the Chief suddenly found himself “in charge”, a position with which he was not familiar. So our sister Joanie stepped into the breech and assumed principal care giving for both parents, while Dad worked on Mom’s rehabilitation. Everything changed, and yet at the same time, nothing changed. He doted on her shamelessly. She continued to insist “I’m fine”- that she needed or wanted nothing.

She was grace personified. She never complained about the first debilitating stroke; in fact, she referred to it as “the good kind of stroke, the kind where you could still speak.”

After the first stroke, our parents devotion to one another magnified, though one would not have thought this possible. They faced adversity with grace and humor. Forgive me, Mom, but I want to regale the crowd with a rendition of one of your favorite ditty’s you and Dad sang to one another:

“Oh how we danced on the night we were wed
And if you think we danced, you’ve got rocks in your head”

Then they would wink and smile.

After Dad’s death 3 years ago, Mom still never complained, but she did miss him so. “How lucky I was to have your father for all those years. He was so good to me.” She missed him so.

In the hospital this past two weeks, as she lingered, drawing closer to heaven, one of my siblings implored to my father “C’mon Dad, what are you waiting for? Bring her over!”

I replied “What makes you think he’s already in heaven? He could have been told to wait at the gate until his angel brought him across and inside.”

We are happy that they are once again united. We rejoice and celebrate this woman’s long life of Christian charity.

From her we learned how to love, how to be kind, how to raise children, how to be selfless. In a world filled with self absorbed people, she was a refreshing constant, doing religiously for others, and I mean religiously in a model Roman Catholic way, without ever saying “What about me?

My Mom says there’s no need to cry for her. “I’m fine” says she today. My Dad reminds you all to keep smiling.

We rejoice that they are reunited this day in heaven through Jesus Christ, our Lord.

Grandma Cuddy's Poor Man's Cookies

My brother sent this memory along:
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I am standing in my oversized kitchen looking through a wooden box of recipes accumulated over the years. I am looking for the recipe for "Poor Man's Cookies", as Grandma Cuddy used to make when I visited her home at 69 North Fulton Street.

These baked delights are a misnomer, in the first place. They are not cookies at all, they are baked in a brownie pan. They are, in the second place, made from scratch, something rarely, if ever, done in today's oversized kitchens.

Connor is asking me what's in them, and I tell him. Flour, sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, baking soda and nuts. An egg, some water, and raisins and water boiled down. He asks why they are called Poor Man's Cookies if they are really brownies, but I can't seem to get him off the point. I tell him I don't know where the name came from, but I suspect it was named so because the ingredients were cheap and available in most kitchens during the Depression. Then we discussed what a depression was.

As I am mixing the ingredients I am transported to a little white kitchen, with a white oven, and a white porcelain sink, small table - just big enough for two, sits under a kitchen window that faces east. I entered the kitchen through a swinging green door- one that was actually two half doors- an upper and lower half. The cabinets are white too. The radio is on, tuned to WAUB 1540, and it is noon. I have to be quiet while the noon news is on, but I am helping her by chopping the walnuts in a hand grinder. The nuts are in the cabinet closest to the door, next to Grampa Cuddy's Spanish peanuts, used for sundaes only. Gram also lets me sift the flour, which delights me as the plume of flour smoke rises before me.

I don't own a nut grinder, so Connor manages to chop walnuts with a 12 inch knife. He likes that. We real men don't wear aprons, but Gram did. We don't use a mixer, I say, we mix by hand.

The whole process took half an hour, including baking. The memory of being in Cuddy's kitchen with Florence lasts a lifetime. I hope they turn out as well. I'm bringing them to you tomorrow.

Love to all.

John

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There's some dispute about that swinging door - most of us remember it as solid, not a split Dutch door, though we all agree on the green color. Somewhere or other I have a picture of the dining room which may show the door to the kitchen.

Years ago, Grandma had a sideboard in the dining room with squared edges. She complained that every time she came through the kitchen door she'd clip her hip on the corner, ending up with bruised hips. One day she spotted a beautiful cherry sideboard, with rounded edges, just the size to hold their dishes and fit in the space where hers then sat. It was part of a parcel up for auction, so Grandpa told her if it didn't meet the reserve, he'd buy it for her. He made sure (as the auctioneer) that it didn't make the reserve, and true to his word, bought it for her. And she never bruised her hips again.

Celebrating the Fourth

The Fourth of July - always fun. School was out for summer, baskets of fresh tomatoes and bushels of corn appeared on the back steps from friends, and it stayed light long enough for us to play out at night until after 9 (later for those old enough to be out playing flashlight tag.)

There were, of course, the parades with soldiers from World War I and II and Korea, later Vietnam and Desert Storm. The American Legion always had the black 40 & 8 engine; the Gold Star mothers rode in an open convertible. The parade was led by the mayor and members of the city council; various other dignitaries followed. In later years a "fly-over" jet screamed over head around 11, the traditional start-time.

Floats and marchers were assembled on the off-streets up East Genesee Street (Morris Street was a popular staging area), feeding into the main parade which began around Lewis Street though you could see everybody if you gathered in front of St. Alphonsus Church. Classic cars, scouts (boy and girl), kids' baseball teams, bagpipers, stunt bicyclists, 4-H dairy princesses, school bands, service organizations, draft horses and dogs, plus the vendors selling balloons who walked along the parade route, mingled in the roads and on the front lawns waiting to take their place in line. Folding chairs blossomed along the parade root three and four deep, and the experienced arrived early, strategically parking their cars to escape the inevitable traffic jams at the end of the parade. And at the end of the parade route was a covered riser graced with red-white-and-blue bunting to shield the dignitaries from the July sun (or rain, depending) as they made their patriotic speeches by the war memorials just beyond the court house.

If the weather was fine, we always walked. From Grandma's place on Fulton Street, we'd walk downtown under the cool green trees and past the white and yellow clapboard houses and work our way up Genesee through the throngs along the north side. The best spots were in downtown proper, between North/South Streets and William Street, just below the end of the route. If we walked from Beach Ave, we mingled with the marchers on Morris or bypassed them going on Foote Street, cut through St. Alphonsus (later Blessed Trinity/St Joseph's) school, and walked down Genesee Street, stopping to chat with friends and family we met along the way.

There were always small children edging themselves further into the road, leaning way out to see if they could spot the first car coming down East Hill and around the bend. The traffic cops blocked side roads at the last minute and shooed the youngsters back to the curb, though by the time the parade had half-passed, even some grownups had parked their chairs in the road. There was always at least one enterprising soul who sold iced lemonade along the route, and the Kiwanis had hot dogs and cold drinks for sale in front of the county office building.

Once the last marchers had passed and the firetrucks sounded their siren, most of the crowd dispersed for home. Some stayed for the prayers and speeches, some - in later years - for the Kiwanis Duck Derby, their annual fundraiser, floating thousands of yellow plastic ducks down the Owasco outlet to the finish line.

The 4th at home meant hamburgers and hotdogs with potato chips and lemonade, Kool-aid or maybe soda (a treat in younger years). When it finally got dark Dad would bring us out to the back yard where he had large sparklers stuck into the ground and small ones he'd set alight with his heavy metal lighter. We got to wave the small ones around as they burned, the distinctive odor hanging in the air and small sparks leaping into the air prickling our forearms. We carefully put down the expired sparklers on the stone patio and lined up for another until Dad had exhausted his boxes. The big ones seemed to burn forever, the glow reflected on our faces. By the time they burned out, the city fireworks began shooting off at Holland Stadium a few blocks away, rising over the trees in our backyard. We could see most of them from the back bedroom window, but when we were old enough we could walk down to East High (now Middle) School and watch from the stadium itself. In later years the fireworks display was moved to Owasco Lake.

Nowadays July 4th is celebrated at the Bachmans' home, with two grills going for burgers, hot dogs and sausages, a big tent in the back yard with tables enough to seat 60, chips and dips, salads, Grandma's baked beans (thanks, Chris!) and desserts ranging from brownies to red-white-and-blue pies (cherry, apple, blueberry), plus assorted candy. Not long after the grownups have eaten - often before - the kids break out the water pistols, eventually abandoning them to simply dunk each other in the wading pool. There's badminton, soccer, touch football, and shooting hoops, with flashlight tag and a campfire after dark. If the weather gets too stifling hot or a thunderstorm comes up, everybody moved indoors to the play area in the basement for the kids and the kitchen or big screen TV in the living room for the adults.

Easter Memories

Easter always brings me back to my childhood. My earliest Easter memory is of the Easter baskets Mom stored in the big cupboards in the old back shed we had. They were woven, with roped handles, and heavy.

As is still done today, the local service organizations provided thousands of hardboiled eggs for the annual Easter egg hunt at Hoopes Park, usually on the Saturday before Palm Sunday. Just before 10 a.m. hundreds of children with their parents and grandparents would pour into the park, waiting for the fire truck to blow its siren, signaling a mad dash all over the park for kids in search of eggs, specifically the two gold and silver colored eggs that could be turned in for a brand new bicycle. To protect the smallest children, the park was divided in sections by age, with the younger ones searching the east side and the older kids ransacking the west side. Within five minutes the entire park was stripped of all eggs, and a few bushes as well. For the tots who missed out, the Easter Bunny waited in the clubhouse with extra eggs to hand out.

Easter was not all eggs and chocolate bunnies, though. Through grade school we participated in Holy Week activities, from Palm Sunday to Holy Thursday processions, Stations of the Cross on Good Friday, and Easter Mass itself, pews full to overflowing with spring-clothed worshippers. Palm Sunday, of course, has the longest Gospel reading of the entire year, and seemed to grow longer every year. The fresh palm replaced the dried out fronds from the previous year.

The Holy Thursday procession required us to dress up, making sure we had white gloves and a clean handkerchief with which to hold the enormous lily in front of us as we walked from the school, outdoors in the evening dusk to the church, in through the front doors and walking double file down the main aisle - all eyes on us as we tried to look holy and not step on the heel of the kid in front of us as we processed our way to the rail before the altar then turned left or right (depending on which side we were on) and back out again. The church was packed with parents, and the air thick with a heady mix of lilies and incense and my eyes swam in the unaccustomed dimness of candlelight. In later years Holy Thursday meant weeks of after-school choir practice, learning hymns first in Latin and then (following Vatican II) in English.

After the color of Holy Thursday came the sombreness of Good Friday. During the school day we left the school building to make the Stations of the Cross in class groups. The choir sang a capella, no organ, just Gregorian chant. I remember one particular Good Friday that I was late due to a dentist appointment; I spent my time "singing" with my mouth numbed up from the novocaine.

Especially if it was a late Easter there was a special spring in the step as the fine weather heralded trees blooming and warmer weather. Hyacinths, tulips and lilies abounded, lining store shelves and overflowing the garden shops and nurseries.

Every Palm Sunday after church services we made our annual pilgrimage with Granny Costello to the florists and nurseries holding open houses: Cosentino's and Shaw & Boehlers across the street from each other on Dunning Avenue, a place out Clark Street Road whose name I've forgotten, and Dickman's. The aroma was overwhelming and the warmth of the greenhouses offset the early spring chill in the air.

The Joint

Costello's is the family corner bar built by my paternal grandfather, Joseph Costello, and his sons Joe Jr., Bill, Jack, and Tom. It sits at the corner of Aurelius and Myrtle Aves and was run form many years by Gramp and Granny (Clara) before turning the place over to Joe Jr. His daughter Patty runs it with her husband EJ (Glanville) today. For many years we spent Christmas day down at "the joint," as Dad referred to it, after having opened presents at home that morning. They'd close for the day for all except family, and we'd have dinner sitting in the wooden booths along the west wall or at the tables lined up down the middle of the barroom. At some point while visiting with our many cousins "Santa" would make a surprise appearance, coming in through the kitchen.
The earliest pop song that I remember clearly I first heard at Costello's, playing on the jukebox in the corner: Perry Como singing "Hot Diggity" - a big hit in 1956. I suspect many of those 50s hits lingered on the jukebox into the early 60s.

In later years Dad would meet his brothers, Tom and Bill, at the joint on Tuesdays for lunch and to shoot the breeze. For a few years Dad would treat his daughters, alternating with his sons-in-law, to lunch on Saturdays.

69 North Fulton

This is a picture of the Cuddy family home at 69 North Fulton Street (thanks, John!) which my maternal grandparents, George and Florence Cuddy, owned until 1972 and where my mother grew up. The Wilsons, Carol and her mother, owned the house to the south and the Ramages lived next door to the north. Holley Street runs behind the backyard.I loved the front porch. For a child it was big enough to run around on, and in summer the forest green wooden blinds would be rolled down to the railings, to protect against the afternoon heat and summer rain storms.

The driveway was loose stone paved over dirt and ran the length of the property down to the big white garage along the back corner. I never remember them keeping the car in the garage, though. The hand mower Francis (Myers) pushed to cut the grass was stored there, and I remember old maps pinned up on the wall, and some gardening tools like a rake and shovel. There was a big barn of a storage building, probably an old stable, that belonged to the Ramages that sat across from Grandpa's garage, though I don't recall spending any time in it. Gram hung the wash from the clotheslines out back when it was mild enough. Otherwise clothes were hung to dry on lines in the cellar.

Along the garage wall were thick green ferns and in the corner the remains of what was at one time a small ornamental pond. There were lilac bushes far down the yard, trees practically they were so tall and overgrown. The Ramages had masses of lilacs along their yard, deep purple, light purple white and pink. Come late April and the whole place smelled like spring. Gram also planted a few hyacinths and narcissus but mostly she had rose bushes alongside the south side of the house and under the front windows. Yellow roses were her favorites.

Home and the Holidays

Christmas and New Year's Midnight mass was de rigeur for Christmas Eve, starting when we were maybe 8 or 9. It was so hard to keep my eyes open at that hour (being a morning person to begin with) then having to go to bed when we got home and it was, technically, Christmas Day, without opening presents - for Santa had not yet come. For my paternal grandmother and her French-Canadian family, New Year's was a special holiday, one that began with midnight mass followed by much eating and merriment, though I don't think they held with the custom of opening most of their Christmas presents on New Years as was the case in some places.

The Guppys

No, not fish, our neighbors to the north of us at what was then 4 Beach Ave. They inherited the house from their parents. They were spinster sisters, Hazel and Florence, and bachelor brother Stanley. There was a fourth sibling, a married sister (Mabel?) who had family in the Rochester area and later retired to Florida. She had at least one son. We always thought they were of Dutch origin but were more likely English from the Dorset/Somerset region. From ancestry.com:

English: habitational name from a place in Wootton Fitzpaine, Dorset, Gupehegh in Middle English. This is named with the Old English personal name Guppa (a short form of Gūðbeorht ‘battle bright’) + (ge)hæg ‘enclosure’. The tropical fish denoted by this word was named in the 19th century in honor of R.J.L. Guppy, a clergyman in Trinidad who first presented specimens to the British Museum.

Anyway, Hazel was born February 22, 1894 and was, when we knew her, an invalid in a wheelchair. I don't think we children ever knew the cause, if she had always been so or if it developed in her later years. She died in April of1973. She always had hard candies (especially butterscotch) nearby to share with visitors, especially our brother John who inherited the family sweet tooth with the rest of us.

Younger sister Florence was born on February 27, 1901 and died in May 1976.

Stan (Stanley H Guppy) was born on November 19, 1896 and died on June 4 1989. Like his sisters he was thin, spare and very neat and precise, in both movement and habits. He knew so much local history, regaling us with tales of his youth in the Roaring 20s when he witnessed the goings-on of local wealthy folk with private rail cars that came up from New York City for weekend parties.

Their house was always neat as a pin, with a wrap-around porch from the seldom-used front door to the light-weight screen door on the south side, which was the usual entrance. There was a small alcove between the screen door and main door where mail and packages were left, and boots or shoes could be removed before stepping into the parlor proper. The front room was Hazel's bedroom and generally closed off (which is why the front door was seldom used) and off the cozy living area was a formal dining room. The kitchen was behind the dining room, and there was a connecting door to the back apartment, rented for many years by Rachel Walsh before she moved to the "Old Ladies Home" - the Faatz-Crofut Home for the Elderly, around the corner - years later. It was a mother-in-law apartment, with small sitting area and kitchen downstairs and a bed and bath upstairs. My father once said the basement floor was so clean you could eat off it, and Mr. Guppy kept nails, screws and so on in neatly labeled glass jars on shelves.