Our Patriarch Papa, Phil Mudd |
lions hunker down
in tall grasses,
and even elephants
lumber after safety.
I
didn’t know what to think of Phil Mudd when I met him in my 20s, or the
huge family over which he presided, for that matter. All those siblings seated for hours around
a dining room table, bouncing babies on their knees and recounting childhood stories
of yore. The time Betsy was a baby and the older kids rolled her under a desk.
The time my husband, Chris, mistakenly dyed his teeth green with a mouthful of
Chicklets prior to a high school prom date. The time David (or was it Chris?)
was told to soap the outside of a pot during a Boy Scout camping trip and
soaped the inside instead, making everyone sick. On and on it would go, as I’d
rearrange my stemware and take in the scene around me. No raised voices, everyone
genuinely happy to be together. Phil, or Dad as we all called him, was clearly
the patriarch of them all, grinning through the banter, listening closely and
then offering the final analysis of what really happened. His word was sacrosanct to his family but
especially to my husband, making things challenging for a loud, opinionated
Italian girl like myself. “What to think about this Patriarch Papa,” I thought
to myself as I peered at him through a cloudy wine glass. How would I get along
with this man.
As
George Bernard Shaw once said, youth is wasted on the young. Phil Mudd left
this world in the early hours of Friday, July 10, at my sister-in-law Debbie’s
home, with her by his side. The days preceding his passing were spent with
family who went about in hushed whispers, warm embraces and prayer as the
inevitable began to take hold. And when we received the call that it finally
did, I thought of Shaw’s words as I considered how little the young woman I
once was understood the true patriarch, the man who raised my husband.
When great trees fall in forests,
small things recoil into silence,
their senses
eroded beyond fear.
When great trees fall in forests,
small things recoil into silence,
their senses
eroded beyond fear.
But
in all honesty, my impression back then was that Dad could be a bit of a pill.
Having raised seven well-adjusted, happy human beings, he felt he knew a thing
or two about parenting. He believed he knew a lot of things, in fact, and had
no problem sharing that knowledge to my benefit. For example, “Children spell
love T-I-M-E.” Leave me alone, I’d think, as I juggled a young family and work.
“Blood is thicker than water, you know,” when I couldn’t make it to a Mudd gathering
due to another commitment. I’d smile through clenched teeth, then hurry off to
whatever important commitment was on my calendar. When I wept inconsolably and neglected
to wash my hair back when our oldest daughter, Mackenzie, was diagnosed with a
rare disease, he said “You know, you need to pull yourself together. Do it for
your family.” I stewed on that one for weeks because, in my estimation, what
the hell did he know anyway?
Dad holding court with family |
the air around us becomes
light, rare, sterile.
We breathe, briefly.
Our eyes, briefly,
see with
a hurtful clarity…
Finally, something set me off in my 30s and in a moment of self-righteous indignation I wrote Dad a letter. Yes, a letter, as the written word has always been my go-to and I had a thing or two or three to say. I don’t remember very much about what traveled from my mind to my fingers on the keyboard, other than the result was a three page, single spaced manifesto of how it was time for him to butt out and show me a little respect. He received it, never spoke of it and I felt like crap for writing it.
light, rare, sterile.
We breathe, briefly.
Our eyes, briefly,
see with
a hurtful clarity…
Finally, something set me off in my 30s and in a moment of self-righteous indignation I wrote Dad a letter. Yes, a letter, as the written word has always been my go-to and I had a thing or two or three to say. I don’t remember very much about what traveled from my mind to my fingers on the keyboard, other than the result was a three page, single spaced manifesto of how it was time for him to butt out and show me a little respect. He received it, never spoke of it and I felt like crap for writing it.
Then
I turned 40. Like a miraculous switch of a light, with 40 came increased wisdom,
confidence and an altogether new interest in, say, how someone can raise – with
his devoted wife -- seven kids who all turn out pretty well. How he could provide
for the needs of a large family on one salary and send all seven of his kids to
college, turning out nurses, a doctor and business leaders. How someone can stay
happily married through many decades of life and refer, with a twinkle in his
eye, to his spouse as his “bride.” I started to watch more closely, appreciate
more fully…I guess I was beginning to have a little respect.
Our
memory, suddenly sharpened,
examines,
gnaws on kind words
unsaid,
promised walks
never taken.
examines,
gnaws on kind words
unsaid,
promised walks
never taken.
As
the years went by, Dad more than earned the title of Patriarch Papa, holding
babies to his chest, joining his “bride” Carol at their grandkids’ school plays,
donning costumes for our infamous Halloween Boo Bashes and bragging about his
grandchildren during many a holiday meal. The family stories continued and he
always offered the final word, but I don’t remember further unsolicited advice.
Who knows why…maybe he held back, maybe I didn’t care. Life changes things.
One
day, when he and I were alone in my den watching my youngest daughter Karenna,
then a toddler, play, he looked at me and said “You wrote me a letter once.” I
shifted uncomfortably, hoping he’d have forgotten it, but I suppose three-page
manifestos are hard to forget. “I just want you to know you were right,” he quietly
declared as I looked up. “You and my son needed to make your own choices and
decisions, and you’ve done a good job.” I opened my mouth to speak but in
typical Mudd fashion, he said “Let’s not discuss it anymore.” That was that,
and it was good enough for me.
One of many special Easter Sundays |
Dad loved our Boo Bashes! |
Fast
forward to later seasons, when the very years that increased my understanding
of life weakened Dad’s eyesight, and ultimately, his body. I eventually experienced
that great, ageless irony, that our parents – in this case, my father in law --
may have been right all along. Children DO spell love T-I-M-E, and although I
don’t have regrets, you better believe I choked back tears when our first, and
then our second, daughter packed their bags for college. What I’d have done for
just one more field trip or school project. And while I’ve been fortunate to
have good friends, many have come and gone as the years have passed – yet family,
at least loving ones like mine and the Mudds, they never leave you. In time I
also realized that parenting a special needs child requires love, strength and patience,
and no amount of crying or pulling at your hair will change that but an obsession
with the unfairness of it all just might destroy your life as well as your
child’s. I recognized that anything ever said in Mackenzie’s defense was out of
love – the same love that raised seven children, cherished 22 grandchildren and
rejoiced over nine great grandchildren (and counting). The same love, in fact,
that made him raise his arms to weakly hug my mother-in-law a few nights ago,
even as his body was slowly beginning to shut down.
Great souls die and
our reality, bound to
them, takes leave of us.
Our souls,
dependent upon their
nurture,
now shrink, wizened…
our reality, bound to
them, takes leave of us.
Our souls,
dependent upon their
nurture,
now shrink, wizened…
Last
week, in a beautiful act of compassion and selflessness, my sister-in-law moved
Dad from his memory care facility to her own home, so my mother-in-law could
spend private time with him. Otherwise, Mom was separated from Dad because of
COVID-19. We expected more time, but it wasn’t to be. Now finally comfortable
and at peace, he received the Last Rites, we prayed the rosary at his bedside,
beloved children visited and helped with his care and others who couldn’t be
there called to check on him. The last day I saw him, after we said the rosary
and spoke quietly as he struggled to breathe, my niece raised her phone to his
ear and played recorded, loving messages from his many grandchildren around the
world.
Juliette, Grandpa and Karenna |
In
recent years, since the kids have grown up and my career has started to sunset,
I’ve wondered about my purpose. I get lost in thoughts about what I have or
haven’t contributed to this world and where I’m headed next. I see younger
people writing books, creating companies and moving the dial in life and work
in a way I never have.
Grandpa and great grandbaby Jase The oldest and youngest of the Mudd men |
Our minds, formed
and informed by their
radiance,
fall away.
We are not so much maddened
as reduced to the unutterable ignorance
of dark, cold
caves.
But
the day before he died, as I kissed his forehead to say goodbye, I considered a
final lesson Dad offered me, and he didn’t even have to say a word: Be
steadfast in your purpose, and the best purpose of all is family. Yes, the old
saying “there’s nothing more important than family” is a tired cliché, but only
if you say it and don’t live it. Phil Mudd didn’t just live it, he breathed it.
And by breathing it he left a legacy far greater than what distracts us in this
world. He left children who aren’t just related, they’re really good friends. He
left a son, my husband, whose loyalty and love of family means he has never
considered leaving us although there is a 90% divorce rate among parents of
special needs children. He left a wife, his partner for nearly 70 years, who
loved him as much or more than the day she married him. I considered the wonder
of it all and was grateful for what should have been a heartbreaking moment,
because there was joy. Joy, faith and love.
Holidays 2017 |
after a period peace blooms,
slowly and always
irregularly. Spaces fill
with a kind of
soothing electric vibration.
Our senses, restored, never
to be the same, whisper to us.
They existed. They existed.
We can be. Be and be
better. For they existed.
Holidays 2017 |
Yes,
youth is wasted on the young, but if we’re lucky enough we will experience a
time when we realize we once knew greatness, and we are the better for it. So
today I count myself among the lucky ones. I’m blessed, in fact, because I once
knew a proud and loyal human being, a wise and wonderful character, a person
who understood his purpose and never doubted it. I will always be grateful that
I once knew Phil Mudd…our Patriarch Papa.
(Poem: When Great Trees Fall, by Maya Angelou)
Circa early '70s |
(Poem: When Great Trees Fall, by Maya Angelou)