Eulogy for Joan Hayes Conklin 1934 - 2018

My mother, Joan, was born at midsummer in 1934, the only child of two first generation Irish-Americans, Catherine Murray and John Hayes. She lived through turbulent, troubled, and halcyon times--and she was a true daughter of those times.

Things long considered immutable and unchanging: Marriage until death do you part, a woman's place is in the home and only in the home, an expectation that you will live the life your parents lived--all those assumptions fell apart during my mother's lifetime. Each of those revolutions was reflected in her life.

A teenage bride, she brought three children into the world, saw her first marriage end, and entered the work world before she turned twenty-five. Much as she loved us, her desire to live, to experience, to love and to be
loved kept her searching for more.

Balancing was among her greatest skills. Balancing the family books, balancing the needs of her children with her own, balancing her conviction that life was to be lived against her deep desire to be a dutiful daughter living within the narrow confines of her parents' world--she was always balancing.

The needs of her children made her brave beyond her own imagining. So many times, I heard her say, "I don't know where I got the courage to do that." She took us through hard times, armed with nothing more than a joke. She had a novel way of dressing up a story. With it, she kept us from dwelling on hardships.

No car? Not a problem. She'd say, "We'll all walk to the grocery store together and buy just enough to fill four bags. That way, each of us can carry one.

As we walked down the short cut path between the houses, we'd string out behind her, each moving at our own pace. To cover the need to slow down a bit so Maureen, the littlest, could catch up, she once put her bag down, turned around, and watched us coming after her. "Don't we look like a mother duck and her ducklings on their way to the pond! Shall we turn left on Woodland and go for a swim?" Of course, we didn't; but she lightened the mood and gave everyone a chance to catch their breath.

A talented seamstress, she made both of  my prom dresses. The were one-of-a-kind creations that we never could have afforded on her secretary's salary. What I didn't know--what she kept to herself as she sewed on the dining room table late into the night--was that we couldn't afford to buy an off-the-rack dress. I felt like Cinderella...and I felt sorry for the poor girls whose mothers didn't sew.

Mom was her own woman, one created in the crucible of the war, its aftermath, and the social upheaval of the sixties and seventies. Yet, she never stopped being the child of her very traditional parents. It pained her deeply that following her own path created was what sometimes a bitter division between them. I think that is a large part of the reason she loved the painting called The Madonna of the Streets and identified with Mary Magdalene. Like the Madonna, she sheltered her children from the storm. Like Mary Magdalene, she poured out what she held dear at the feet of her beloved.

The kind of storybook romance she longed for eluded her for most of her life--but she never gave up hope and she never stopped trying. Finally, in 1978, she met Don Conklin. In him she found her prince--and, I like to think, in her he found his princess.

Their marriage wasn't perfect. But their thirty years together were among the  happiest in her life--and, I would like to think, in his. They loved each other for what they were, they accepted each other's imperfections, and they stretched to be there for one another when the chips were down.

As I wrote to my brother, Kevin, on Monday, "I imagine Don with his hand outstretched, waiting to welcome her to the after-life." Although it will be very sad to lay her in the ground in a little while, I will be comforted that she is lying next to Don. She has been lonely for him these last ten years. I like to think of her smiling up at him now, as she takes his hand.