A Eulogy for Gloria Richardson, My Grandma (Oct. 7, 1926 to Dec. 24, 2016)

Delivered Dec. 31, 2016, at a memorial service for Gloria Richardson at Jacob Schoen & Son Funeral Home in New Orleans, La.

I’m Rebecca Catalanello. I’m one of the 18 people on this planet lucky enough to call Gloria Richardson my grandmother. On behalf of our large (and sometimes loud) family, I want to thank you for coming today to help us honor the life of a remarkable woman, mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, aunt, and, of course, Vernon’s beloved wife.

Over her 90 years, my grandma accumulated many names and nicknames. I counted up at least 10 that I know of and there are probably more. She had the most perfect name: Gloria. But she was also Sugar, Sugie, Mama, Mom, MawMaw and, what I and the eldest grandkids called her, Grandma. She grew up Gloria Seemann, the daughter of dairy farmers. She married Joseph Catalanello, a local radio personality, and not only took his name but sometimes adopted his show-biz last name, Wilson. Years after Joseph – aka Larry Wilson – died and she decided to take the love plunge again with an old flame named Vernon, she became Gloria Richardson, a name that stuck for 44 years as the two of them shared a love and companionship that emboldened them to merge families, propelled them across countless dance floors, inspired them to journey all around the world, sustained them during unfathomable heartbreak and served as a model to their children and grandchildren of what a lasting, strong, loving marriage looks like. Richer and poorer, sickness and health, good times and bad.

The names we all use when speaking to and about my grandma illustrate, I think, the kind of affection she inspired. Everyone who drew near to her came to love her with a fierce loyalty. Because knowing and loving Gloria Seemann Catalanello Richardson was to be known and loved by her.

She was sweet and funny, kind and thoughtful, joyful and full of grace. She loved to sing and had a remarkable ability to listen and to make you feel as if everything you had to say or share was the most important news she’d heard that day, that week. She was immensely proud of her five children and, in conversation with me since becoming a mother myself, often referred to her kids – some of whom are now grandparents themselves – as “my babies” in a tone of utter love and delight. She loved her grandchildren and great-grandchildren mightily with open arms and listening ears, always making us feel special, safe, amazing.

But when I think about her life, it is impossible not to see the many tragedies she endured – horrendous saddnesses, any one of which might have been enough to break her spirit, leave her angry, embittered or joyless. She was 35 in 1962 when she was suddenly widowed with five children, the youngest just four. She was strapped, depending on her mother to help her raise, feed, cloth and educate Bill, Michael, Larry, Donna and Nancy, while she sought employment. Between 1982 and 2001, she went on to bury an infant grandson, Joseph, her youngest son, Larry, and her sweet, beautiful granddaughter, Lisa, each of whom she loved without condition and each of whom were taken from this earth before any of us were ready to say goodbye. In 2005, flooding from Hurricane Katrina destroyed the home my Grandpa Vernon built and shared with my grandma – and thus, our entire family. It changed their neighborhood and forced their community to disperse.

But my grandma, she didn’t break. She didn’t become angry. She wasn’t embittered or joyless. My grandma, it was like her heart grew bigger, her faith in God carried her through to compassion – always this boundless compassion and interest in others and their wellbeing. From her position of unfathomable loss, she extended her love toward others who’d lost loved ones, too. When her son died, she held her daughter-in-law, Ellyn, and she cried with her and for her, but she also stood as an example of strength and encouragement that a mother’s love can carry her children through. “Keep up the good work,” Grandma would tell Ellyn, as she watched Laura, Anna, Daniel and Meagan grow beautifully under their mother’s care.

My grandma would go out of her way to visit with friends and relatives when they were elderly, alone, sick or when they lost a loved one. Even when she herself grew frail, she would find ways to comfort and encourage others in need of comfort and encouragement. When family friend, Joycelyn, said goodbye to her brother, my grandma, unable to leave the house very often in her final days, months and years, made a point to go and sit with Joycelyn’s mother and share in her grief.

More than anything, I think the loss she experienced underscored her appreciation for what she had in the here and now. “I’ve never been one to worry,” she would say. “I put it in God’s hands.”

Gloria’s example of love and gratitude impacted us all, leaving each of us with countless memories from which we’ve found ourselves drawing our own comfort since she left our world on Christmas Eve.

My memories include these:

Riding bikes around Lakeview with her at summer’s end. Swinging with her on the neighbor’s backyard swing, talking about Gram, her mother, and death and people she knew and cousins and my worries. Holding her hand during beach walks on family vacations in Destin. Getting a "grandma talk" from her in the third grade after a boy named Kelly Aderholt gave me a necklace. Pulling homemade Easter dresses from the packages she would send to me and my sister when we lived far away. Sitting next to her and Grandpa at St. Dominic’s Church, the scent of Grandma’s perfume mixing with the aroma of incense rising in the sanctuary. Countless Christmas Eve parties she and Grandpa hosted, giving us all joyous opportunities to dress up and laugh and eat and drink and build memories together. Braving the cold afterward, bound for Midnight Mass, where St. Dominic’s white marble altar was always bedecked with poinsettias. Some years Grandma sat with the choir and raised what, to me, were the most beautiful “Glorias!” I’d ever heard.

The morning Grandma died, I woke before sunrise in Belize with a baby who wakes up too early. We were vacationing at the beach there. I was rocking him and looking out at the water and saw what looked like a light dancing on the water. At first, I thought it must be the reflection of the moon still hovering. But the moon was slight and it soon became concealed by clouds. Still, the light shone -- only fading from view as sunlight flooded in. A few hours later, my dad called with the heartbreaking news that Grandma had died. The next morning, I woke before sunrise again. It was Christmas. The beach sky was blanketed with clouds. No moon was visible. But there was the light again, shining inexplicably over the water until daybreak again erased it. By the third morning, the 26^th, the light was gone.

After getting news of grandma’s passing, my godmother, Helen, a very faithful god-fearing woman, sent me a message of condolence for our family. “We are sad for the loss of your grandmother,” she wrote, “but what a perfect time to go to heaven. Such a lovely lady.”

No, I thought at first, it was not a perfect time. I needed more time. I wasn’t ready. I needed to hold her hand some more, to talk with her more, to hug her again. This was not a perfect time at all. I didn’t get to tell her everything. I was not a good enough granddaughter.

But then I thought about all those Christmas Eves she gave us. All the times our wonderful, large, blended, imperfect family that she loved and loved so well, gathered together to laugh and how, afterward, she would go to church and sing the most beautiful Glorias.

Angels we have heard on high
Sweetly singing o'er the plains
And the mountains in reply
Echoing their joyous strains

Angels we have heard on high
Sweetly, sweetly through the night
And the mountains in reply
Echoing their brief delight

Gloria, in excelsis Deo
Gloria, in excelsis Deo

Surely when she entered Heaven, she heard the voices, the Glorias rising. The angels and archangels singing together. And she saw the faces of those she loved so well and whose lives and deaths she paid tribute to through daily acts of gratitude.

May we all do the same as we walk forward remembering her and honoring her and giving thanks for all she gave us.

Amen.

To Aida on her fifth birthday

Dear Aida,

At this time five years ago, I was laboring in a cold hospital room, eight hours away from staring into your startling blue eyes for the first time and feeling your soft, soft skin against my chest.

Now you stand before me -- but not for long -- your knees bruised, your light brown hair falling into those beautiful eyes of yours. Smiling, laughing, dancing, crying, thinking, watching.

At five, you are a kitty, a butterfly, a loud laugher, a princess, a ballerina, a mermaid, a fish. You are running down the street, playing Mother May I, waving to every child who passes, offering a cheery "Hi!"

You are asking me to tell you a story, another story, another story, another story. No, not that story, another story.

You are snuggled against me for bedtime reading. You are closing your door to squeeze your feet into the now-too-small ballet shoes. Asking me to draw a kitty on your face before bed. Teaching me a song then telling me not to sing it.

One moment, you are a shadow of your toddler self. You press that tattered blankie against your nose then pull it away to yank a thread loose and toss it on the ground. The next, you are five. You put your dishes on the counter, dress yourself, ask me questions I cannot answer.

"Momma," you asked tonight from the back seat, "does the world end?"

Where did you come from?

You have asked and asked and asked for a baby over the past few years. When we finally told you you would be a big sister, you responded with a big smile and bigger eyes.

"Is it true?" you said.

Now, it seems that every day I pick you up from school, you have created a new piece of artwork for the little guy who has given me my Buddha shape.

"For baby brother," you say.

My belly has become your megaphone. "Goodnight, Chubby Cheeks!" you yell, smooshing your nose against my gut.

Beautiful girl. How I love your mind, your resilience, your memory, your curiosity, your laughter. How I love your delight in small things, your attention to detail, your focus on finishing your artwork project before moving on to something else -- even if it means not getting out of the car when we arrive at school because, "I'm not done."

I am so pleased to be your mother and so proud of the friend-making, kindhearted child you have become. It's hard for me to close the chapter on early childhood. I get nervous about this world and its potential for damage.

But when I see at you at five skipping down that street, picking up sticks for walking canes, singing songs that only you know, I feel like everything is as it should be and you, my sweet daughter, have exactly what it takes to walk, skip, run, fly in this world.

Because you do.

Happy birthday, Aida Orleans. I love you so.

Mommy

P.S. Meow.

Eyes wide open. Nov. 12, 2010, 6 lbs 15 oz, 19 5/8 inches.

Welcome to New Orleans. You sure you wanna live here?

Most of our framed photos are out of the bubble wrap now and propped against a wall in the study. A few half-opened boxes still litter the two-bedroom, two-bath shotgun double we now call home.

When we arrived at this new house in New Orleans, some of the city was still without power following Hurricane Isaac. Traffic lights were out. Trash and trees and leaves were everywhere. Parts of the town stank of accumulating garbage. When I hugged my sweet Grandma shortly after our arrival in the city, her skin felt damp, sticky and hot from three days with no air conditioning.

It was like the city said, "Welcome to New Orleans. You sure you want to live here?"

I can't say that hasn't given me pause. Though my family -- My Amazing Family -- has been warm and supportive since we brought one of the newest and most popular members of our clan into their permanent daily lives, New Orleans' post-hurricane landscape reinforced many of my original misgivings about returning to my beloved hometown.

We traded in our pristine life by the water for a largely industrial landscape peppered with litter, construction zones, potholes and things that don't work. We knew we were doing this when we pulled the trigger. We believe in the reasons we did it. But the reality is sometimes jarring.

Over the last three weeks, as -- one box at a time -- we've transitioned from a state of chaos to near-normalcy, the city around us seems to have done the same.

Garbage trucks arrived. Bucket trucks left. Cleaning crews combed major streets and parks to pick up branches and other debris. Private citizens picked up some of the slack in areas the City of New Orleans likes to forget.

As soon as I was able to clear a path from Aida's room to the front door, I started taking her on regular treks to all the hopping spots for two-year-olds.

Plum Street Snoballs. Audubon Park. City Park. Nix Library. Levee walks along the Mississippi -- downriver to the Fly and upriver to the Jefferson Parish line. Streetcar rides to Danneel Park and strolls to Palmer Park.

We've practiced her coffee house skills at Rue de la Course and CC's, split a turkey sandwich at Maple Street Patisserie and watched a couple dance arm-in-arm over lunch at Oak Street Cafe. We visited the children's section at Maple Street Book Shop and, per her request, rocked on the front porch rockers after making our purchase.

Aida now counts the streetcars every time we pass Carrollton Station and exclaims "Streetcar!" when one rattles down the neutral ground before us. She got out of the car at my girlfriend's Lakeside Metairie house the other day, pointed to the green hill before us and yelled, "Levee!"

As we walk, I tend to point out all the places important to our family's personal history. "That's where Mommy went to school," I said one day as we passed my old high school campus while riding on the streetcar. The next day, as we walked on the same street in the opposite direction, she pointed from her stroller: "Mommy's school." Which of course warranted a Mommy tear, a Mommy cheer and a big sloppy Mommy kiss.

These moments have been incredibly satisfying. She now tells me, "I love Grandma" (who is her great-grandma) and "I love Papa Cat" (who is her grandfather) and "I love Uncle Joseph." Until moving to New Orleans, the only family members she mentioned voluntarily on a regular basis were Mommy, Daddy, Mamere and Sarah (who is not a family member at all, but a babysitter).

But, like a dysfunctional love affair, with the loveliness of New Orleans comes the ugliness.

On a tricycle ride up and down the block one day, Aida pointed to the ground in front of a recently renovated rental house on the corner. "What dat? What dat?"

"That's trash," I said.

"Trash," she said happily. "Trash!" After days went by and it remained and Aida kept naming it, Steve fetched a trash bag and we taught our daughter how to pick up trash. "Pick up trash," she says now.

As far as Aida knows, the concrete chasms and dramatic cliffs of sidewalk pushed from the earth atop sprawling tree roots are a part of a massive game of human strategy and skill. "Sidewalk challenge!" she shouts as we near hills of broken pavement. (She got that from me.)

Our second week here, Steve walked out to find the back of his car had been hit, most likely by someone speeding down the street and swerving to avoid a massive pothole.

On Monday, exactly three weeks after we moved in, I came home from running errands with Aida to find police cars and onlookers scattered down the street. A half-hour earlier, two blocks away, two 27-year-old men were shot, one fatally, in the light of day, after an argument inside a house spilled onto the street.

When Steve got home, he took Aida duty while I walked down the street to learn what I could learn. A young black man was crying. Sheets draped the scene. Neighbors clustered on their porches and spoke in low voices. Few people volunteered any credible details when I introduced myself and asked what they'd heard (and I didn't even have press credentials hanging around my neck!).

I picked out the Times-Picayune reporter at the scene by his pleated khakis, legal notebook and flip cell phone, and maneuvered close enough to him to try to eavesdrop on his conversation with the office. (He's not the one whose byline tops the online story, btw.) Apparently, I lack discretion because he called after me later when I'd decided to walk back home. He asked me about my experience in the neighborhood. I told him that in three weeks, I'd come to feel great about our particular block, but a shooting two blocks from where we are raising a toddler is obviously disconcerting.

"I mean, I don't know what your neighborhood's like," I said.

My uneasiness over the event has grown in the days since. As a once-upon-a-time crime reporter, I frequently showed up in other people's neighborhoods and reported on death and mayhem, then returned to my seemingly safe house in another part of town. It feels altogether different not being able to leave. It was like this when I was a teenager here in the late 80s. But, I was a teenager. Oblivious.

We checked the available crime stats on this address before we signed a lease. There were incidents in surrounding area, but this was a good block. And it's all about the block around here. Unlike in Florida, our neighbors all introduced themselves to us from day one. Each of the three houses on one side of us are occupied by families with babies or toddlers. On on the other, we have a sweet hairdresser named Mary and a kind butterfly wrangler named Linda. Our landlord bent over backward to make our house great for us to move in. But. Really? This?

"Nowhere is safe," my aunt messaged me from her Gentilly home.

We knew that. We knew that. We knew that. We came anyway.

Today I let Aida watch a little Sesame Street on the Roku. It was H day. So they showed a montage of  kids playing on the beaches of Hawaii. The images of sand and seashore made me unexpectedly teary for our former life.

"I'm so happy Aida's going to be raised in New Orleans," my sister Ramona told me on the phone last week.

The moment she said it, my mind catalogued all the ways being a kid in New Orleans is tough: terrible schools, adult-centric values, crime, poverty, lack of future jobs.

"Really?!" I said before starting into my mental list.

Ramona interrupted me. "Character-building," she said. "Character-building."

I guess I'm hoping for something more.

I refuse to believe the richness of this city depends on things not working. There seem to be legions of organizations and individuals who agree, who are working to try to make things better.

We want to be in that number. I keep reminding myself that's why we came.

Aida's first Plum Street Snoball, Sept. 2012

Our little park

So, we're moving to New Orleans in 12 days.

More on that later.

The reason I mention it is because, since we made the decision to leave Florida, every day presents an opportunity for me to get a little choked up about something I'll miss.

Today, it rained. A lot. Aida and I got caught in the storm at our favorite neighborhood waterfront playground. She didn't mind. She loved it.

"Raining!" she said as she darted from the picnic shelter into the downpour, mimicking the joggers passing through. I ran after her and then realized there's no harm in my baby being wet. I let her run.

It's a good thing photos exist. I've taken a lot of them at this park. But I wish I could sear into permanent recall all the memories we have built at this little playground over the last two and a half years.

Variations on a theme

Various photos of Aida in ill-advised footwear: