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.