St. Patrick’s Day Always Has Been Special
I like to think this is what’s going on today in heaven. Happy birthday mom.
Growing up, St. Patrick’s Day was always important in our house. All nine kids, of course, carry my dad’s name and, faith and begorrah, “O’Neill” is an Irish name.
On top of that, March 17 is my mom’s birthday. For years, my sister, Mary Clare, hosted a a party at her home in which she made my mom the celebrated honoree. Funny thing is, my mom’s maiden name is Gertrude Rohde, as German as Sauerbraten and Spatzel. As I recall, the German portion of our heritage got zero play. Personally, I was more likely to say mom’s name was "O’Rohde” than I was to claim anything other than Irish blood.
Other than the occasional serving of sauerkraut or German potato salad, the German gene in the pool rarely surfaced among the O’Neill nine. Put it this way, I don’t remember strapping on the Lederhosen and heading downtown for the Von Steuben Day Parade, but I do recall stumbling around Soulard after a few St. Patrick’s Day Parades … at least, I sort of recall that.
But the fact that my mom was German, and we hardly even acknowledged it, is a reflection of what made her special. It helps explains how she did laundry for nine kids, got a job late in life to support the household when her husband could not, put things that meant the most to her aside to provide things that meant the most to her kids.
She - and others of her generation - was the most selfless person you could ever know. Nothing was about herself, everything was about others. You bet she was proud of her hard-working German background, but she was more than happy to play along - to share her birthday with St. Patrick, to humor inebriated gatherings of faux Irish revelers and be celebrated as one of them.
She was more than willing to let “Rohde” play a distant second-fiddle to the “O’Neill.”
I was thinking of that when I went to mass to celebrate her this morning. And then I thought what I always think on her birthday - I wish I could have thanked her that, for the new bike when I was 10, the sky blue bass guitar when I was 14, the baseball glove when I was 8 … for all the sacrifices she made to make my life happier. I wish I could have thanked for never thinking about herself, and always thinking about us.
When my mom passed away in 2015, her funeral was at St. Joseph’s Church in Clayton, the parish in which we were raised. As a tribute to her, on her 104th birthday, here is the eulogy:
St. Joe is a special place for our family. We grew up in this church, were confirmed in this church, made our first confessions in this church.
Now in the interest of full disclosure - without naming names - it’s also possible some of us made our last confessions in this church … I don’t know. I’m just sayin.’
I want to congratulate my brothers and sisters on the incredible childhood we shared just down the road, and the extraordinary good fortune we had to be born to this woman.
In the world of sportswriting, there is an expression you hear on rare occasions when something awe-inspiring happens, when the responsibility of describing it seems overwhelming, when words don’t do it justice.
On those occasions, you hear writers say, “This story is too big.”
So we are here today to celebrate and honor the life of Gertrude O’Neill, to reflect on the life she gave us. And the story is too big.
It is a story about this amazing, unsinkable heart, that knew no boundaries, that weathered all storms - a diesel engine that ran on profound faith and uncompromising love.
Mom was born to German parents under modest circumstances in north St. Louis. She was one of two girls and two boys - girls got the extra bedroom, boys slept in the hall. The Rhodes never owned a car or a bank account. Mom was a straight-A student at St. Alphonsus Rock High School on Grand Avenue and earned a full scholarship to St. Louis University. But she didn’t go to college.
Instead she met Larry O’Neill at a bowling alley, an engaging, baseball-loving young man with unlimited prospects. They fell in love and were married in June, 1944. That’s the same summer the Browns won the pennant. How my dad found time to get married I’ll never know.
O’Neill Shoe Company was a thriving business. There was social standing, a cottage in Michigan, a farm in Eureka. Cares and woes were few and far between. Then the shoe business declined and the perfect picture faded. The family business was all my dad knew. Physical disabilities made it impossible for him to drive and made it difficult for him to adapt. He clung to the little pieces of the business that remained … until nothing remained.
G.K. Chesterton wrote: “Once I realized the world could not make me perfectly happy, it began to make me truly happy.”
If you knew my mom, you believed it.
Her life became all about providing for her family and her husband, for her seven boys and two girls - born in a span of 15 years, raised in a house with three bedrooms and one bath. It was 1,200 square feet of chaos and laundry. Hot water was gold. Five minutes of mom’s undivided attention was priceless.
And no matter how many trips to the emergency room it took, how many times the Clayton police knocked at the door, how many pieces of furniture were broken, or how many collection agencies called, she found a way.
She sold her most treasured belongings - her engagement and wedding rings, her precious dinnerware, anything to bring a few dollars and pay a few bills.
She learned to drive a car so she could get dad to his infrequent sales calls. During the holidays, she worked nights at Famous-Barr. In her early 50s, with six of us still at home, she took a full-time job as a legal secretary.
She made it work, with hamburger heaven, with her trusty sewing machine, without ever letting on. She made it work so her kids got a Catholic education, so Christmases could be special, so nine birthdays could be celebrated. That’s not so say she didn’t worry; she had a gift for worrying. She could worry about worrying. She could worry about all nine of us collectively while worrying about each one of us individually - at the same time. It’s a record that can never be broken.
With his passion for baseball and his crazy sayings, my dad was an unforgettable character. My mom was a load-bearing wall, a bottomless reservoir of strength, support and encouragement, A standard we can never approach, a servant God welcomes with open arms. She’s headed to heaven, bringing a personal seat license with her.
Before he passed away in 2011, I was at a Sports dinner sitting next to Monsignor Louis Meyer, the pastor at St. Joe for some 10 years. Monsignor Meyer was a remarkable priest, who built the Catholic Youth Council and is a member of the Missouri Sports Hall of Fame.
That night, before he got up to speak, Monsignor Meyer leaned over to me and said, “I know your mother and she tells me all about you kids all the time. She’s the most extraordinary woman I have ever met.”
That came to me the other day when my sister Margaret told me about a conversation she had with mom. They were talking about going to heaven and Marge mentioned that when mom got there, the first thing dad would do is ask her to bring him a glass of cold Pepsi, “lots of ice.”
And mom said, “I don’t know, maybe he has met somebody else.”
We know that’s not possible. No one else can compare to you, mom.
The story is too big.