A Real Chicago Landmark – Remembering Colette McCarey
On Monday my mom died.
Weighed down since the day after 9/11 when I rushed her to the ER at St. Francis in Evanston and she flat-lined with a full-system failure, she kept moving forward toward what we all knew was the ultimate end point.
We just never knew when it would be. Turns out it was Monday.
For the past several years, increasingly ill and finally bed-ridden, mom resided with my brother John and his wife Janet in Galesburg. Their care for her was heart-felt and magnificent. They have my profound gratitude as do their kids Erin and Sean who essentially had their high school careers disrupted by the new tenant at 859 Losey. Gratitude also goes to my cousin Jim Stawick for fulfilling the never glamorous and typically tedious role overseeing mom’s accounts.
But my true store of gratitude is for my mom.
I stitched together a few lines this past mother’s day to suggest to readers of The Real Estate Lounge Chicago a bit about Colette McCarey. And though my efforts now likely will fall shy of perfection, nonetheless I will strike the keyboard here to tell you a bit about Colette.
The first thing you notice about Colette is that tres chic name. Born Mary Colette Royer mom pared the ever-plain Mary from her moniker in her teens. She may already have arrived at the University of Illinois campus and likely it came after a summer working at the Indiana Dunes in 1945. She went home from that stint with a penchant for smokes and a tendency toward rebelliousness. Nothing radical, but enough to head north to Chicago for law school at the first opportunity whereupon she chose a charming rogue named Jack McCarey instead of the Socratic method.
And while her selection of Jack McCarey of the hard-drinking and sullen McCarey clan could be second-guessed for years to come, it proved to be the flint upon which the sparks known as John, Mike, Pat, Kevin, Kate, Tom and Maggie came to be.
As the list of names above reflects, my mom had quite a gaggle of offspring. By the same token, she too came from a crowded house surrounded by Patricia, Jocko, Bill, Jim, Rita, Peggy, Tom and Joe. My intent here is not to offer their perceptions but to grant you insight into mine.
My mom long was a hero to me.
She worked harder than anybody I have ever met to do the basic things for her family. Like keeping them housed and clothed. Like instilling a respect for learning and justice. And while she, because of her gender, was paid pennies to the dollar for the same work done by a man, she refused to become bitter, choosing instead to invoke a wittiness that was without parallel.
Educated by the nuns at St. Mary’s in Canton before graduating second in her class at Canton High, she headed to the University of Illinois during WWII. She did this at a time when college often wasn’t a destination for a woman. And she did it with a tiny suitcase with a couple of blouses and a couple of skirts and a pair of shoes. Nothing else.
You see, my mom’s family didn’t have much. The term “growing up poor” wasn’t part of the lexicon because for the most part this described a great mass of the populace. But the truth is that she didn’t have two nickels to rub together. At the same time, though, she was blessed with a tremendous mind and a tireless work ethic.
These things she instilled in me.
Growing up my mom rose earlier than anybody to start the coffee percolating, clear her lungs with a vicious smoker’s hack, and, in the winter, start her car to get it warmed up for the commute to the city. For some jobs where the location was too squalid she drove. For others that were a bit more hospitable she took the Illinois Central from Harvey or the Rock Island from Midlothian. Departing typically before 7am, she was home to 15537 South Ridgeway a bit after 7pm.
We’d check in by phone after school and set about doing chores that were ours by the week such as cleaning the kitchen, or the living room/dining room, or the bathroom. The bedrooms were a given, but overall our home was akin to Buckminster Fuller’s “Spaceship Earth” and we had specific responsibilities to ensure the ship stayed afloat.
And though my mom would never claim to be a great cook, it fell upon her when she came home after such a terribly long day to feed the group that had assembled. And so we ate. One memory that comes back as I write this is how proud I was to free my mom from having to make my school lunch when I was in third grade.
At this point somebody after a cheap laugh might say “somehow I survived.” The truth is that at a young age I recognized my mom’s commitment, her drive and the fact that she was the single-handed layer of our safety net and there was no way that I wanted to let her down.
And so I worked hard at school and made the conscious choice not to deviate with the oh-so-many knuckleheads that lived in our neck of the woods. And I survived. And I gained acceptance to the University of Illinois in Champaign. Good thing, too, since it was the only place I applied. And there I flourished and set in motion all of the what-not that has me today as a hard-working and successful Chicago real estate professional.
Before I made my way to college in central Illinois though, let me tell you that barely a free moment existed when my mom didn’t pile me and my younger sister Maggie into the car to head into another love of my life, Chicago. Whether it was the air show or the 4th of July fireworks, a few hours at the Oak St. Beach or shopping either on Michigan Avenue or Marshall Field’s on State, carousing the Museum of Science and Industry or the Art Institute of Chicago, hitting the Old Town Art Fair or a Bastille Day street fest, my mom was there chaperoning us toward a view of what life could and should be like.
Through her I developed a deep love for Chicago, the city where I now help people make real estate decisions every day. And while her spirit was always generous, I also learned from her a capacity to strive to never be second best, something that my clients appreciate and something I can’t imagine living without.
I am sure my mom would have been happier had I studied accountancy – it was more practical. But she accepted that the humanities were my passion. And she understood when I worked with the homeless with mental illness or at United Press International writing on the broadcast line or at Planned Parenthood or The AIDS Legal Council that these choices simply reflected values that she had imbued in me.
Family members in the week since my mom has passed have commented on how much my mom loved me and how proud she was of me. I am so glad, for the feeling is entirely mutual. I still have my wishes though.
For nearly ten years my mom was the sole care giver to my dad as he was riddled by the complications of Alzheimer’s. For the last four or five years I and then my wife-to-be Nicole lived in one of the apartments in the building and provided a second line of defense to help with care provision. My dad died in January 2002, five months after my mom’s initial illness. The hope I held throughout my dad’s lengthy illness was that after he passed she would be free to take a trip, see some sights, take a deep breath without waking up the next day to the phenomenal stress of care provision. That turned out not to be the case.
And while my mom knew and loved my extraordinary wife Nicole before her illness, I wish she had more time to know Nicole and to meet our remarkable sons, Jackson and Lucas. We took the boys to see “Grandma Cayette” and they asked for her and looked forward to the trip to Uncle John and Aunt Janet’s, but only baby Jackson saw mom in something other than a bed-ridden state. I would have loved for my boys to have met the Grandma Colette who instilled in me the values that make me good and strong and decent, that make me the wonderful daddy that I am.
There are other wishes that will fade here before being mentioned. I will simply mention them in my prayers. But the blessing is that I don’t have any regrets.
I loved my mom with the same fierceness that I know she loved me. When I needed her, she showed up time and again. And I too was blessed to be able to show up for her in her times of need. And in my mind and heart I will carry her with me in the hope that thoughts of her and of those closest to me like Nicole and the boys will help me to be gracious, giving and generous.
By the way, that smoking I mentioned that she picked up in 1945. It wasn’t until more than 40 years later that she finally kicked the habit. Living in a four-flat that she and my dad bought in 1985 mom took up yoga on Monday nights at St. Gertrude’s and Thursdays at Berger Park, was swimming with next-door-neighbor Helen Euhara three days a week at the Y and overall just loving life in the city.
Life in the suburbs may have suited more than one of her kids, but it was not something that Colette ever took a liking to. City living with buses and trains to Chicago museums and the Art Institute or the bevy of second hand stores that allowed her to comprise her much admired fashion collection was more my mom’s cup of tea.
(By the way, my mom was renowned for her clothing collection and shoe closet and bevy of stylish bags and mystery novels as well as the perfectly selected nuggets shared with family and friends. All were found on the racks of myriad second hand stores where she found respite from the stresses of life.)
But that damned smoking did a job on her, resulting in COPD that compromised her breathing and, at the end of the day, contributed to the lung cancer that was said to be the cause of her death.
Two final notes – on the Wednesday before my mom passed her brother and life-long friend Jocko Royer died. Jack was a good and decent man, and like my mom, extremely generous. More than once he stepped into my family’s rotation to lend a hand. Among the things I loved about Jocko (and my mom) was his inquisitiveness and an unapologetic tendency to try to will things to an outcome. And so after my mom became catastrophically ill in 2001 Jocko always leaned toward she was getting better or that she would get better soon, suggesting milestones that few others noticed or perceived.
Perhaps the incapacitation of one of his closest friends triggered another of his assets, a tireless optimism.
One thing is for sure, the weekly visits that they shared before and after her illness until she left Chicago were a balm to her soul.
The myth that we will invoke is when Jocko died he misplaced his glasses causing him to get lost en route to Galesburg. That’s why it took him a few extra days to get there and why my mom, waiting for him to pick her up as often was the case when they would head over to Baker’s Square for a pie and coffee, didn’t pass until Monday. Feel free to believe as you wish, but my money is on these life-long friends chatting and mom choosing to join her dear brother in a more peaceful and serene place.
Another hand lent to my mom came from her brother Tom, a Roman Catholic priest.
Father Tom said Jocko’s mass in Chicago last Saturday, drove to bless his grave in Canton for a 3:30 service and then made his way to Galesburg to administer last rites to my mom, his sister. I will never forget how as we knelt around her bed and said the Lord’s Prayer that my mom caught the vibe and intoned the words as well, speaking clearly and resolutely.
Sunday afternoon Father Tom came to bid goodbye to mom and one of the things she said as he held her hand and kissed her head was that she would be going home soon.
And so she had.
I am so very thankful to Father Tom and to all who participated throughout and at the end of my mom’s life, helping her to experience a peaceful departure. I can only hope in some small measure that my words here give rise to what a great woman she was and my love for her.
If you enjoyed this post, please consider to leave a comment or subscribe to the feed and get future articles delivered to your feed reader.
Comments
Tom I loved your post. I am sure that Collette is in heaven reading it and saying to herself “I did right by my kids, expecially Tom.” Whenever she saw you her eyes would light up. That’s when I knew how much she loved you. And in your actions I knew how much you loved her. I love you, Buela
Tom, So sorry to learn this. Wish I would have swung by your website sooner. I know your emptiness as my dad also just recently passed. I’ll always remember your mother sitting on her back porch with a paperback in her hand.
god bless her and you,
Geno
Tom,
What a beautiful article for a beautiful Mom. I love it that she recited the Lord’s Prayer so clearly. Her spirit was still so alive and ready to “Go home.” What a peaceful truth.