This Sunday is Mother’s Day and, for me at least, it feels a little more poignant than usual. Not because of my own mother or my wife, both of whom were and are exemplary in every sense of the word, but because of two other Mums who have been very much on my mind.
Over the past 10 days or so, I’ve attended the funerals of the mothers of two of my oldest friends in the world. “Sadly” is the word that comes to mind, of course. Oddly enough, however, I came away from each experience feeling uplifted. Even joyful, which might sound like an unusual takeaway from a pair of funerals, but there you have it.
There are a handful of us who grew up together in the west end of Montreal, long before many of us made our way out into the world. We came from Irish families, knew each other from the first day of first grade, and were, at least officially, altar boys and choir boys, very much in the literal sense. Outside of church, let’s just say our behaviour didn’t always live up to the job description.
We played on the same teams, got into the same scrapes and, until university, attended the same schools. Some of the families were large, quite large by today’s standards. Seven children in one household, six in another. My own family, with three offspring, felt downright minimalist by comparison.
What stands out most now when I look back at those times are the kitchens. If you happened to be in one of those homes around mealtime, there was never a question of whether you were staying. A plate would appear, a chair would be found, and you were part of the crew. No fuss, no ceremony, just a simple, generous assumption that there was always room for one more.
I have many fond memories of the two Mums to whom we recently said goodbye. And, of course, of their sons, men I’m proud to still call my friends more than 65 years later. When I stop to think about it, it is something of a marvel. I’m not entirely sure whether it’s an anomaly that the same small group of friends has stayed close through all that life threw at us — marriages, careers, moves and the occasional curveball. Distance has come and gone, as it does, but somehow the connection never faded.
More than that, we seem to have an unspoken agreement: When one of us is having a tough time, the others show up. Maybe not always in grand gestures, but in calls, visits and the kind of quiet support that only comes from decades of shared history. I find myself genuinely grateful for that. It’s not something I take for granted.
So how does one walk away from not one but two funerals feeling uplifted, even smiling?
A big part of it, I think, is that these were quintessentially Irish funerals. Oh sure, there were tears. There should be. But they were accompanied by laughter. Lots of it. Stories were told, some polished with age, others perhaps improved slightly in the retelling, and before long the room was filled with warmth as much as it was with remembrance.
The officiants at both services played a role as well. Each had known the Mum about whom they were speaking, which made their words feel personal and genuine. One priest, after outlining a long list of virtues, paused and said, “If Patsy ain’t in heaven now, there’s not much hope for the rest of us.” That line alone made being there even more special, and it drew exactly the kind of reaction you’d expect.
With the number of first cousins in both families, the funerals quickly took on the feel of neighbourhood reunions. Faces I hadn’t seen in years — decades, in some cases — were suddenly right there in front of me, a little older, perhaps a little wiser, but instantly familiar.
So this Mother’s Day, along with celebrating the remarkable women in my own life, I’ll be raising a quiet toast to those two Mums, and to all the kitchen tables, open doors and lasting friendships they helped create along the way. Without them, I wouldn’t have the best friends in the world.
Tom Whelan is a veteran broadcaster who can be heard weekends on CJAD 800 AM. He can be contacted by email at info@the1019report.ca.