I began this particular blog on December 20, 2020. I couldn't post it then though. There was just too much inside me, that I personally had to come to terms with. Perhaps it was the thought that I was blessed with some amazing people in my life that I was actually able to call family and that I didn't fully appreciate the fact, or maybe it was me realizing that right before my eyes, the kids of Ray and Grace were almost gone. There was also the very real fact, that for some reason, this loss, absolutely caught me off guard. At any rate, this blog has sat mostly done but unpublished all of this time. Now, on the heels of yet another loss, I feel that today is the day to post this. Today....I remember my Uncle Pat Dougherty.
As I have stated before, my mom was the youngest of 11 kids. Since their births spanned out over the course of 20 years, they had what was known as "the big kids," "the little girls," and "the little kids." My mom, of course, was the youngest of the three little kids, and sadly, yesterday, my family lost the last of the little kids, my uncle Pat.
Patrick Thomas Dougherty was born June 6, 1933. He was the tenth child and youngest son of Ray and Grace Dougherty and at the time, they firmly believed he would likely be their last child. Aunt Margaret once told me that Uncle Pat was the cutest baby she had ever seen, and as he grew into a tow-headed freckle-faced little boy, his sibling's nicknamed him Cornbread, which followed him through his early childhood years. Together, Pat, his older brother Jim and his baby sister Mary Jane, (yes Pat was not to be the baby after all), made up "the little kids" of the Dougherty family. As I heard it, the three of them kept both Grandma and their older siblings hopping with their mischief and adventures as young kids.
Growing up in my house, Uncle Pat was someone my mother talked about a great deal. There was three years difference in their ages, and because of this, they grew up very close. Mom loved to tell us stories about long summer days and the fun she and her brothers used to have. Sometimes what started out as fun though, ended up with one or all three of them in trouble, like their great cotton-picking adventure. Pat and Jim had to go to the field to help pick cotton, and Mom was not about to be left out of the fun she just knew they would be having. Because she was the baby and because no one could pout like Mary Jane, they of course had no choice but to take her and her faithful dog and sidekick Shep, to the field with them. They had no more gotten to the field, when Shep surveyed the area and saw that there were strangers (the other field workers), in the vicinity of his Mary Jane. That apparently was not going to happen, so Shep immediately rounded up all the field workers and chased them into the back of the wagon and I guess for good measure, he treed Pat and Jim. Mom tried to call Shep off to no avail, so she then had to go find Grandpa as Shep refused to let anyone out of the tree or the wagon. Needless to say, Mom got in a lot of trouble and was never allowed in the cotton fields again.
As they got older, Mom refused to ever be one-upped by her brothers, especially not Pat, so when Pat and Jim would play "burnout" baseball without using a glove, Mom refused once again to be left out. They would throw the ball as hard as they could and the other would catch it bare-handed. This left them all with bruised, sometimes bloodied, and always swollen hands, but none would back down and Mom swore they threw it harder to her because she was a girl. It was in one of these baseball games that Mom swung the bat, not knowing Pat was behind her and she split his head open. I don't think Pat even got stitches, because country kids just didn't, but according to Mom, he had a scar which she was sure he carried the rest of his life. Even all the years later as she told the story, you could tell she still felt awful, but it likely didn't stop future shenanigans from the three.
My mom might have been the baby, which garnered her special attention at times, but Pat was the baby boy and according to Mom, Grandma held a special place for him in her heart. Perhaps it was because he was the youngest boy and for at least two years, she thought he would be her last child, or maybe it was the adorable ornery grin that seemed to melt her, whatever the case though, Pat was special to her and Mom said they all knew it and accepted it and that bond held strong until my Grandma's death.
Mom told of one time when Pat was in high school and he had made the football team. They had an away game and Grandma was just beside herself not wanting him to go. She just had a feeling that something bad was going to happen, but Grandpa and Pat talked her into letting him go and she spent the entire evening wringing her hands and pacing. It turns out that Grandma was right. Pat was put into the game and within moments he was tackled and carried off the field with a broken leg. Yes, apparently she was that connected, to her youngest son.
Mom's stories about Pat were endless and you could tell that her childhood had been one of hero worship with a little sibling rivalry thrown in for good measure. The Dougherty kids might not have had a lot, but growing up, they always had each other.
When Pat graduated, he went into the Marines and three years later, when Mom graduated, she went into nursing school at St. Anthony's in Oklahoma City. It was here that Mom met another soon to be nurse named Rita Wolf. They became close friends and as Mom told it, she introduced her beloved brother to her new friend and as they say, the rest is history. It wasn't long before Pat and Rita walked down the aisle and began a life together.
After they got married, I am not sure of the logistics of exactly where they went and what they did, because Mom had graduated nursing school, joined the Army, and was stationed at an army hospital in Colorado. Mom and Pat's lives were now going in different directions and for whatever reason, the once-close siblings began to lose touch.
I don't know whether it was eventually or immediately, but Pat and Rita ended up in Columbia, MO and Mom ended up in Kansas via a couple of years in Colorado. Pat and Rita ended up having four girls and a boy and Mom had us. It is funny how time and distance can change even the closest of siblings. I think though, it was mostly my mom. She had a way of compartmentalizing her past, as she moved on to each new phase of her life and even siblings weren't exempt from this. She of course, would hear things through the family grapevine here and there about Pat's job or their kids, but with time and distance, Pat and Rita and this Missouri family, were little more than stories with no reality to my life.
Even with the distance though, my mom remained fiercely proud of her older brother, and in 1972, when Mom learned that Pat was going to be in the movie Tom Sawyer, with Johnny Whitaker and Jodie Foster, she was over the moon for him. The movie was being filmed in Missouri, not too far from where Pat lived and he showed up to see if he would be picked as an extra. According to Mom, he was chosen because he was one of the only ones who showed up that could drive a team and wagon.
When the movie came out, Mom took us to the theater to see it immediately and she just beamed with excitement every time she caught a glimpse of her big brother. His appearances were sprinkled throughout the movie and I remember that she wouldn't leave the theater until all the credits rolled, just to see if his name appeared. My mom was so proud of him.
It was rather funny looking back, that Uncle Pat was really quite a legend in our house. He was this perfect big brother, who by this time had been a Marine, a professor, a civil rights activist and now was an activist for the aging in the job market, through his job in the non-profit sector, and yet I had never met him.
One time, my Aunt Ruth and her family decided to take a trip to Pat and Rita's and I remember my cousin Susie coming back and talking about that trip. Pat and Rita lived in an old house on some land on the outskirts of Columbia. On their property was an old tavern that had been around since the 1700's and was a historical landmark, that family took care of with great love and respect for the history it represented. It was also a great place to be regaled with ghost stories and spooky nights around the campfire. Susie came home with tales of how amazing Uncle Pat and Aunt Rita were and how much fun she had had with their kids and I was truly jealous. I remember thinking that I really needed to know these people.
It wasn't until I was in high school that I finally got to meet Pat and Rita for the first time. There was a reunion at Red Rock Canyon State Park, and this time, many of Mom's siblings ended up being there together. I knew Pat the minute I saw him. He was tall and lanky and at the time, his hair was beginning to turn a little gray. He had an amazing smile and he hugged me like he had known me all my life. His personality was big and so was his laugh. I knew then that the stories were not just stories. Uncle Pat was someone special.
In the years after that, there were more reunions and Uncle Pat became the official family photographer, taking pictures of the individual families and then trying to get the whole bunch of us together, all smiling and all facing forward for the big family photo, and that photo always took more than a few takes to get it right. Even today, when I think of Uncle Pat, I think of him with the camera hung around his neck, his straw hat, and his amazing laugh. Trust me, the Dougherty's know how to laugh.
One of the most intriguing things I ever heard about Uncle Pat came from his youngest daughter. She and I were talking one time at a reunion, it was early on and I had just met them all. I can't even tell you for sure what exactly we were talking about, but she was talking about growing up with Uncle Pat as her dad. She said that they would sit around the dinner table and talk about everything from day to day things, to politics, religion, and world affairs (all things many families shied away from). She said periodically in their discussions, he would flip the page on them, and play devil's advocate, changing his stance completely. She said that by doing this, he made them look at both sides of any issue and thus make their own decisions on the issue. He didn't want school, him, or anyone or anything to influence them. He wanted them to research and decide about life and the world for themselves. He actually trusted their judgment. I never forgot this, maybe because this was much different than I had been raised, and all these years later, it still stays with me. What a brilliant way to raise the next generation and he and Rita did raise some pretty great kids.
As time went on, we had more big family reunions and then they began adding "Brother/Sister" reunions, where it was just the siblings and their spouses. It was a good way to bring the siblings who were spread out all over the country, together for a weekend at least once a year. This brought them all closer and renewed not only sibling relationships but also sibling friendships.
In 1995, my mom was diagnosed with cancer. She was going to have to have surgery and a bit of a recovery. She lived by herself and I was pregnant at the time. Out of nowhere, Aunt Rita called to tell her she was going to come to town after her surgery and stay with her. Mom knew she needed this but she had anxiety beyond belief. She was so used to doing it all by herself that she was afraid she would just get mad and tell Aunt Rita to leave. Uncle Pat brought her here though and Aunt Rita stayed with mom through her recovery. It was a Godsend for Mom and it was a Godsend for their relationship as it brought them all closer together.
From that point on, Pat and Rita were a part of the landscape of our lives. They helped Mom through two more cancer surgery's and they even loaded Mom and Aunt Ruth, into their van and took Mom to The Mayo Clinic in Minnesota, an adventure they all seemed to enjoy.
When Tim (my husband) died suddenly, I walked through the days following his death, with little attention to who was around or what was happening. I was shell shocked and completely lost. What I do remember is when I was at his funeral, I looked up and I saw Uncle Pat and Aunt Rita sitting there and I nearly lost it. Their presence gave me so much comfort and in some strange way, held me together for the rest of the day. It was something I will never forget.
About 18 months later, once again they would be my comfort and hold me together when three days before Christmas, Mom died. They were on their way to town to see Mom, as she was in the hospital, but sadly she died before they got here. I don't think I had ever felt so alone in my life. David was just barely a year old, and even all of these months later, we were still all struggling with the loss of Tim, and now, Mom was gone. I literally wondered if I was going to survive it all, but then they showed up. When I saw them walk in my door, I dissolved into a mushy, emotional mess....and they let me. They then did one of the kindest things they could have done and instead of going back to MO for Christmas, they stayed with us and then went with us to the funeral the day after Christmas. I remember feeling so guilty that they were missing their own family Christmas, but I was more grateful than they can ever know that they were there.
In 2011, David was accepted to be seen at Shriners Hospital in St. Louis. This meant periodic trips to St. Louis for him to see the doctors and go to the clinic and for them to make a plan on what he needed. It was decided that he needed major hip and leg surgery. When Pat and Rita, heard about Shriners, they insisted that since it was a 7-hour trip one way, that we cut the trip in half and stay with them on our way through. Our first time through was the first time that I had ever been to their house. It was once again so comforting to see their faces after driving for several hours on uncharted roads....for me anyway. I was beyond stressed about what we were in for with David but walking into their home, it always felt inviting and Uncle Pat seemed to have a way of distracting me and reminding me that all would be well. The man knew a lot about a lot and he and I shared a mutual love of genealogy, which always gave us something to talk about and something other than my own situation to think about.
After a while, I got braver with my trips to St. Louis, and eventually gained the stamina to make those long trips, round trip in one day. I know it worried Aunt Rita, but we still stopped in to say "hi" on the way up and on the way back. After a while though, David no longer needed Shriners and the trips stopped and at some point, I became my mom, caught up in my own world and basically shuttering myself off from everything that didn't have to do with what was going on in my own day to day life.
A few times I have talked to Aunt Rita by phone over the years, but time, and circumstance have kept a distance there, maybe the same distance Mom created all those years ago, and maybe it was a way for me to not get too close and risk the pain of losing people I truly adored.
When I started writing this, I didn't know what it would be or how it would go. I didn't know if it would be a memorial or a reminiscence. I think it turned out to be a walk down memory lane, remembering a man who started out in my life as a character in a story but turned out to be the real deal. He was a devoted son, a little sister's hero, a teacher, a civil rights activist, a warrior for the aging in the workforce, a historian, a genealogist, a photographer, a husband, a father, a grandfather and so much more to so many more. He was kindness, compassion, humor, and wisdom with my grandma's eyes, and my grandpa's laugh. He was the best of this world, and don't think I am the only one of his many nieces and nephews that felt this way. He was funny, kind and one of the coolest uncles a kid could ever have.
Living in a world without Uncle Pat seems unimaginable, but then again, I know how blessed I was to have been able to call him "uncle" and how much he gave us all while he was here. To Aunt Rita, his kids, and grandkids, my heart aches for you, but Patrick Dougherty was one of those rare truly good humans, who left this world a better place because he was here, and in the end, what more could any of us ask, than to have lived a life such as that?
No comments:
Post a Comment