A few years ago, a friend sent me the link to an obituary she’d read in the Boston Globe over coffee that morning. I didn’t know the woman who had died. Mrs. Louise Bickford was a complete stranger to me. However, my friend shared the article because Louise had been a military spouse, like me.
The obituary made no reference to an impressive career or professional achievements on Louise’s part. It didn’t mention awards for talents or proficiencies. No news-worthy contributions to society or attempts to change the world. Nothing that would measure up to traditional barometers of success.
But this seemingly unremarkable newsprint about a military spouse I never knew, somehow tapped into my psyche and left an indelible mark.
After reading the obit, my friend and I exchanged messages such as, “She did the New York Times crossword in pen. I can’t even do it in pencil.” And, “Wow, I can only hope that I leave that kind of legacy.” And then my friend and I went back to our busy routines, leaving behind the shared tidbit about Mrs. Louise Bickford, the 85-year-old Army wife who died on December 9, 2015.
The only problem was, I couldn’t forget.
The 600-word description of Louise’s life had seeped into my subconscious, surfacing when I needed to quell doubts about my place in the world. The memory of the obituary has become a mantric rumination that I conjure to soothe the deep-seeded fear that my life is insignificant or unimportant.
Even though the article didn’t describe the kind of accomplishments that are normally deemed print-worthy, the essay about Louise is a portrait of a life that truly mattered.
I’ve been thinking more about Louise lately. With my husband retired from the Navy and our last child off to college, I recently interviewed for my first out-of-the-house job since 1996. I’ve spent the last two decades raising our three kids, moving, managing the household, volunteering, and freelance writing from home. As I brace myself for rejection, I wonder, have I accomplished enough in life? Will this job save me from oblivion? Will my children be proud of me?
According to the obituary written by Louise’s five children, Louise was born in 1930 and raised in a Pennsylvania coal-mining town. The valedictorian of her high school class, she went on to get her teaching degree and to marry James Bickford, her husband of 40 years. “Jim’s Army career took him, Louise and the five children plus pets to postings in France, California, Kentucky, Iran, Wisconsin, Virginia, Turkey, Florida and, finally, Pennsylvania,” the obit read, adding that Louise parented the kids alone during Jim’s unaccompanied tours in Vietnam and Korea. It described her mother’s “love of travel, curiosity about other cultures, organizational skills, and pragmatic nature” that made her “well suited to her life as a military spouse.”
After Jim retired from the Army, one might think he and Louise settled into a stable life without hardship. However, “a tragic accident left Jim a quadriplegic in 1976.” Louise “spent the next 18 years as his primary caregiver until Jim’s death in 1994.” But she had always had a “great capacity to roll with the vicissitudes of life, accepting whatever difficulties life threw at her with humor, grace and style.”
Louise spent the rest of her years “caring for her extensive brood,” and pursuing her many passions. Her children proudly described her as a “multi-faceted individual” who “taught swimming; was a substitute teacher; led Boy Scout and Girl Scout troops; … did the NY Times crossword puzzle in pen; played the piano; sang in choruses; organized an international supper club; and was a gracious hostess her entire life.”
They wrote, “Louise’s life was grounded by family, from her early life until her death,” and her family of five children, twelve grandchildren and a great grandchild “loved and admired” Louise for “her great wit, integrity, love of laughter and independent spirit.”
Mrs. Louise Bickford had it right. Regardless of the pressure to live up to traditional measures of success, ultimately, a life grounded by family is a life well-lived.
Lisa, this is just lovely. It reminds me of a moment about 17 years ago.
It was couple months after 9/11. I was at a Mass with the girls on a Saturday night. It came time for the Eucharist and the priest noticed he was short on Eucharistic ministers to help with the Communion. He looked out into the congregation and asked if there were any trained people out there willing to help. A very elderly lady sitting alone in the front pew rose to her feet and approached the alter. She was white haired, had an athletically lean body and perfect posture, but what really stuck with me was her face. It was lined, seriously wrinkled actually, but each line seemed to be etched by years of smiles and laughter. It was calming, her face. I was in that church each week searching for peace and some sort of understanding in a time that seemed like the end of the world… and that day, when I saw that woman gracefully rise to serve us all, I found a little bit of comfort. Her face seemed to shout, “Not to worry! I’m here all is well,” yet she never said a word. She just calmly came forward and served. She was simply beautiful. I’ve never forgotten her.
When I notice my face sagging and the lines around my forehead and eyes deepening, I try to let it all go. I try to remember some day the smiles that came my way, despite a lifetime of challenges, might serve to show someone coming behind me that everything will be okay. I have never forgotten that woman, who probably is no longer with us here on Earth, but the ripples of her memory still touch me.
Lisa, you may never know how your “ripples” have affected your life and that of your children. I do know that you have created a beautiful, warm home where your children blossomed into incredible young people. Your husband has the freedom to pursue his passions, as do you. And you may not realize it to the fullest extent yet, but your life is amazing and you have influenced so many people. I envy your spirit and your generosity and I can’t wait to see where your journey takes you next!
Wow, Patrice, that’s so nice! Brings a tear to my eye and a lump in my throat — thank you my friend!
I loved that. It will stick with me too.
You are spot on! Why do we (women in particular) measure our success by our ÔÇÿcareersÔÇÖ or our achievements ?? IsnÔÇÖt being a good person enough?? No of course itÔÇÖs not!!
How did your interview go????
Unfortunately, I did not get the job, and the reason stated was that another candidate had “corporate experience.” *heavy sigh* That’s what military spouses have to deal with until there are employers who are brave enough to respect the sacrifices they made so their spouses could serve and give military spouses a chance.
Hi Lisa, I am Sue Bickford, LouiseÔÇÖs other daughter. I am a teacher by profession. A long time ago I cut out a quote that runs along the lines of ÔÇ£a teacher never knows how far her words will reach, much like ripples on a pond.ÔÇØ I take that as both solace and a cautionary tale. In the case of my motherÔÇÖs life and your thoughts thereÔÇÖs definitely solace. She would be surprised and modest about the impact of her obituary on you. She would also be happy to know that her example helped someone else, especially a military wife.
Thanks for sharing some of your inner journey. May your ripples extend positively long after you have the capacity to know.
Dear Sue, I am touched by your comment, and I love the ripples analogy. I was honored to highlight your mother’s life in my column and I can already see that it has had an effect on readers. Thank you for taking part in writing such a moving obituary!