Some stories are harder to write than others. This one has taken me all week, and I’m still not sure I have the words right. Life doesn’t always fit neatly into sentences or paragraphs.
What I do know is that writing helps me make sense of the waves as they come, one after another. And so, I write—about my mom, about grief, and about what I learned in trying to squeeze her lifetime into 250 words.
Just last weekend, I was dancing a Cajun Waltz in Louisiana. Oh, wait, that was two weeks ago. Last weekend, I was standing next to my mother as she took her final breath. I certainly didn’t see this coming. I guess I thought she would live forever.
I know better. I know there is a time to be born and a time to die—I’ve sung that line along with the Byrds countless times. But why now? My mom was only ninety. She was dancing just a few weeks ago, miming her choreographed version of Have You Ever Seen the Rain.
My sisters and I, along with two nieces just went out to lunch. For my mom, that was an important event—having her three daughters together. She told me several times how much it meant to her. Maybe that should have been my first clue.
The day before I left for Louisiana, I watched her walk past my window three times—carrying her woven basket to the laundry room and back. Once to wash, once to move the clothes to the dryer, and once to fold and then carry them back home. I’d been doing her laundry since her dreaded fall in August. Watching her regain her confidence was hallowed ground—I knew better than to intercede. Even Dennis, perched on the back of the couch, knew better than to bark as she walked by. That was ten days ago.
Since then, waves of grief keep breaking on the shoreline, knocking me off my feet. How to live without communicating with my mom every day, in one way or another, is something I know nothing about.
My first fumbled attempt on this new journey was writing her obituary. It brought my sister to tears—of laughter. I wanted to write something beautiful and poetic, choosing each word carefully, even naming each beautiful grandchild and great-grandchild, trying not to leave anyone out. In her honest and loving way, while doing her best to hold back the laughter, she gently reminded me that the purpose of an obituary is mostly to notify creditors. “Know your audience,” she said. After a brief meltdown, I revised it to less than 200 words and sent it in, forgetting to include my mom’s brother. Ugh.
I realized I’m not qualified to write my mom’s obituary. No one is. Every person carries their own story of her life—mine is only one. And it’s impossible to summarize someone’s life in 250 words anyway.
In hindsight, I put too much pressure on myself to get it right. I’ll stick to writing what I know—the life of my mom through my eyes and experiences. That I can do.
My sister shared a beautiful analogy: we’re all riding a train through life. People get on and off along the way—some for a brief hello, others for many miles. I was lucky enough to have my mom riding beside me for sixty-one years. And what a ride it’s been.
And here’s my version of the obituary without a word count. Carole Elaine Walsh April 8, 1935 - October 18, 2025 Carole Elaine Walsh was born in Monterey Park, California, on April 8, 1935, to Avery Rival Mead and Mary Elaine Tipton, joining her 4-year-old brother, Avery Lee Mead. It was a world when a gallon of gas was 10 cents, and a stamp was 3 cents. Her father passed away when she was just eight years old. When her mother remarried, the family moved to a ranch in Vista, California. With her loving stepfather, Harvey Adair, and a new sister, Jeanne, Carole found a new sense of family. Growing up in Southern California, she rubbed shoulders with movie stars and spent long, sunny days at the beach. She graduated from UCLA with a degree in Education. And later earned master’s degrees in Reading and Educationally Handicapped Studies. Shortly after graduating from UCLA, she married her college sweetheart, and together they welcomed a beautiful baby girl, Sharon Elaine. However, Carole wasn’t inclined to be a June Cleaver type and set out to live life on her terms. A few years later, a dashing Marine officer would sweep her off her feet. The family of three soon welcomed two more daughters, Patricia Leone Sandora (Walsh), and Susan Voorhees Bayer (Walsh). It wasn’t long before she decided she just wasn’t cut out for married life and set out with her three daughters back to the golden land of her childhood home in Southern California. If there ever was an advocate for children, she was it. Her biggest love in life, aside from her family, was teaching. She taught in the early years of integration in North Carolina. She taught reading in California. She helped three generations of students as a special education teacher at Middle Park High School in Granby, Colorado. She also helped students build career skills beyond graduation as a transition coordinator covering multiple districts in Northwest Colorado. She still received regular calls and correspondence from former students. During her lifetime, she traveled to Ireland, Scotland, Alaska, and many other places. Even in 2020, with the dark cloud of the pandemic looming, she went on a 4,800-mile road trip through fifteen states to see all of her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. She lived out the final few years of her life with a full social calendar—dancing, going to concerts (including the Beach Boys, where she sang along to every single song), shopping, and meeting friends for lunch. A lifelong learner, she spent hours each day sitting at her computer, with her toy poodle Lucy on her lap. She researched genealogy, took online classes, and sent out a daily individual horoscope to over a dozen friends, while watching a colorful parade of birds visit her feeders. And when the squirrels tried to rob them, she aimed her pink Daisy BB gun out the window to scare them away. On her 90th birthday, she was asked what her secret to life was. She answered, “Love yourself. If you don’t take care of yourself, you aren’t any good to anyone else.” Mom did just that. She took her vitamins and made a healthy smoothie every morning. Her favorite color was red. When she went out, she wore lovely jewelry and lipstick. She always had time to visit with check-out clerks and share a story or two. She smiled—a lot. To pick up where she left off, she leaves her daughters and their families, nine grandchildren, seventeen great-grandchildren, forthcoming great-great-grandchildren, a step-sister, many beloved cousins, nieces, nephews, and those from coast to coast who will always know her as "Mom". Love grows on. She made it clear that she didn’t want any services. She wasn’t big on that kind of thing. She wanted us all to be happy—and to live our lives to the fullest. She set the bar high, and there’s nothing that would honor the life of this trailblazing woman more than to do just that.
This is beautiful! Loved your Mom!
Love & Prayers for you all