Eulogy for Maria Novak
Spoken Graveside
Novato, California
February 5, 2009
There is a song from the Broadway musical “Rent” which says there are 525,600 minutes in a year of a life. Aunt Maria lived 88 years. Now I won’t pretend to know how to figure the math for two reasons. One. I’m a Portagee. Two. I’ve chosen the wrong kind of footwear today to even begin to calculate the minutes in my Aunt’s life. Perhaps you are wondering why I’ve chosen to focus on the minutes rather than months, or years. It’s because this remarkable woman saw so much and experienced a kind of life that many only dream about. She lived every minute of every day. And when her time was over, she slipped away from us very quickly wasting no time. Like she once said to me, “Kid, getting old ain’t for sissies!”.
The passing of our beloved aunt leaves not only leaves an empty spot at the family table, it marks a shift in the generation. She was the keeper of the family flame. She was the teller of the family stories. Nothing illustrates that better than her home. When you first turn onto Colleen Court, you immediately know which house is hers. It has certain brightness to it. The garage door is always open when she was expecting you. When you walk into the back door you immediately smell the “Aunt Maria” smell--furniture polish with a hint of moth balls. After wiping your feet on the series of throw rugs, she will either put on tea or serve you lunch, either will be served from her best china and silver. While she puts on the final preparations, I always take time to look at the treasures:
There was the picture of my father, eternally smiling and happy on a Trail Blazer ride.
Uncle Edwin and his Beloved Mules.
My grandparents on their wedding day.
Aunt Maria posing with her “Billy Goat” (wearing her Gucci scarf, lipstick, rifle on her shoulder and snow up to her butt). I believe she took him down in one shot and he lived on top of the piano next to the tiffany lamp and the Waterford Vase…until recently when he went to live with Kenny and Clairette.
There is the HUGE elk on the wall and it doubled as the hat rack for her hats which she loved to wear and in which she always looked fabulous.
There was the foxes, the bearskin rug with the head attached, chicken, the precious antiques and my personal favorite the wolverine. He sort of reminded me of her, small, mighty, fierce—His snarl said Don’t mess with me!
There were pictures of my Grandparents dairy operation in the San Joaquin Valley.
A color picture of the Queen Elizabeth 2 on which she sailed around the world in state room 1052. (the same number of the house on Fifth and Vallejo Street that she and Uncle John built).
Once the tea was ready, and we had admired the humming birds outside the kitchen window, we would settle in for a chat. I always felt safe at her house because there was a loaded shotgun by the front!
As we sipped our tea, she talked about growing up with three younger brothers, about the two that died, about how hard she worked when she was younger. She told me how she taught her father to write his name after she learned to write herself. She loved to dance and would dance with her brothers at the Portuguese festivals. They were all great dancers. She told me about remodeling Trumble manor and when she and Uncle John purchased the “mansion” it was condemned. The pictures were startling proof of the now beautiful sentential.
She introduced me to scotch. She insisted that it always be drunk from a crystal tumbler. In fact, I have her to thank for experiencing my finer like things like crystal and china rather than ‘saving’ them. I never drink from a crystal glass or a china cup that I don’t think of her. She said that beautiful things are meant to be used. She was right.
Of course, Aunt Maria was undoubtedly the most beautiful woman I ever knew. Young. Middle aged. Old. She had “it”. She was so beautiful and had such a presence she arrived somewhere 30 minutes before she actually walked into a room. She had a posture and grace that turned heads. Of course, I’ll bet the men who looked at this raving beauty didn’t know she could shoot like a marksman, ride a horse, shoot a deer, field dress said deer, make a stew (or sausage) and if they did further research could find her big game kills record listed in among Boon and Crockett.
Times have changed. We have cars that run on electricity and homes that are powered by solar. Everyone has a cell phone and the president carries a blackberry handheld computer. Most cars have GPS computers to guide drivers to their destinations, but for me the biggest change is the vanishishing breed of men and women like Maria Novak. Maria and her brothers were raised in a time and place where a handshake was a bond. They called a spade a spade and made difficult decisions with careful consideration and discernment. They didn’t do things because of politically correctness, rather politeness was their guide.
They made sacrifices for their country in the times of war and if called upon would go to battle. They worked hard. They played harder. Theirs was the greatest generation. Although our generation has the technology, I don’t believe we’ll every achieve their greatness.
Today my place at the table has moved. I join my cousins as we take our place at the ‘grown-up’ table. No longer will we eat in the kitchen from the mis-matched plates off the card table and folding chairs. We can’t cry over spilled milk.
There is nothing left to say except. Would someone please pass the wine?
Connie Clementino Heizer
Petaluma, Califonria
Spoken Graveside
Novato, California
February 5, 2009
There is a song from the Broadway musical “Rent” which says there are 525,600 minutes in a year of a life. Aunt Maria lived 88 years. Now I won’t pretend to know how to figure the math for two reasons. One. I’m a Portagee. Two. I’ve chosen the wrong kind of footwear today to even begin to calculate the minutes in my Aunt’s life. Perhaps you are wondering why I’ve chosen to focus on the minutes rather than months, or years. It’s because this remarkable woman saw so much and experienced a kind of life that many only dream about. She lived every minute of every day. And when her time was over, she slipped away from us very quickly wasting no time. Like she once said to me, “Kid, getting old ain’t for sissies!”.
The passing of our beloved aunt leaves not only leaves an empty spot at the family table, it marks a shift in the generation. She was the keeper of the family flame. She was the teller of the family stories. Nothing illustrates that better than her home. When you first turn onto Colleen Court, you immediately know which house is hers. It has certain brightness to it. The garage door is always open when she was expecting you. When you walk into the back door you immediately smell the “Aunt Maria” smell--furniture polish with a hint of moth balls. After wiping your feet on the series of throw rugs, she will either put on tea or serve you lunch, either will be served from her best china and silver. While she puts on the final preparations, I always take time to look at the treasures:
There was the picture of my father, eternally smiling and happy on a Trail Blazer ride.
Uncle Edwin and his Beloved Mules.
My grandparents on their wedding day.
Aunt Maria posing with her “Billy Goat” (wearing her Gucci scarf, lipstick, rifle on her shoulder and snow up to her butt). I believe she took him down in one shot and he lived on top of the piano next to the tiffany lamp and the Waterford Vase…until recently when he went to live with Kenny and Clairette.
There is the HUGE elk on the wall and it doubled as the hat rack for her hats which she loved to wear and in which she always looked fabulous.
There was the foxes, the bearskin rug with the head attached, chicken, the precious antiques and my personal favorite the wolverine. He sort of reminded me of her, small, mighty, fierce—His snarl said Don’t mess with me!
There were pictures of my Grandparents dairy operation in the San Joaquin Valley.
A color picture of the Queen Elizabeth 2 on which she sailed around the world in state room 1052. (the same number of the house on Fifth and Vallejo Street that she and Uncle John built).
Once the tea was ready, and we had admired the humming birds outside the kitchen window, we would settle in for a chat. I always felt safe at her house because there was a loaded shotgun by the front!
As we sipped our tea, she talked about growing up with three younger brothers, about the two that died, about how hard she worked when she was younger. She told me how she taught her father to write his name after she learned to write herself. She loved to dance and would dance with her brothers at the Portuguese festivals. They were all great dancers. She told me about remodeling Trumble manor and when she and Uncle John purchased the “mansion” it was condemned. The pictures were startling proof of the now beautiful sentential.
She introduced me to scotch. She insisted that it always be drunk from a crystal tumbler. In fact, I have her to thank for experiencing my finer like things like crystal and china rather than ‘saving’ them. I never drink from a crystal glass or a china cup that I don’t think of her. She said that beautiful things are meant to be used. She was right.
Of course, Aunt Maria was undoubtedly the most beautiful woman I ever knew. Young. Middle aged. Old. She had “it”. She was so beautiful and had such a presence she arrived somewhere 30 minutes before she actually walked into a room. She had a posture and grace that turned heads. Of course, I’ll bet the men who looked at this raving beauty didn’t know she could shoot like a marksman, ride a horse, shoot a deer, field dress said deer, make a stew (or sausage) and if they did further research could find her big game kills record listed in among Boon and Crockett.
Times have changed. We have cars that run on electricity and homes that are powered by solar. Everyone has a cell phone and the president carries a blackberry handheld computer. Most cars have GPS computers to guide drivers to their destinations, but for me the biggest change is the vanishishing breed of men and women like Maria Novak. Maria and her brothers were raised in a time and place where a handshake was a bond. They called a spade a spade and made difficult decisions with careful consideration and discernment. They didn’t do things because of politically correctness, rather politeness was their guide.
They made sacrifices for their country in the times of war and if called upon would go to battle. They worked hard. They played harder. Theirs was the greatest generation. Although our generation has the technology, I don’t believe we’ll every achieve their greatness.
Today my place at the table has moved. I join my cousins as we take our place at the ‘grown-up’ table. No longer will we eat in the kitchen from the mis-matched plates off the card table and folding chairs. We can’t cry over spilled milk.
There is nothing left to say except. Would someone please pass the wine?
Connie Clementino Heizer
Petaluma, Califonria
