The Parting Glass

On Friday morning, we all gathered to say goodbye to Anne Fowler (nee Sullivan), a dear mother, sister, aunt, friend, wife. She was my dear Aunt Anne, with a sparkling personality - literally: her eyes sparkled, her teeth when she laughed - she with the beautiful and powerful soprano, who seemed to have no shyness when it came to sharing her voice. She and her sisters, including my mother, are all musical: there are altos, sopranos, and those who can also go low, if necessary, to fill out the harmonizing. My grandfather, pictured here, played the violin, and our family would gather around the piano during family get-togethers. My cousin Nancy would usually play the piano, and the harmonies were overwhelming to me as a small child. Eventually, as my own voice got stronger, and I was more used to harmonizing, I could join in.

Anne was mother to my four dear cousins, Nancy, Susan, Ken and Kathleen, huge parts of our childhood - our cousins, nearly the same age … and we would throw ourselves into frenzies of fun when we saw each other. (With only one exception, I have never seen the very special cousin relationship captured in literature: the whirlwind of fun, intensified since we didn’t see each other as much as we saw our regular friends. The one exception is John Irving’s Prayer for Owen Meany.) Seeing everyone yesterday at the church, gathering together for the memorial mass, the same church where we gathered for my grandmother’s funeral, my grandfather’s funeral, my uncle Angus’ funeral … was very intense. And yet beautiful too.

At the luncheon afterwards, people stood up and spoke, and music was always a part of the memory. Anne loved music. Her high school yearbook quote mentioned music. It was a central part of her life, which she passed on to her children. The last time I saw Aunt Anne was in the fall of 2019, when my mother and Ben got married. It was the last time I saw my Aunt Geddy too. The pandemic separated all of us, and during the months of lockdown I remember feeling grateful that we had that wedding as a memory, a moment of gathering before the end. It’s even more significant now.

Anne had her trials and tribulations, as we all do, and life dealt her a particularly difficult hand. She persevered. She moved through the shadowy valley and came out on the other side. Our bonds as a family are very strong, even though we don’t see each other as much now, since we have scattered geographically. But geography doesn’t matter. Social media has gotten a lot of negative press, and sometimes rightly so, sure, but blah blah blah complain all you want, why I use it is to keep in touch with everyone. If I had my way, social media would be completely pictures of family gatherings, and Halloween costumes, and first-days-of-school, from those whom I don’t get to see. I want to know how everyone is doing. I want to feel close. I want to know what is happening. Facebook and Instagram help me do that. Nothing is the same as gathering in person, of course. But at least we are connected, we can check in, it feels like I see them every day.

Aunt Anne was the oldest of the Sullivans, and had a glamour because of that. I know this was true for my mother and her sisters, Katy and Geddy. Anne was the oldest. She knew everything. She did everything first. She moved out into the world first.

I am so grateful I live close enough to have attended her memorial mass, to see my cousins, to be there with them in their grief.

At one point during the luncheon, a group of us - my cousins Nancy, Susan and Cecily, my aunt Katy, and my sisters - got up and sang The Parting Glass. I know the words by heart because I imbibed the Clancy Brothers at Carnegie Hall album as a child, by osmosis.

We hadn’t rehearsed, but we did have lyric sheets. We all naturally, without discussing it, took different parts. We’re family. Our voices already blend. We have been harmonizing with each other for decades. We were able to sync up immediately and we even paused at the same time, Susan sort of guiding us in the prosody and cadence. I’m surprised we were able to get through it without tears. We sang it twice, and the second time we smoothed out the rougher edges, again without speaking or discussion. We just knew.

It was the send-off for our mother, aunt, sister, a woman whose life was set to music.