My understanding was that funeral masses at St. Patrick’s Cathedral on Fifth Avenue were typically reserved for cardinals, mayors and the similarly well-connected. Marie O’Grady Pickering, my childhood nanny, didn’t fall into any of those categories. She was a suburban New Jersey housewife and mother and when she and her husband Tom moved to Florida she worked in a store as a bra fitter.
I only mention that because her son Tom did in his eulogy. I didn’t know that bra fitter was a thing. It sounds like one of those professionals listed in The Onion in their mock “American Voices” feature alongside Seam Reinforcer and Riverbed Raker. But it turns out to be real and I have no doubt that Marie performed the job with professionalism and sensitivity and had a loyal customer base.
Because Marie was great at anything she did, starting with raising me and my three younger brothers. She joined our family when I was two-years-old and left to get married to Tom Pickering around the time I turned ten. Those are important, one might argue, even determinative years in one’s life. If I’m able to function at anything approaching a normal level today I attribute that to Marie’s strict but loving care.
Our “nurse” — for some reason we never referred to her as a nanny — was in her early twenties when she was hired. “I hope that she is as good as she seems to be,” my mother wrote in her diary on September 27th, 1955. “I called up her reference and the lady there said that she is wonderful and I am very lucky to get her.”
Marie grew up in County Mayo, Ireland in poor circumstances, according to Tom’s eulogy. Her formal education ended at fourteen when she went to work for the school where she should have been studying. But far from uneducated, Marie was a voracious reader throughout her life. Her daughter Tricia once told me that she was inspired by my mother who was never without a book.
Marie and I lost touch for over sixty years until the day I noticed a message on my Facebook page. (I’m not great at navigating Facebook or any other social media platform.) Tricia introduced herself and said she believed that her mother had once worked for our family. She added that Marie, Tricia and Tom often walked past the building where we grew up and my mother still lived on their way to Central Park, but that Marie was too considerate of my mother’s privacy to visit.
t’s a pity because my mother, Nellie, died before a reunion could be arranged. One of the first questions Marie asked me when she visited the apartment a few weeks later was whether I still said the Lord’s Prayer? She had taught it to me. Come to think of it, the Lord’s Prayer was probably the first thing I succeeded in memorizing.
My recollection is that she and I would kneel by the side of my bed while I blessed everybody and everything that came to mind; not just my parents and brothers but also the family pets, both real and stuffed. Then I’d recite my favorite poem: “I see the moon. The moon sees me. God bless the moon and God bless me.” Finally, we’d get down to the serious business of the Lord’s Prayer, and then it was time for bed. The fact that I was Jewish didn’t seem to matter.
I felt somewhat a fish out of water during the St. Patrick’s funeral mass. It took place in the beautiful glass-walled Lady Chapel in the rear of the cathedral. I wasn’t familiar with the Bible readings or the responses. I was hoping to shine when the moment arrived to recite the Lord’s Prayer. I’d like to think Marie would have been proud of me.
Following the mass Marie’s mourners walked to the front of the cathedral where a kilted bagpiper played Amazing Grace. Then we returned inside for coffee, snacks and Tom’s eulogy. Tricia confided that scoring a mass for her mother at St. Patrick’s took a couple of months and pulling some high-powered strings. On the way downstairs to the room reserved for us we passed the crypt, located beneath the high altar, where cardinals such as Egan, O’Connor, Cooke and Spellman are entombed.
I like to think that Marie would have been welcomed into their company. My mother sometimes told me that she envied Marie her faith. Nellie crossed herself before plane flights just to cover her bases. But she wished she could believe in anything as confidently as Marie did in Catholicism, knowing the solace that came with it.
Marie didn’t turn me into a convert. And obviously it’s impossible to isolate what values you received from someone you hadn't seen since you were ten years old. But I like to believe that if there’s a sense of peace at the core of my being and perhaps even a modicum of compassion my nurse had much to do with it.
It was a privilege to sit at St. Patrick’s among her friends and family. Life, it felt, and my relationship with Marie, had come full circle.
Ralph Gardner Junior is a journalist who divides his time between New York City and Columbia County. More of his work can be found in the Berkshire Eagle and on Substack.
The views expressed by commentators are solely those of the authors. They do not necessarily reflect the views of this station or its management.
