My Mom's Final Chapter

Note: My mom, Mary Katherine Adams, died June 1, 2026. She was 77. The following is something I wrote and subsequently read at her memorial service on June 19, 2026.

It’s easy to be a cynic in times like these, and I’ve certainly been cynical of late. Truthfully, I’ve been this way for quite some time, but the attitude now runs deeper. In the past few weeks, I’ve been angry and despondent. You would be too. I mean, I just lost my mom, the one person who was always, unequivocally on my side, even when being on my side wasn’t always easy. I’ll spare you the embarrassing details. I assure you, though, there are plenty. Catch me in the right mood, and I might just tell you about them sometime, if for no other reason than it will give me another chance to speak favorably about my mom. For the moment, just know that my mom, who you know as Mary, Aunt Mary, grandma, and Mike’s mom, was, in my view, as close to a saint as it gets. She was certainly the closest I’ve ever met.

To be fair, I haven’t seen the criteria for how one goes about acquiring sainthood these days, but I’m quite confident that she qualifies. She must, even though, if she were here, she would wildly disagree with that sentiment. It would probably even make her mad that I was standing up here lumping her into the ranks of the pious. I know this because she hated it when I referred to her as “the boss.” Still, if my mom doesn’t qualify for sainthood based on who she was and all she tried to do to make her sliver of the world a little brighter, well, perhaps a stern letter is in order. I’ve lived long enough to know that my mom was a rare breed. But since you’re all sitting here today, I guess you probably already knew that.

What makes me so certain of my mom’s unofficial saintdom is her authenticity. What you saw with my mom is what you got, and that was always – always -- kindness, care, and love. I’ve learned over the decades that’s quite a rare package to find in a human being, so it’s important, I think, to recognize “the real ones,” as the kids would say. Too few on this cruel, unforgiving planet are as genuine as my mom was. Yeah, yeah, I know. You’re already well aware.

Of course, I could go on. I could sit up here for the next few minutes and tell you everything you already know about her -- that she was always nice to people, put everyone before herself, made strangers feel welcome, and always showed up when you needed her the most. I could speak endlessly about how my mom was quick-witted, funny, and vastly superior to any certified public accountant at budgeting a dollar. And, as some of you know all too well, she could also bake a pretty mean cake. I’m not trying to be funny here, but I actually think my mom’s chocolate cake is the main reason I’ve managed to keep my partner, Holly, around all these years. In my mind, there can be no other explanation. Now that I mention it, I’m fairly sure I witnessed the precise moment Holly decided she was sticking around for good. She took one bite of my mom’s decadent amalgamation of flour, eggs, and sugary sorcery, and Kaboom! Holly knew, right then and there, that she could never live without that cake. She had experienced a delicious Valhalla, and sadly, it had nothing to do with me. It had come straight from my mother’s kitchen.

I could talk incessantly about how my mom was generous and loyal. I could talk about all these things, but I’d just be preaching to the choir. I will say this, though, because only two of us in this room can positively confirm that it’s true. Above all, she was a great mom, a position that no mother knows whether she will be any good at until it is too late. Unfortunately, on-the-job training is the best any mother gets after they bring another life into the world, and somehow, my mom managed her solemn duty like a seasoned pro.

I could stand up here and talk about the many ways she kept me, my brother, and dad alive-and-well over the years – how even when she was working insanely long, grueling hours at the glass factory, most of it on nights or swing shifts, she always made sure, and without fail, that the three of us came home to a clean house and a hot meal. Not because it was expected or that she was particularly fond of busting her tail as a homemaker before spending eight or more hours on her feet at the factory. She did it because she loved her family and was dedicated to ensuring that it was cared for, even in her absence.

My mom, I’ve come to understand, was a maternal marvel, as she made the task of survival look easy. She never seemed too tired, and yet I’m certain she was, and probably all the time. And yet, we always had what we needed. Even though I know we all took that for granted, the three of us, as individuals, and of this I couldn’t be more certain, understand how lucky we were to have her. I know I’m eternally grateful that she was assigned to be my mom over anybody else. It’s a good thing, too. I mean, it just wouldn’t have worked out any other way. Frankly, my mom was the only one who could have handled the chore of raising me without bending to the desire to stuff me inside one of those baby drop boxes at the fire station. In all seriousness, I could tell you a lot more about my mom that you probably already know. But I think somehow, given the dubiousness of the times, there is a larger lesson in my mom’s life deserving of everyone’s attention.

My mom was, without a doubt, ever since I can remember, kind and loving. But there was a time, I recall, when she wasn’t as open-minded and non-judgmental as most of you have come to know her.

Seriously, it’s kind of a funny story.

My mom was challenged with raising two kids in the 1980s. It was a time in this country when you couldn’t turn on the nightly news without hearing popular newscasters like Peter Jennings or Geraldo Rivera blaming all of the evils of the world on heavy metal music. Seriously, and some of you might remember this -- in between the reporting on major events, like the launch of New Coke and the fall of the Berlin Wall, there was an explosion of stories – all since discredited -- that suggested Devil-worshippers were taking over the United States by storm, and their subliminal messages of doom and destruction were being spread to credulous minds by way of heavy metal music. Even Congress got involved for a time. Making this quandary even more precarious was the fact that the artists behind this music were my heroes. And that, I think, scared my mom. At the very least, my fandom for songs reportedly connected to the anti-Christ almost assuredly caused her moments of internal debate and probably some sleepless nights. After all, what if I, her oldest son, were to succumb to this godlessness?

Mom set out to control what she perceived to be a dicey state of affairs. If we were in a department store, for instance, and I inquired as to whether I could procure the latest Twisted Sister record, she was probably going to reject that notion. She’d briefly gaze at the album cover, carefully examining the song titles, and then flash me a look of disapproval – a look I could almost draw now if I had to put pen to paper -- saying something to the effect of, “You’re not listening to that crap,” while firmly guiding me toward the exit. That’s when I realized that the development of some negotiation skills would be needed to contend with my mother. I didn’t like being told “no.”

At times, we would argue back and forth right there in the store, me pleading my case for why I so desperately needed this music fronted by some curly-headed weirdo in stretchy pants and eyeliner, and she on why that perceived negative influence wasn’t welcome in her house -- unh-uh, no way. Never unreasonable, though, my mom, she would sometimes recommend an alternative selection, perhaps something the whole family could enjoy. How about ABBA? But no, I didn’t want to relish in the insipid stylings of Swedish pop or even the American variety – I wanted to bask in loud, distorted guitars and angsty, incomprehensible screaming.

This sonic standoff between my mom and me continued for quite a while, and she, as painful as it is to admit, was winning. Eventually, however, the queen went down. I don’t know if the night shift finally got to her, and she, exhausted from another grueling week of raising two heedless kids, realized the futility of her mission and hit the eject button. All I know is one day, she let me buy a heavy metal record, provided that it wasn’t blasphemous or offensive. We met in the middle. My persistence had, at last, paid off, at least for the moment. Then something happened that my mom didn’t anticipate. My heroes, this supposed sacrilegious assembly of dregs and misfits, would inspire me to be a musician. And through much begging and pleading, and truth be told, the influence of my father, also a musician, I soon was the proud owner of an electric guitar.

This was a big moment for me. All that was left to do, minus, of course, actually learning how to play the guitar, was to grow my hair out as long as possible and join a band. Hey, it all made sense in my brain. But when I stated my intention to my mom, that’s when, I’m afraid, she and I came to another impasse. It’s not that mom cared if I became a musician, not really-- she just didn’t want me to have long hair or anything else for that matter, which suggested that I was crossing over to the dark side. In fact, I remember her exact response to my query: “No son of mine is going to have long hair.” To be sure she wouldn’t be heralded as a fraud, I was then quickly ushered down the street to our neighborhood hair stylist, where I promptly received a fitful trim.

In retrospect, I suspect the notion of letting her eldest son walk around with hair down to his chest was to lose complete control. Giving in to Twisted Sister was one thing, but to allow me to grow my hair out was, presumably, in her mind, to accept defeat as a mother doing her best to protect her spawn from the ills of the world, all of which were reportedly being committed by shaggy men with guitars -- at least according to Geraldo. In asking for flowing locks a-plenty, I had flown too close to the sun, and now the dream was over. I mean, how would I ever rise to the ranks of my heroes without a proper hairdo?

We were at a stalemate.

Still, every day, I pleaded my case in favor of growing a magnificent mane, pitifully arguing that all my heavy metal buddies had long hair and that these extra few inches of pelage atop their callow heads were nothing worthy of fret or bother. I remember becoming rather desperate, and my negotiation skills got sloppy. When I couldn’t appeal to my mom’s good nature, I naively took a political approach. Oh, she loved that. What about democracy, Mom? What about the basic human rights I was supposedly guaranteed at birth? Why, if my friends could wear their hair long, why couldn’t I? What was the big deal? It… it just wasn’t fair. But Mom, the boss, stood absolutely resolute. She wasn’t about to give in, not this time. “Life’s not fair,” she’d say, a phrase I now know to be fundamentally true. But what the heck did that have to do with the length of my hair?

In my mom’s mind, long hair was the mark of a heathen and a potential felon, neither of which she was keen on either of her sons becoming. We were, after all, upstanding church-going folks, and any feral fashion which suggested, even for a second, that Peter Jennings or any of those other suits might be talking about us less than favorably on TV one day was expeditiously stomped out and disregarded.

That is, until the day my long-haired friends came over to visit for the first time. Now, I can only begin to speculate on my mom’s thoughts in the hours before their arrival. Did she have to hide the silverware? Could she safely look them in the eyes? Would she have to call the police or hire an exorcist? I have no idea what she pondered before they showed up that day. I only know that once they walked into the house, friendly, smiling, and promptly calling her mom, she fell in love with them. They were her kids now, too. That’s when I noticed a change in her. She was cool, open-minded, perhaps more so than she had previously thought. It didn’t matter what Geraldo was saying about heavy metal -- these were good kids. Mom learned firsthand that long hair wasn’t indicative of heresy. Her previous views on the issue clashed with reality. She quickly stood down on the matter, and soon, lo and behold, I had long hair too — at least for a time.

All it took was some mangy heavy metal kid with good manners to get her to see that she had unjustly vilified a group for which she knew precious little. The thing about it was that Mom could have easily brushed off the encounter as a fluke, just a flash in the pan. She could have sustained her prejudice for heavy metal and long hair by chalking up my friends’ pleasant behavior as them simply being some of the “good ones,” maintaining that while these boys might be as nice as can be, the rest of the long-haired populace were no good. But no, my mom rightfully went the opposite direction, opting to see that she was wrong. If these boys were polite and respectful, she was convinced the rest were too. She was, at the very least, going to give the others a chance to prove her wrong.

Over the years, Mom met many of my long-haired friends. Some of them, GASP, even had tattoos. None of those details mattered to her anymore, not in the slightest. These guys were nice to her, conversed with her like a real person, complimented her cooking – seriously, one of them still rants and raves over her pancakes after all these years -- and that was all it took for my mom to step away from any lingering judgment she might have had about them or anyone else, especially in cases of people and cultures that she might have misunderstood. Mom was good like that -- a pillar of empathy and warmth until the bitter end. I mean, I don’t remember meeting my mom for the first time, but I bet some of you do. I’d be willing to bet that you experienced a connection with her straight away because, as far as I can tell, as soon as you stood in her orbit, it was like she had known you all along. You were just an old friend that she hadn’t met yet.

Saying goodbye to my mom isn’t easy, but I think we can learn a lot from her about how to co-exist while we’re still here, and, I don’t know, maybe give each other a break. After all, we’re all just trying to get by on the same spinning rock, even if society insists on divisiveness despite that fact.

The world is undeniably a worse place now that my mom isn’t in it. I can’t be convinced otherwise. But maybe, just maybe, if we borrow a lesson from her and try a little harder to see the good in people, cultures, and lifestyles we don’t resemble, understand, or even believe in, maybe, eventually, it’ll be okay again. I think we owe it to her to try.

The truth is, I’ve learned a lot from my mom in the 52 years I got to spend with her, even if I rejected her ideas when I was younger. I’d also like to think she picked up a positive thing or two from me as well. I know my mom wouldn’t want me to be cynical, not about her death, not about the world, but sometimes, frankly, I can’t help that. I think she would understand that struggle. Mom and I didn’t always agree, certainly not about religion or music, obviously. Still, ultimately, we saw eye-to-eye where it mattered, quietly choosing to respect each other’s positions – knowing neither of us was ever going to change the other anyway -- and we moved forward with what we could agree on, and that was that we loved each other, enjoyed each other’s company, and that was, by and large, all we needed. It’s really all any of us requires of our people. I guess if there’s any wisdom to offer here, it’s that.

I spent a lot of time with my mom after she got sick. The day before she died, she told me she cherished that. I was admittedly taken aback, like kind of blown away. There she was lying in a hospital bed, circumstances dire, arguably in the worst possible position a person can be, and part of her was still enjoying the added time the two of us got to spend together. She also told me that she was proud of the things I’ve done and that it was cool to be my mom. That was such a modest declaration considering that I never, not in a million years, would have ever achieved any of the positive successes I’ve had in my life had it not been for her unwavering care, love, and influence. If it were cool to be my mom, that’s only because she was a cool mom and gave me the freedom to express myself in unconventional ways. And I’m struggling knowing that I don’t get that anymore. I’m angry about it. Probably will be for a while. Listen, I don’t know about there being any sort of afterlife, some grand spot beyond the mortal coil for people like my mom to dwell for all of eternity. That was certainly one thing for which Mom and I always disagreed. All I can say is I’ve been wrong before, and I’ll be wrong again. And, if it means that my mom is out there somewhere, feeling happy and fulfilled, I certainly wouldn’t mind if now was one of those times.

Mary Katherine Adams

10/3/1948 - 6/1/2026