Today, July 1, 2011 marks the 100th anniversary of my Mom's birth. Catherine Newland Shaw was born on July 1, 1911 in the Bronx, New York. My Dad, Hugh O'Donnell Shaw was also born 100 years ago, on April 15, 1911. It has taken too many years to realize that most of my interests, my traits, my strengths came from my parents. I developed all of my weaknesses and my oddities totally on my own. On too many occasions I find myself telling myself that I should have done more for them, that I should have told them more how I loved them, how I should have visited and called more. But then I realize
that this process is a little bit of God's order. Whatever I failed to do with my parents, I can try my best to make up with my own kids and grandkids.
Mom and Dad were married 70 years ago this week, on June 28, 1941 in a double ceremony with Mom's sister Ethel and Emil Caputo, who later
became my godparents. The Newland and Shaw families lived on Decatur Avenue in the Bronx, and although some of the kids played together, for 
some reason Catherine and Hugh didn't meet until their twenties, when Teresa Shaw (Sister Teresa Gerard) suggested that Catherine get a ride from her brother Hugh to the convent in Sparkill NY.
The word I most associate with my Dad is "work". Dad was always working, and at one time had three jobs simultaneously, without letting the other employers know. When I was young, I resented the fact that he didn't have time to play catch with me or go see me play in a game. As I got older, this turned to a better understanding and admiration 
for what it took to raise five children. Dad was a mechanical engineer who specialized in heating and air conditioning. He seemed to move from one location to the next, apparently because he had a habit of telling management what he really felt about their decisions that affected his men. Two jobs I recall were as chief engineer at the new and unique Pan American terminal at Idlewild Airport (now the Delta terminal at JFK). He would take me there on Sunday mornings, and allow me to walk on the brand new PanAm 707 jets that flew overseas. I helped myself to the sleeping masks and slippers given to the first class passenegers. Dad's final job was as the chief engineer at Radio City Music Hall. In typical fashion for native New Yorkers, I never visited Radio City until I returned as a tourist about ten years ago, 30 years after Dad retired. Another irony is that Radio City was Ryan's employer when he performed in their Christmas show twice.
Dad was an intelligent man, who finished high school at 12 in Scotland. When his father came to New
York to start a soccer team, Dad had to repeat the same courses in a city school in order to get a NYC diploma. He was a voracious reader, who used his own form of speed reading to read two books a day, one on the subway coming home, and one at night. On Sundays, he finsished the New York Times crossword puzzle, in ink, without any reference material and rarely a blank space. He constantly shared trivia with us as we went on our 
mandatory drives every Sunday to one relative's house or another. When he wasn't working at night, Charles (not "Charlie", since no nicknames were allowed in our house), Dad and I would watch the Yankee games on WPIX-11, although we didn't have a TV in our house more years than we did have one. My first memory of baseball was him ranting about the fact that the Giants and Dodgers were leaving New York in 1957. When I reached my teenage years, he made up for missing my baseball games by taking me bowling with him, and some of my best memories were competing in several leagues with him, Cathy and Charlie.
Dad loved to travel with Mom, while Grannie stayed with us. But his idea of a good trip was one in which he drove 600 miles the first day. He would bring back fuzzy pictures that he turned into slides that he would show us on his Kodak Carousel, explaining what he thought each site might have been, if he had only stopped for a view. I never saw him without a cup of coffee and cigarette at home. He smoked as he drove, and on the Sunday excursions, I sat right behind him. He thought he was flicking ashes out the window, that were actually flying in my face. Too many of these trips were delayed because of the need to stop the car so I could throw up, but I wasn't allowed to complain. Dad expanded his photography to Polaroid pictures, but we never saw any of them. He gave all the photos to the people he had shot. He later added 8 MM movies, and it was usually my job to hold the huge floodlights necessary to illuminate the room. I lost that job when I put down the hot light bar on the dining room table, and set the tablecloth on fire. Dad would have thrived in the age of digital cameras and mini camcorders. Dad and I nearly died in a car accident on Hillside Avenue in Queens, when a truck hit us head on. Although I was unconscious for a long time, nobody called an ambulance. Someone bought me an ice cream for treatment. Staying true to form, I promptly barfed it. Today I would have been kept in the hospital three days for observation.
Dad was old school. He would help anyone with a project, help a relative with a room addition after working a double shift or drop everything when someone needed a home repair. He worked like crazy to prepare for our home wedding reception in 1971, after Rosemary and I decided to save money by canceling the hall reception. But I don't recall any physical affection from him, can't recall him telling me that he loved me, and don't remember too many compliments about good school grades, which were just expected. I know better now that this was his strict upbringing. Show your love by helping people, by working hard to support your family, by being there when needed. I never recall him spanking me, but that may be only because his hand was tired from beating on Charles' rear end for some transgression or another. But scolding wasn't necessary for me. I behaved because I didn't want to let Dad down. That was enough motivation for me.
Dad has been gone for 37 years, but a day doesn't go by that I don't think about him. I realize now what a great father he was, how much he slaved and sacrificed for his family, and how he showed the deep love that he had for us in the best way he knew how. He died at 62 in his first year after his retirement, which became a motivator for me to retire on my 55th birthday, the first day I was eligible.
As much as Dad influenced me, I feel that Mother, or Mommy, or Mom was even a bigger influence. Mom grew up in a family of nine brothers and sisters, also with very strict parents, a methodical and starched banker father with English roots and a mother of German descent, whom I never recall smiling when I knew her. Catherine had thoughts of being
a nun, but ended up teaching in Catholic schools for ten years. She was a writer, whose penmanship, spelling and grammar were always perfect. (Or she would rip up the paper and start again.) Notes and letters were not a dead art for her, and I believe that if alive today, she would not be an email or Facebook user, and she would still crank out those flowing letters that we cherished so much.
I was the youngest of five, but she always made me feel that I was the only one. She never drove, so I went everywhere by bus with her, especially before I started school. I
even recall three trips I had to make to the hospital for broken arms and deep cuts, for which we had to take two city busses to get to Jamaica Hospital. ("May I have a transfer, please?" she asked the bus drivers as I bled on the bus stairs.) Although our house wasn't as serene as depicted on the "Leave it to Beaver" or "Ozzie and Harriett" TV shows, many images are similar in mind. Mom in her apron, cooking dinner, when we 
got home from school. Baking a layer cake on a Sunday afternoon. Making the coffee for Dad. Asking if we had done our homework. Worrying about Charles not getting home from school by dinner time. Hanging out the wash on the clothesline despite her bad shoulder that at times she dislocated, with great pain. Staying close with her brothers and sisters. Making room for a relative to sleep over, although our house only had one bedroom for the three girls, one big closet for the two boys, a bedroom for the parents that was also a storage room, and one bathroom for the seven of us. Never disagreeing with Dad in front of the kids. Celebrating my half-birthday with a cupcake and ice cream, just the two of us. Dad driving her to A&P on Saturday to buy the week's groceries, but only items that had coupons. Saving S&H Green Stamps, to be redeemed for a toaster later.
Thanksgiving was the family reunion for the Newlands. As we left, a
dozen cars would back up to each other, for the ritual of exchanging hand me downs. Each aunt could recite the exact lineage of every piece of clothing exchanged. Handing something from one generation to the next was considerd a major success. I had a slot car racing kit that I was given when I was about 13. It worked its way through multiple familes, still in working condition, until it came back to Ryan 30 years later. I joked to Mom that it was in good shape, except that a miniature driver, about the size of a gnat, was
missing. She said, "Wait, I have it", and promptly took down a teacup from her dish cabinet that contained that tiny man. Ryan played with that race set once, and then never played with it again. I didn't have the heart to tell Mother. I think I said I would save it to pass down to my great grandsons.
Mom was a faithful person and rarely missed Mass, even when the weather was bad or she could
barely walk. She supported the missions, even when she couldn't afford it. She didn't have to preach her faith to anyone; she lived it.
I don't recall that Mom ever told me what to do or not do, but I do remember her asking questions that had the weight of commands from a five star general. "Don't you think you should shovel the snow from the driveway, before Dad has to go out?" Once I was watching an "Untouchables" episode about a flapper girl that was racy by 1960's standards, and she she just said, "Do you think you should be watching that, Hugh?" TV Off. But you
knew that you were in deep doo doo when Mom said, "I have a bone to pick with you." She then gave me a few knee-shaking moments to think about why I was in trouble, and by then I was willing to confess to anything, including things my brother did and was blaming on me. She could smell a fib at 50 feet.
But mostly with Mom what I felt was loving concern, safety, comfort, steadiness, support, warmth, strength, care. Mother was a quiet and reserved person, but there was no question about who was in charge of the household. She devoted her time to her children, rarely wanted anything for herself. A night at church bingo was an extravagance. Socialization was limited to a visit to Aunt Muriel's, Aunt Ruth's or the convent to see Aunt Teresa or Aunt Nan. Two weeks at Roxbury, "the beach", each summer meant two familes with nine people in a space about as big as our den today. Her letters to Erin and Megan, and her calls with Ryan in her later years were precious to them. She had a lot of pain, endured three knee replacements, but rarely complained.
We were glad that Mom was able to make one trip to Florida to visit us and Charlie (still "Charles" to them) with Dad before he passed away. Later visits for First Communions, graduations and birthdays were super-special for our family. We didn't get to New York enough, but the kids always loved their time with Grandma when we made the journey.
I miss Mother every day. I now better understand how so many things that have turned out well for me were because of what she taught me, intentionally or through her good example. From your Easter Sunday baby, Happy 100th Birthday, Mom. I hope that Dad, Charlie, Grannie, Aunt Nan, Aunt Teresa and everyone in your family will bake you the best layer cake ever, and don't let you wear an apron!
For more of the story about my Mom and Dad, please see the photo album to the right, "Mother, 100 Years."
