When Lynnie's Happy, I'm Happy...

 

Ice Cold

Thursday February 3, 2022 was a stay-at-home day in Saint Louis. It was seven degrees outside our Creve Coeur apartment. I was expected to teach special education classes remotely. Lynn cleared with her employers at Garbanzo Mediterranean Fresh and Colleen’s Cookies. The weather, staffing issues and Covid-19 would mean no work on this icy Thursday. Ice was everywhere and blanketed by snow. Plows only made parking lots and streets marginally passible. It didn’t surprise me that Lynn didn’t get out of bed. Even as I peaked into our room she seemed to be getting much needed rest. I checked more carefully by mid-afternoon. I touched her leg. She was ice cold. The shadow over her face was a purple hue. The 9-1-1 voice instructed me to get her to lie flat and do chest compressions until the response team from Police and EMT could arrive.

I went through the first three stages of grief in about sixty seconds. “This cannot be happening” (Denial). “Come on Lynn, you gotta get up” (Anger). “Please God, give us a miracle recovery…” (Bargaining).

“I’m sorry for your loss.” What? “She’s gone.” The horrible news is delivered. I am stunned. Now they want to know if there is anyone they can call for me. They want to know if I needed a priest or a rabbi or clergy. Shaare Emeth is just down the street on Ballas. The Canter Seth Warner was in the neighborhood and arrived quickly. I was pacing and in a fog. Canter Warner says, “I’m here to support you and I am not leaving until you SIT DOWN.” It was some minutes before I could sit down. Lynn’s cell phone rings and it is my wonderful mother-in-law. (Lynn had been preparing biscotti and treats for her mom’s 91^st birthday in 11 days - Saint Valentine’s Day Feb 14). I picked up the phone and knew I had to break this news to her. She was the first person in our family network to know. Toby was moved to tears but her strong character prevailed. She immediately offered a final resting place at Temple Beth Miriam Cemetery next to Lynn's beloved father Dr. Samuel Stevens.

Bopp Funeral Chapel was called to handle the body in Saint Louis and arrange to fly my wife to New Jersey. Toby was on the case for funeral service arrangements at Bloomfield-Cooper Chapel. Meanwhile Canter Seth Warner invited me to a youth service at Shaare Emeth on Friday Night in Saint Louis. Lynn Morgan was honored with mentions at the beginning and end of the service. Our kids (Lindsey and Ben) were able to use Zoom to view the service.  I was there live. Shabat Shalom.

Fire + Ice

Some say the world will end in fire

Some say in ice

From what I’ve tasted of desire

I hold with those who favor fire

But if it had to perish twice

I think I know enough of hate

To say that for destruction ice is also great

and would suffice.

Upon hearing of Lynn’s passing my brother and his wife drove from Cleveland to St. Louis (about 650 miles) to be with me on Saturday night. Dan and Annette arrived after 7:00 pm at which time we settled by the comfort of the fireplace at the Cheshire Inn lobby. It was here in the cozy old English tutor surroundings that we appreciated the warmth of the fireplace. Dan and Netti and I agreed stay on that setting and ordered food from the hotel restaurant. We had our picture taken with a cell phone in front of three Andy Warhol silk screen portraits of Queen Elizabeth. She has been Queen since 1952 – 70 years. I noted later that it was 1952 when the Queen of our family Toby (a.k.a.TR and Toto) married Dr. Samuel Stevens.

Dan and Netti invited me to join them on Sunday at the Cathedral Basilica for mass at 10:00 a.m. This was a mass celebrating the consecrated life with the Archbishop of Saint Louis Mitchell T Rozanski.

After mass, I tricked Dan and Netti into following my car to breakfast at Art Hill and the Saint Louis Art Museum. Here the snow and ice was perfect for sledding Saint Louisans.

Fire and Ice by Robert Frost. 

Lynn with her mother (the matriarch, Toby Stevens) and her sisters Debra and Randy in November 2021

Lambert Airport to Newark Liberty International

The Intrepid, The Met and The Great Lawn in Central Park with Ben

I got the VIP treatment. Flight arrangements on United Express with and a Group A boarding pass. I had a window seat number 3 on the plane this Wednesday morning, February 9, 2022. My son Ben confirmed that I would be at Gate A Baggage Claim. Ben suggests that a quick trip to New York City and a museum might be do-able. I loved that idea. We settle on The Met as our destination. Traveling in his BMW comfortably, in spite of traffic, it is a thrill to see Skyscraper National Park again and pass midtown to the upper west side and the Intrepid Sea Air and Space Museum on the pier and make our way past his old neighborhood on Amsterdam Avenue. He artfully pulls into a parking garage on 83^rd Street and we walk enthusiastically a couple of short blocks to the Met, climb the steps to the doors that clearly spell out that the museum is closed on Wednesday. No worries, we admire a sculpture, Unidentified Object 1979, by Isamu Noguchi (1904–1988) one of the twentieth century’s most important and critically acclaimed sculptors. We walked to the Great Lawn in Central Park where I was able to confirm Ben and Allison (and James) address to Sayed’s wife. Sayed, the owner of the Garbanzo Mediterranean Fresh and one of Lynn’s employers wanted to send flowers. “She was one of the restaurant’s best employees” his wife offered. That little side trip was such a joy.

The VIP treatment continued at 28 Dorset, Ocean, NJ compound and Ben and Allison opened their house to cousins, kids, and soon a contingent of Morgans (My brother Greg and his boys, Wes and Matt and my youngest brother Rob). James came home from school to a variety of play and eventually dinner that included Ben’s special Mac and Cheese. My daughter Lindsey, her husband Chris and their remarkable 5 ½ year old Lawton would be my ride to dinner at the Deal Lake Bar + Co. The Morgan posse joined us so that we could monopolize the table. Uncle Greg was quick to pick up the check that included three orders of Deep Fried Oreos. A rented SUV with Five Morgans driven by Uber Greg was my shuttle back to 28 Dorset before they headed back to their hotel.

The moveable-feast continued on Thursday as more family descended on the compound at 28 Dorset in anticipation of services at Bloomfield-Cooper Chapel and Internment beginning at 11 a.m. the next day, Friday February 11, 2022.

"

Note: "When Lynnie's Happy I'm Happy. When Lynnie's Mad...I'm Scared." is a quote from David P. Drimer when he shared a rented house with Lynn Stevens and Rickie Rose in Miami. I loved that quote and the memory of a time before we were married. Married in 1980, we shared a lot. I know I was happy most of the time during our marriage which was going on 42 years. Now. she is buried next to her father in Neptune, NJ, Dr. Samuel Stevens who died in August of 1993. (She lit a yahrzeit candle in his memory every August since). 

I cannot say enough about the overwhelming love and support I feel from our kids (Lindsey and Ben) and their respective spouses and, of course, the generation of Lawton and James)

Lindsey Dewey post from Feb 2022

When I close my eyes and think about my mom I see her sitting outside our house in St. Louis, sunglasses on, hair held back by a bandanna, eyes closed and face toward the sun.

I close them again and I see her standing on the tennis courts at Raleigh Racquet Club, racquet bag on her shoulder, chains around her neck catching the glimmer of the sun.

Just one more time I close my eyes, perhaps a glutton attempting to recall a long-forgotten story or memory, and I see her hands filled with tomatoes or peppers, maybe even raspberries after a quick trip to the garden to asses the growth, harvesting products of a partnership between the earth, the rain and the sun.

The images are fairly consistent. My mom was pretty consistent. She was consistent in her day, waking before the sun, working, grocery shopping, home in time for General Hospital and to prepare a bite for dinner before turning in, often times before we were even home from work. She was consistent in her styling, when she and my dad met, tennis whites day and night and as her focus shifted to raising us, always function over fashion, tshirts and hoodies, leggings and headbands, sweaters or a sheer overlay if the occasion arose. She was consistent in sharing her love, verbally with a “love you schnuckie” or on social media with a big red heart or the words “my whole heart,” mailed baked goods and tchotchkes carefully wrapped and sometimes a new bill or two from “her friend at the bank” addressed to the littlest loves who completely stole her heart.

Beyond what I can see when I close my eyes and what we all could expect—my mom could be heard (without fail) before she entered a room, a home, heck—the beach club. When she had an opinion, it was known—she often spoke before she thought—and as the equally stubborn daughter of a fiercely opinionated mother, not only was I on the receiving end of countless unfiltered comments, I was the beneficiary of her advocacy more times than I could count. I’m sure we all have a story, mine happens to have been in the Kleinfeld’s Bridal Salon—when I came out in a gorgeous lace dress and her first comment was “uch, you’re not going to get married in that...” In the moment, I was crushed, but looking back, I now know she was leading with her heart, it just took me until I was a mom myself to understand this unbridled desire to do or say anything that (in her eyes) was to protect her kids. My mom taught me how to use my voice, how to direct my voice and while most of the time our opinions were not in alignment—I find so much comfort in understanding now that her intent was never intended to hurt, she was always looking out for our best interest.

My mom lived her life to make the lives of others easier. Nothing she ever did was solely for her own benefit. It didn’t matter how many times we encouraged her to do for herself, making time even for a haircut or a night out took a back seat to cheering at Ben’s football games or baking for a loved ones birthday, holiday or celebration. She was well into her 50s before I remember her ever getting her nails done. Her mind held an almost encyclopedic catalog of events. It was rare anything slipped though a crack—and if it did, she was certain to over-correct to prevent any such lapse in care. I remember one such morning, my sophomore year in college…I was in Charlotte, North Carolina and a frantic call from Dad in St. Louis (a call I would not have been awake for—had there not been an hour time change) stating Ben was ready to go to school…but mom had forgotten to pack his lunch. In my revisionist history, packing Ben’s lunch was not an overly complex task—a bagel with cream cheese, peanut butter crackers, pringles, a string cheese, maybe some fruit snacks? But, alas, she hadn’t packed it the night before and there dad was scrambling in the kitchen to get something in a brown bag. The next morning…and for many mornings to come…there was not one brown bag on the top shelf of the fridge, but two…one behind the other, just to make sure school lunch was never a reality.

These truths didn’t just extend to her family—for someone so stubbornly convinced that St. Louis would never be home, she collected loyal friends and fans, people who would go out of their way and pass 4 other coffee shops to grab their drink from Lynn, who’d have already started their “usual” as their car pulled in to the parking lot. My mom wasn’t just our biggest fan, she became our friends biggest fans too. In the stands her voice did just cheer for us, she cheered for all of our friends. On Friday nights, she wasn’t just worried about us, she was worried about all of our friends. As we aged that cheering turned to asking about our friends jobs and families and ‘Mama Mo’ genuinely wanted to know. There were so many instances of these acts, but just This week, a friend shared a memory I hadn’t before known. One of my former “kids,” a young adult she had met maybe once or twice before, was on a weeks-long bus tour with a performance group…on their stop in St. Louis (a show my dad attended, but I believe was past Lynn’s bedtime) my mom navigated their theater location, found their bus and delivered fresh baked goods to these guys weeks into their tour and with many weeks to go before returning to their own moms and home cooked sweets. It’s just who she was—if it was important to us, it became important to her.

My parents love was not the simple and easy kind of love. It was the hard and genuine love, the love worth working for—because the love always outweighed the hard. Ben and I are so incredibly lucky to have learned this truth of about love—that when it really matters, it is worth working for. Growing up, there was a copy of The Night Before Christmas in our home, a simple and careful inscription reading something to the effect “Wes, one day your children will enjoy this more than mine will. Always, Lynn” 42 years later, not only have their children enjoyed that book together—but their grandchildren will learn from the careful and intentional balance and partnership we should all be lucky to have in our lives. As Lawton asked just a few nights ago, “Mommy, how long are we going to be sad?” I could only reply honestly—we’re going to be sad for a while…and we are also going to be really, really happy. It’s okay to hold those truths concurrently and mom would want the moments of joy, at scoring a soccer goal, tasting a banana chocolate chip muffin or hearing just the right song on the radio to make us smile. We are all going to miss getting Grandma’s treats in the mail…but when we try our very best to recreate that recipe, make the matzah ball soup, or write a letter every SINGLE day to sleep away camp, we know it will hold her spirit and continue to bring soothing to this still-fresh shock and sustained comfort as we all continue to grow. May THIS be Gods will.