It Seems to Me...

By Mary M. McCullough

An eclectic collection of writings by Mary M. McCullough. Born June 21, 1896 and passing June 6, 1996, she was a witness to all the social political, and economic upheavals and changes of the 20th century. Her writings date from 1924 to approximately 1988, and include poetry, essays, prayers, short stories and histories, and musings. While many describe family and close friends, the topics have broad appeal. Some of her pieces will make you laugh, others could bring you to tears. Her chapter on "Grieving" reads like a howaEUR"to for those who are experiencing the loss of a spouse or other loved one. Her essays are poignant commentaries on the changing world in which she lived. She was in many respects ahead of her time in her thoughts and how she lived her life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781642987935

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It Seems to Me...

Mary M. McCullough

Copyright © 2018 Mary M. McCullough

All rights reserved

First Edition

Page Publishing, Inc

New York, NY

First originally published by Page Publishing, Inc 2018

ISBN 978-1-64298-791-1 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64298-793-5 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

The Mawhinney Family

Left to right: Daddy Jack, Pom Pom, Frank, Mary, Clarence, and Bill

Pom Pom at Forsyth Place, ELO

Mary and Skip, September 1974

Tige

Mary with Punchy

Jane in her garden in Massachusetts University. Massachusetts in background.

Skip with Freddie

Mary and George

Fiftieth wedding anniversary

Foreword

It Seems to Me is a compilation of the writings of my grandmother whose life spanned nearly the entire twentieth century. During her life, she witnessed the triumphs, wonderments, and horrors of probably the most traumatic century in the history of mankind, a century where individuals, both famous and infamous, affected the lives of millions and continued to be reflected in the attitudes and perceptions we hold today.

These thoughts that she put on paper are her reflections of what was happening all around her. Some are very personal and involve only family members. However, I feel there is a sense of commonalty to which all can relate in one way or another as we all share essentially the same emotions. Her writings start soon after her marriage to my grandfather in 1920. He had been working at the Charleston, West Virginia, Naval Ordnance Plant during World War I. As an electrician, he was especially needed in the armaments industry and had been hospitalized due to an infection to his arm. He met my grandmother who was a young RN there.

He said she cured him with her charm and beauty. The doctors were toying with the idea of an amputation at the time.

My grandmother was very well educated having had, by 1918, a total sixteen years of formal education, a rarity for women at that time, and this is evident in her writings and her usually open-minded outlook on life. For the first few years of their marriage, she was essentially a housewife. In 1936, after a disastrous fire destroyed my grandfather’s business, at the encouragement of one of my grandfather’s suppliers, she entered in the business with him doing all the office work and managing their retail store. The business prospered as the general economy improved and continued until 1974 when my grandfather died. Grandmother did keep the store open for about a year after George’s death but found that it was not the same without him. After closing the store, she busied herself even more in civic activities, including working as a volunteer at Meals on Wheels assembling food packages for the elderly folks in the community, many of whom were younger than her.

My grandparents never really seemed old to me until my grandmother approached her nineties. I can even recall my grandfather commenting at about age seventy-five when asked why he was not a member of the golden-agers that he did not think he was old enough to join.

Some of her later writings have overtones of existentialism, which came to the forefront more after George’s death, partly because of me encouraging her to read some of the works of Antoine De Saint-Exupéry.

Her interests were many. She read avidly, often several books a week. She enjoyed gardening, music, and theater and was active in all on the local scene. She was very involved in a number of civic activities. When she had found the time to write, I do not know, but she left us with a glimpse of her life and of the lives of those around her.

Acknowledgments

A sincere thank-you to all the individuals who, after having read various portions of this collection of my grandmother’s writings, have encouraged me to pursue its publication. A special recognition must be extended to Mrs. Pat Neely and Mrs. Bernice Monter for taking the time to proofread the typed manuscript and to note corrections as needed. Both commented to me that they had to have a box of tissues at their side while working on it, as both were deeply touched by some of the pieces, and I hope they do likewise for you, the reader.

Skip McCullough

Chapter 1

It Seems to Me . . .

Mary M. McCullough writes her opinions and reactions to the events around her and that have affected her life.

December 1950

We are always willing to give credit to people who face death courageously, forgetting that the real courage is to go on living.

I am not thinking of that type of bravery our boys in service show under fire but rather that of the lives of the vast majority who are striving to make the best of things one monotonous day after another.

Think of the fortitude it takes to stand by helplessly while young people make the old mistakes and to feel our uselessness and know that our little efforts are but a drop in the ocean.

Our insignificant victories and our overwhelming disappointments, as we watch the senseless waste of talent, love, and life.

To go on living, freeing the pettiness, the selfishness, and the ignorance of those we care for knowing at the same time we are no different.

Think of the courage it takes to stand the noise, the unrest, and the thousand little irritations of each day.

How simple it would be to lie down and let sleep envelop us forever. Certainly, it would require no courage to have death wrap one in his cloak of forgetfulness. How sweet and how easy to sink into oblivion, to drop the cares and worries of the day and know the blessed peace that sleep can bring.

The hard thing, the courageous thing, is to go on living, accepting the cheapness and the sameness, the indifference, and the insincerity of those we trust. Keeping our head up and our back straight while memories of other times break our heart anew each day.

July 7, 1951

It seems to me . . .

That women who work for a living and have only a limited time to devote to housework are often more keenly conscious of the thrills and rewards that come from making a home than the housewife who has all her time to devote to the task.

The small things that she might take for granted, or which with repetition, have become only another chore and can be an adventure to one who gets to experience them only occasionally.

Lately, I had a whole day at home, something in itself to be treasured; and fortunately, it was one of those heavenly days that come but rarely.

The sun was warm and bright, and a cool gentle breeze brought the scent of newly cut grass and the fragrance of roses from the garden.

I stripped down my bed to the bare mattress: sheets, pillowcases, pad, covers, even the nice old quilt that my mother had made years ago.

Down to the laundry and into the washing machine went everything. The machine splashed happily, building up a mountain of iridescent bubbles. A great tub of cool clear water for rinsing, sparkling and eager to reduce the suds to its proper level.

Out to the yard, the grass beautifully green and springy underfoot. The clothesline drawn between two huge old oak trees, everything was hung up neatly and in rotation just as my mother always did. I remembered that it was always a family joke that the clothes would not dry properly unless they were hung just so.

So there, they were swaying gently in the dappled sunshine.

Late afternoon, everything was taken in, all smooth and white and without a single stroke of an iron to desecrate the loveliness of the day captured by the sheets and covers of my bed, in the warmth of the sun, the coolness of the breeze, and the fragrance of the flowers.

I was encased in beauty and almost against my will. Because I wanted to hold onto the feeling of peace and well-being, I drifted off to dreamless sleep. Such a simple thing to give so much pleasure.

We who work have so little time to enjoy the homely things; success in our careers becomes all important and living becomes mechanical. We pay someone else to keep our house in order, our laundry comes back to us as stiff as cardboard, and often, our meals are prepared by another.

We might as well be living in a hotel while we pay others to do things our mothers and grandmothers took pleasure and pride in doing.

Simple joys indeed, but they brought a completeness to their lives that is lacking in the lives of many a successful career woman today.

It seems to me that a group of women banded together for some reason, be it a card club, a sewing circle, or a study group, can be most intolerant, unsympathetic, and critical.

They get to know each other very well over a period of time, and just as familiarity breeds contempt, so does association within the small group breed a feeling of ease. A feeling that here is one place where you can let your hair down, you do not have to put up a front, and you can be yourself. I might even say your nastiest self.

When will women realize that they are putting their real personalities on display, be it to their friends, or so-called friends, that they say things that ordinarily they would only think?

They think it sounds clever to make disparaging remarks about acquaintances, and human nature being what it is, the group applauds the clever phraseology and thereby becomes as guilty as the speaker. As someone on the sideline, you are exposing your smallness, narrow-mindedness, selfishness, jealousies, egotism, and discontent.

It is the woman who does not talk much, who is inclined to listen, whom you will find has the big heart and open mind. When she talks, it will be because she has something worthwhile to say, which adds to the conversation. It will never be a clever remark that would hurt someone’s feelings either present or absent.

There are not enough of her kind in the world, but there would be more if someone would occasionally decide to listen into one of those close little groups. Listen and learn how many of your mends have dirty little minds, mends who talk but do not say anything. Friends who by their unguarded conversation tell you