Eulogy for Sally Getty
March 21, 1920 to February 14, 2003
Sally Getty would have been 83 years old next month. So we who knew her and loved her had her for a long time. It still doesn’t feel long enough. Both of her children are firmly planted in middle age, but apparently when you lose a parent, no matter how old you are, you become a child again. And you look for your mommy, and she isn’t there. And that hurts.
But Sally Getty is a lot more about fun and smiles than hurt, and we want to share a little of that as we say good-bye today. She loved her family--her mother and sister Helen and brother Stanley, and her husband Gerry, with whom she just shared a 53rd wedding anniversary. And she loved her children Charlie and Vicky, her daughter-in-law Carol, and her grandchild Samantha. Speaking as her child, even during the inevitable times of not getting along so well, there was never a moment of my life when I doubted her love. Both of our parents have been so incredibly supportive of my brother and I. They were always there for Charlie, who excelled at his sports. But it says a lot about them that they were always there for me, too--even when I was warming the bench most of the time. They gave us both quality of time and quantity of time. And they gave us a good foundation in commitment to God and church family.
Sally Getty was about being a hard worker. Whether it was housekeeping, cooking, sewing, hospitality, or volunteer work, she worked hard and she worked until the job was done.
Another thing that is so impressive about my mother is how sociable and friendly she was, and I’ve always been impressed by the depth of the friendships she made. Of her very best friends, she knew one for 6 years, since moving here to Springfield--dear Tess; one for over 40 years from her life in Pompton Lakes, New Jersey--Elvira Budesheim, and they were crazy together; and one for over 70 years! They grew up together in Paterson, New Jersey, and stayed close all their lives, and that’s Mel Stephens, whom we call “aunt” and who is Charlie’s godmother.
Mom and her cronies are known for any number of crazy things, like the Gay 90’s parties they dressed up for, and trips to the shore, one of which included a trip to an emergency room because of a flying umbrella. My mom was fun! Even if she didn’t intend to be, like the time she visited the wrong person in the hospital. She was there hugging and kissing a stranger while the real Uncle Art watched and said nothing! As she often said, “I should write a book!” and she had the stories to do it, and she loved to tell them.
In addition to possessing a sense of fun and a positive attitude, Sally Getty was a woman who cared for people. She took wonderful care of an elderly neighbor, Mr. Schofield, for many years, and thereby found herself an adopted father and us an adopted grandfather. This was a woman who, in her 70s, still went to cheer the “old folks” in nursing homes. Actually, I always felt a little sorry for them, because Mom couldn’t sing any better than she could play pinochle--badly. But she did everything with enthusiasm and that’s why people knew her easily, remembered her, and just had to love her, from her colleagues from days working as a cashier in school cafeterias to the staff at the local Steak and Shake, who apparently know her by name, to clerks at the bank or grocery store to friends at jazzercise or senior aerobics at the YMCA. She was lively and friendly and she was dear.
And she could be cantankerous and stubborn...but that is part of what made her so strong. What happened on her last day here is a great illustration. In fact, her heart stopped three times Friday morning while only some of us were with her. But there was no way she was going to leave without her whole family being there, so she kept coming back until her son Charlie had time to arrive. Then we all held hands and prayed and only when Charlie said “Amen” did her heart stop for the final time. That’s our Sally--too stubborn to not be strong for her family. She was always there for us...and we were there for her. And we will miss her.
vmg Feb 2003