Anne B. Zaraza

Anne Zaraza, 86, died at Portland Adventist Hospital shortly before midnight on March 5th, as a result of Congestive Heart Failure and kidney failure. Born in Chicago, she was the daughter of the late Katarzyna and Jan Wojnarowski, immigrants from the Zywiec region of Poland. Anne married Joseph Zaraza on August 2nd, 1947, living most of her life in Chicago. From 1963 to 1975 she managed a card and gift shop, which allowed her to share her love of crafts with others. She used her artistry to brighten the lives of many through the gifts she created and distributed to family, orphanages, and nursing care facilities in the area.

In 1998 she and Joseph moved to Oregon, initially living in Gresham and belonged to St. Therese parish. In 2005 they moved to St Margaret’s Villa, where they lived until health considerations necessitated their move to St. Anthony’s Village Assisted Living facility in June of 2009.

Anne is survived by her husband of 62 years, Joseph, her son Ronald and his wife, Lynne Wehrman, and her grandson Derek and his wife, Jennifer Lanning.

A Funeral Mass will be celebrated at 11:00am, Friday, March 12, 2010 in St. Anthony’s Catholic Church, 3618 SE 79th Ave, Portland.

Remembrances to the Catholic Campaign for Human Development.

EULOGY:

While I was choosing pictures for my mom’s online memorial, I was shocked to see how quickly she changed in a short time these last few years. Realizing that most of you here have only know her a short time, or only met her a few times, I thought I would try to give you a broader image of the woman whose transition to eternal life we celebrate today.

Anne was the middle child of 5 born to two Polish immigrants living in Chicago. Born in 1923, she was to experience the Great Depression as a member of a large, blue-collar family – an experience that shaped her attitudes for the rest of her life. Her mother, only 4’ 8” tall, was the strength of the family, nurturing and providing the security. Her father was what we would now call a “high functioning alcoholic”. This brought even more insecurity and fear into Anne’s life, with sometimes debilitating effects later in life. It also developed in her strength and determination that matched her mother’s and kept her going through difficulties, her own and her family’s, later in life.

That may also have been what produced in her a very special characteristic. In Native American cultures, the coyote is seen as the trickster – playful, rather than malicious, but always playing practical jokes and letting a little air out those a little too full of themselves. Anne was clearly a Polish coyote. From age 5 or 6 until the last few weeks of her life, a twinkle would appear in her eyes as she would tease someone. She couldn’t resist it. No one was immune. When she worked at Arts Publishing in Chicago, where she met my dad, she constantly teased her “forelady”, as they were called then. Her forelady, Martha, who was Joe’s mom! That teasing went on for more than 50 years. Family, friends, a doctor, or the waitress at a restaurant, all were suitable targets for a gentle nudge, a clever trick. To the rest of the world, Anne seemed to be a somewhat reserved, dignified, and always appropriate lady. But, like the doctor who, during her hospitalization in January, told her she had to stay at least one more day, never realizing she’d stuck her tongue out at him as he turned and left, most never knew the Anne who loved fun, playing tricks, and just generally stirring things up.

That playfulness marked every aspect of her life. It was probably what made her so good dealing with kids. As I watched her playing with my son Derek, making up stories and games, getting down on the floor with him, my mind went back to the memories of her doing the same thing with me. All of my cousins had the same experience, and continued to have a very different relationship with her than with their other aunts and uncles. She was always the big kid in the group, with the playful joy of life. She, like my dad, was also a natural teacher. I was sick a lot in first and second grade. Extreme tonsillitis and every common childhood illness crammed into 20 months. Somehow, I never fell behind in school. That was because, when I’d be home in bed, my mom always would ask me what I was studying, and would go to school to get worksheets and assignments. When I was in second grade, I missed three days when the class was learning borrowing in subtraction. My mom hadn’t gone in that time, but decided it was time I learned it, so she taught me. When I returned, the teacher gave the class a test on it and told me I didn’t have to do it. I said I would try. Out of 63 kids, only 3 passed the test. I got a perfect score. The teacher thought I was a math genius. I never told her I had a better teacher. Whatever she was doing, whether crafts , math, or writing, she had a knack for teaching others to do it.

Doing craftwork was a lifelong passion with her, ranging from making plastic artificial flowers long before they were sold in stores, through a period where her kitchen doubled as a candle factory, then making hundreds of Christmas ornaments (most of which she gave away), through every imaginable craft. Every holiday there were hand-made gifts from Anne. Those crafts were an expression of her creativity, but also a way of reaching out and helping others. For years, always at Easter, but often at Thanksgiving and Christmas as well, my mom would plan a project. She would make hundreds of woven plastic Christmas gifts, or Easter baskets, fill them with candy, and then she and my dad would deliver them to, at first, orphanages, then, later, nursing homes. She wanted to do what she could do to brighten the lives of others. Concern for others was something she constantly talked about, and tried to live. The last time she did one of her Easter projects was when she was 79. She took her baskets to what she called the “old peoples home”, many of whose residents were younger than her.

My mom was strongly protective of her family, nuclear and extended. This, in part, was why my cousins gave her the one nickname that stuck for most of her life. Dragon Lady. Try to pull the wool over her eyes, be you family or merchant, and gentle Anne looked right through you with a stare that could burn through steel. Try to do something that she thought could bring you harm, and Dragon Lady let you know that that wasn’t going to happen. But behind it all was a need and desire to protect those she loved. And there was no one she loved more than Joe, her husband of 62 years. And the intensity of that love was reciprocated. In the last five years, both have spent more time in the hospital than they would have wanted to. Every visit to Anne in the hospital, after a quick hello, would follow with the question “How’s Joe doing?” When Lynne or I’d leave, we’d be sent off with “Don’t worry about me, just take care of Joe”. If my dad was in the hospital, the names were changed, but the dialogue was the same.

Watching their love persist, grow and deepen as their lives changed, and their roles in their marriage changed, was a priceless gift for me. But the gift from my mother that I am most grateful for is that, while many of her life decisions and actions were constrained by the fears and insecurities she brought from her childhood experience, she insulated me from them in raising me, and did not pass those on to me. Instead, she passed on a sense of hope, love, and joy for life and loving others.