Me & mom, 87th birthday celebration 2024.  I’m 62.

Me & mom, Thanksgiving 2020.  Mom’s 83.

Accidental recreation of their third date photo on their 55th anniversary, the day after dad turned 80.  I’d taken them to the seafood restaurant at Matheson Hammock near the flagpole he’d legendarily proposed to her.

Third date with dad when he gave her that cigarette lighter on the table engraved with both their names.  Realizing the significance of that she married him within six months.

The poetess in her eighth grade graduation photo.

EUBITUARY: At her funeral the rabbi relayed that my father’s epithet was “Beloved by All,” and when asked what she wanted on her marker she had, for once, no words. I do. “Admired by All.” Overcoming fear despite childhood adversity she was both popular and a lifelong advocate. Between her intellect and reputation for discretion she became the go-to person to solve everyone’s personal and legal problems. A cerebral tomboy in her youth and brilliant writer in her teens. A bibliophile and honors graduate who chose law over fashion. A legal secretary turned office manager as her firm evolved into a top criminal law practice. Pursued at midlife by universities to teach and study, one waived its requirement for a bachelor’s degree to fast track her into law school. But she sought a greater challenge teaching herself higher math and computer programming to become a successful at-home investor. By night she got dinner on the table by six and ran dad’s business, serving life lessons with a side of brisket. Sharp to the end, she helped and inspired innumerable souls.  She joins my father’s now. Despite her lifetime of service, the funeral turnout was modest. By 88 your peers are either dead or unable to travel, your family scattered to the wind, your confidants deserted because you know too much, and the recipients of your largess moved on. What those of us who remain can do, is remember. As a teen, mom was told she wrote like Dorothy Parker. I close with a quote, not from Tennyson’s “Charge of the Light Brigade” which originally fueled her love of literature, but this excerpt from a poem she wrote on another April day, in 1956, which I think better sums up my mother Sheila, who began life with fear yet grew to fear nothing: “When I was just a little girl and evening came too soon, I cried my fright into the night and never met the moon. Now I’m no more a little girl and age has changed my plight: I greet the sun with downcast eyes and rush the covering night.”

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Riverside Gordon Memorial Chapels at Mount Nebo/Kendall Memorial Gardens

Sheila Rosenson

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AVIS DE DÉCÈS

Sheila Gwenn Rosenson

13 février 1937 – 17 avril 2025

Riverside Gordon Memorial Chapels at Mount Nebo/Kendall Memorial Gardens

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AVIS DE DÉCÈS

Sheila Gwenn Rosenson

13 février 1937 – 17 avril 2025

Riverside Gordon Memorial Chapels at Mount Nebo/Kendall Memorial Gardens

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