Mary K. Nachtwey

SPRINGFIELD -- Mary Katherine Nachtwey, 88, died peacefully at home in Springfield on November 15. She was surrounded by her ten children and most of her 14 grandchildren. Mary was under Hospice Care from St. John's Hospital, which also supported the passing four years earlier of her husband Dr. Robert Nachtwey. They were married 60 years. The family will receive friends on Tues November 17, 2009 from 4 to 8 pm at Kirlin-Egan & Butler Funeral Home, 900 S.6th St., Springfield. A prayer service will begin at 4 pm, followed by a celebration of Mary's long and rich life. Memorial contributions may be made to: Sacred Heart Griffin Scholarship Fund, 1200 W. Washington, Springfield, IL 62702; St Martin de Porres Center, 1725 S. Grand Ave., East, Springfield, IL 62703 or Edwin Watts Southwind Park Project, 2500 S. 11th St., Springfield, IL 62703. A funeral mass will be held at 10 am on Wednesday, November 18, 2009 at Christ the King Catholic Church, 1930 Barberry, Springfield with Rev. Msgr. David S. Lantz, celebrant. Burial will follow in Calvary Cemetery. Mary was born July 20, 1921, in LaCrosse, WI, to Moritz & Mary Kerndt. She grew up as a tomboy in Lansing, IA, with three older brothers: Jim, Tom, and Gus. As a bright and energetic young woman, Mary attended Clark College in Dubuque, IA. She transferred to Marquette in Milwaukee, WI, to earn her business degree, with special interest in time and motion studies. During WWII she learned to fly an airplane, planning to help the women's WW II home front effort. After the war, she married her childhood sweetheart, Robert, at Basilica of the Sacred Heart at the University of Notre Dame. They moved to Rochester, MN, where their first three children were born. In 1951, they moved to Springfield and quickly made it their home. Through the years, even with her own large brood, Mary always made room in her heart and home for others of all ages and walks of life. At age 77 she received a computer from her grandson, and learned to use email for keeping in touch with her large family and many friends. Mary is survived by her children: Jim Nachtwey of Springfield (wife Karen); Fred Nachtwey of Berkeley, CA (wife Julie); Mary Louise Nachtwey of Springfield; Elizabeth Nachtwey of Nelson, BC (husband Stephen Collens); Susan Tinguely of Farmington, ME (husband Gerry); Greg Nachtwey of Berkeley, CA (wife Esther Hirsh); Matt Nachtwey of Springfield; Nancy Nachtwey of Oakland, CA; Kate Nachtwey of Ukiah, CA; and Julie Innes of Seattle, WA (husband David) and their families. Mary is also survived by her brother, Jim, who is a Trappist Monk in Dubuque, Iowa. In addition, she is survived by her sister-in-law, Patricia Kerndt of Lansing, IA, as well as nine Kerndt nieces and nephews: Trish, Cathy, Gus, Tom, Peter, Margaret, Susan, Gretchen and Jim and their families. Eulogy for Mary K. Nachtwey Perhaps the most frequent question I still get as an adult is "Ten kids? How did your Mother do it? " Sometimes when observing those wide eyes and open mouths, I've had the vague sensation of being stalked by an over zealous listener who's genuinely taken aback - as the conversation locks onto what seems an implausible, herculean feat. Incredulous, those eyes bore into mine to make sure they've heard it right. "Ten?" "Yes", I reassure them, "ten". "But howwhathow did it workthat's really not possible - is it?" Seizing the high ground to bask in the glory that was solely Mother's doing, ignoring the fact that my own self-centeredness and childish inconsideration is one of the ten big reasons for this being a remarkable achievement, I respond with off-hand matter-of-factness tinged with defiance that this is all I know - so how can this be so out of the ordinary? "Well it is extraordinary" shoots the glance, "and it's hard to believe that it's actually possible. You know, think about it?" So I assure my listener that I have given it some thought over the last fifty years, after all I'm not only a by-product but also a parent myself you know, this is simply the way it's always been and is, the cards dealt, the life given, and you can go over it only so many times before it takes on the pitiful groove of a broken record. After all, I might then ask myself a bit defensively, haven't I tried to be a considerate son? And as that record drones on, as I'm pushed further and further into a corner by an insistent, animated (and usually female) voice something in the pit of my stomach begins to hint that maybe I've missed a thing or two about the sacrifices of motherhood. "What were the mornings like - it must have been chaos?" "Well, the mornings were, I guess you're right, a little chaotic." "How did all the kids get to school? Did you ever get breakfast? What happened when one of the kids got sick? Oh my God, think of the after school activities! Girl Scouts, swimming teams, football basketball and baseball seasons, tennis lessons, class plays, piano lessons and recitals and all of that impossible driving! Was dinner eaten in shifts? How did your mother carry the groceries? No bevy of nannies? Where was your father during all of this? One of my earliest memories of Mother was when I was less than four years old. After slipping into the underbelly of her kitchen to seek out her secret stash of Sugar Pops, Frosted Flakes and Sugar Smacks, several of my toes lodged into the groove of the cabinet's sliding door. After numerous maneuvers to break free and flee had only worsened matters, the situation escalated into what many of us recognize as a full-scale four-year-old meltdown. Constable, judge and jury arrived in the form of my mother who quickly righted the situation, sternly admonished me for being so forward, applied the necessary band-aids and then, much to my surprise and delight, lifted me gently onto that old red high chair with the peeling paint. I can still remember Mother's sweet smell as she tended to me, for a full fifteen minutes, with extraordinary kindness and concern. Of course life wasn't always so tender. When one contemplates of all of the crosses that Mother bore for her children, it's easy to be overwhelmed by the sheer impossibility of maintaining law and order within our nuclear family. Like when brother James, who was then flaunting his new adolescence, was routinely expelled from the house for fifteen minutes at a crack to fully consider how his moose call taunts and demands for food - to be delivered promptly to his prime perch for the Packer's game - might incite a chorus of tears, recriminations and seditious pandemonium amongst his weaker siblings. Or when the phone call came that there was an eye witness account of Fred brandishing an ill-gotten bee-bee gun and firing with wild abandon until one of the bee-bees (predictably) pierced the windshield of a grumpy driver who then had the audacity to suggest he receive full compensation. My father, much to Mother's chagrin, paid right there on the spot with a handful of cold cash. And I can still smell the sweet scent of honeysuckle from that summer evening after a giant storm had blown through, and some of us were just sitting down to a spaghetti dinner. Suddenly Mary Louise appeared in the driveway - in the back seat of a police car. Apparently she was nabbed in the act on the banks of Pasfield Creek dredging thru the muck for a treasure trove of sparkling white Titlists after all, as Mother's obedient children we were far too frugal ever to pay full retail. Although Mother was shaken and spewed more than a few intemperate words, she was also sufficiently practical to admire her daughter's entrepreneurial spunk. As for Elizabeth, thank God that the forensic mechanics were never able to untangle just how fast she was accelerating down the Old Bruns Lane, when she inexplicably handed over the wheel to someone else - so she could attend to the really important matters of her make up, her girl friends' gossip in the back seat and that dreadful music blaring from the radio that just had to be changed. After all, she was on her way to orchestrate a big cheerleading pep rally and needed to be at her best. On the other hand, Mother learned every single unsavory fact about how Susan ignored her express directives after unilaterally deciding that she could surely drive Mother's new car surreptitiously into Tijuana for "just an afternoon", without inconveniencing herself with the unnecessary expense of a special international insurance premium. Who would ever know? Mother never stopped talking about the month long ordeal that unfolded in the aftermath of the car jacking and the interminable process of extracting its battered body and engine from the clutches of the Mexican authorities. One of my favorite quotes from Mother occurred when she was fast asleep. I had been just been apprehended by members of the Leland Grove police force and cited, in the pre-dawn hours, for a curfew violation. After I tiptoed into the master bedroom and whispered into my father's ear that he had several visitors downstairs, Mother shot into a vertical position with the unforgettable phrase "Good gravy Greg, now what have you done?" Realizing that the horse had long been out of the barn and that this was now a mere ministerial chore that could safely be delegated to her husband, she promptly dropped back into a deep sleep and my punishment didn't commence until after her first cup of coffee at 8 AM. One of Mother's most memorable sagas involved the spiritual lives of Matthew, Nancy and Kate. Eager to share their new found enlightenment, which had been recently honed on the other side of the globe, they convinced Mother to host "for a day or two" a celebrated East Indian Holy Man and scholar. Fr. Bede, who espoused the simplest life as the path of light, arrived with a large retinue, which we soon saw operated as the sadhu's appendages. To our father, who smiled about this episode until the day he died, this helpful crew was simply known as The Assistants. No problem attending to this large group, after all 1630 South Grand had been built to accommodate just this sort of overflow. But as the days droned on, and the Eastern contingent rediscovered such Western pleasures as spacious living quarters and the ease of being chaffered about in air conditioned automobiles, Mother began to openly consult her calendar and wonder aloud about the mystics' surely overcrowded itinerary. "No worries", she was advised, this crowd took life as it came and just wanted to "be". So the dishes piled up, the garbage pail became ripe, chanting was heard in the wee hours of the morning, incense was ubiquitous and burning day and night, and all the while, the locus of our parents lives constricted further and further into their bedroom. I'm not sure what brought it all to a head. Mother's sketchy but colorful version involved a vision of saffron robes floating over the Illini golf course until this long string of walking, praying and chanting eventually resulted in traffic jams with one perplexed foursome after another. Needless to say, after this episode finally resolved itself, Mother's attendance at Mass spiked upward, her reverence for the "real mystics" at New Mellary Abbey was enhanced and she no longer bothered herself with how the mighty wheel of Samsara might jive with the Stations of the Cross. Finally there's the baby of our family Sister Julie. After all those years of motherhood and the departures of nine of her children, it wasn't easy for Mother to let Julie go. Ever eager to keep up with her older siblings, Julie was by this time a college coed preparing to depart for her year abroad in the South of France. The logistics were daunting passports, visas, travelers checks, and securing local accommodations - not to mention safeguarding every ticket and other scrap of paper which, in those days, were essential for securing Trans-Atlantic passage. Although Mother was vexed by her youngest's refusal to adopt any of her time-tested organizational schemes, everyone's spirits soared as a handful of family members and friends gathered at one of those luxurious old Chicago hotels for the bon voyage. The big moment had finally arrived at a swanky restaurant celebration before an early morning departure. Yet on the walk back to the hotel something strange was happening. Where was Julie? Why had a subgroup splintered off so precipitously? Where were people running and why? When Mother turned her pointed questions to those who remained behind, she quickly realized she was being stonewalled with bland generalizations and shifty eyes. To make a long story short, after a litany of assurances and lame excuses served as a smoke screen for several frenzied hours of detective work, the money, passport and one-of-a-kind documents were eventually retrieved from a sleepy night watchman at a distant location - and no flights were missed. But the real story here is how in the interim Mother threw herself on the hotel sofa and anguished late into the night over all of the hard lessons that were yet to be learned, threatening to withdraw her consent for her final fledgling to wander out into the cruel world and then finally lashing out at the younger generation for their utter naivet about the responsibilities of adulthood. How could any mother allow her child to live alone halfway around the world after such a display of irresponsibility? Nevertheless, after a good night's sleep, all was forgiven and Mother was soon relishing copious amounts of air mail that regaled her with the curious customs of the French. One of the few times when Mother turned her back on one of her children goes something like this. Certain that the children were ensconced at home on Walnut Ave., under their father's watchful eye, Mother slipped off for a clandestine moment of private prayer at the Blessed Sacrament. Sometime between the Offertory and Holy Communion, a muffle arose within the congregation and was passed forward thru the pews. A little waif, still in her pajamas and with filthy blanket in tow, had apparently wandered into this Sunday High Mass and was now unabashedly strolling up and then down the center aisle sucking her thumb and quietly calling out for "MaMa". As Mother often later recalled, a bolt of lightening seized her spine when she recognized the little urchin as her own. Paralyzed by horror, the only thing to do was bury her face in her cupped hands and feign an extraordinary level of piousness until this interminable moment could pass. Surely all of this outward calm evaporated upon her return home when our Father proudly announced that his custodial duties in her absence had proceeded without a glitch. Yet all of this is surely nothing more than a sliver of Mother's full life, and focusing on "the ten kids" smacks of the tail wagging the dog. After all, long before her kids arrived on the scene she had been little Mary Katherine, the only sister of three big brothers. Daughter of an Iowa merchant and banking family who was raised along the remote banks of the northern portion of Mississippi River, this small-town childhood combined frugality and privilege so that she was the beneficiary of modest prosperity even during the depths of the Great Depression. What she offered up for public consumption to her children's generation was her longish tomboy phase and a certain pride in having earned a college degree in business administration. As we came to learn, Mary played college basketball and, to hear her tell the tale, was the first woman pilot to land an airplane atop one of the local landmarks near her hometown, Airport Hill. This makeshift and slipshod landing strip which lay in alfalfa fields above the sleepy little town of Lansing, Iowa, still offers up a sweeping view of unspoiled woodlands as well as an enormous ribbon of a river that stretches and wends its way southward. Nearly a decade before arriving in Springfield in 1951, Mary had moved nearly three thousand miles to Seattle to help with the war effort. It was during the War, when she was visiting family in the Midwest, that she received a telegram from Robert suggesting they rendez-vous in Chicago. Robert had less than two days leave from Army camp in Texas, before he would embark upon what ultimately became the D-Day invasion. Mary and Bob met, had lunch and then orbited the terminal for several hours, as they went off hand-in-hand to window shop at Marshall Fields, until she saw him off on the evening train back to Texas. I learned this story this past winter when I was with Moth in Chicago - and it was only after we had stumbled onto the old railroad station where she and Dad met. Mother's eyes swelled with emotion when she recalled Father's proposal, her acceptance and the mixture of joy, hope and terrible fear about what lay ahead in that uncertain world still haunted by Hitler. Surely the relief of just making it through the next several years contributed to both Mother and Father's zest for life when they were together again. As Mother said "I can't really explain why we had so many children so quickly. We were just so happy that the war was over." So we are here to celebrate the life of Mary Katherine Kerndt Nachtwey. Not because she was a saint which she wasn't. But because she was relentlessly caring, loyal, hard working, fun loving, honest and intelligent. Deeply religious, loving and with a strong sense of social justice she was also tenacious, quick-witted, fiery, feisty, sassy and infamously frugal. Seldom a wall flower, often opinionated but also open minded, this small woman genuinely loved people and took it upon herself to reach out to individuals from many walks of life. Our family CEO ran her household with both a warm heart and an iron fist. So certain was she of her ability to orchestrate her children with sheer will, she felt absolutely no need to construct a wooden fence upon the advice of a neighbor who watched helplessly as our brood descended into what was then our new neighborhood near Washington Park. So just who is this Mary Katherine Kerndt, turned Nachtwey, who's brought all of us here today? What were her most fervent hopes? What were her passions? None of us know for sure but what we all agree upon was that mother's strengths were her ability to bring diverse people together and her compassion for others. Mother's insatiable curiosity about the larger world inspired and encouraged each of her children to travel the world on a larger scale than she was able to do. She got vicarious pleasure from hearing of her children's adventures. She was also a voracious reader of news and contemporary social issues. Mother's inimitable personality and character inspires a multitude of emotions. It is my belief that the shared feelings and memories celebrated today are woven into a colorful tapestry that imprints our souls and permanently chronicles our highest human purpose. For it is this elaborate quilt of love, which has been spun over so many years and with so much raw emotion, and the sharing of sorrow at this bittersweet gathering, that helps us come together today to claim for ourselves, our families and our friends, that this beautiful transient and interconnected life is ours and ours alone. No amount of fame, no amount of outward accomplishment or success, no amount of knowledge or worldly gain can ever compensate for a failure to reach out, consecrate and validate those for whom we care. And although Mother's children surely occupy a number of different squares on her life's tapestry, each of her children recognizes that we have been only a small part of her day-to-day life for quite some time. Moreover, there's also no reason to spin this cosmic quilt thing too far. After all, there was absolutely nothing that Mother treasured more than simply yakking around a kitchen table with either neighbors, family friends or her girl friends over a strong cup of coffee. Think of all the mornings that started out with someone coming simply to drop something off, which were stretched by idle conversation or salty opinions. Although there was no shortage of gossip during these encounters, there was also a compassionate listener behind that no-nonsense exterior, as well as someone who was capable of dispensing, as well as receiving, both earthy and sage advice. Words, personal connections and an intense desire to roll with the punches of every day life were paramount. In the grand arena of enjoying day-to-day life, Mother was second to none. This ceaselessly curious, home spun woman thrived not only on the opportunity to hear someone else's life story but also to regale them with her own. As one of my siblings aptly noted - surely the muscle most toned and limber after all of those years of aerobics, swimming, and cardiac rehab was Mother's jaw. So many of you have been such wonderful, dear and loyal friends to Mother during good times and bad. No words can express our family's gratitude to all of you for your unending and immense kindness and support during the years preceding the death of our Father, as well as these last few painful years of physical decline. What joy and fond memories Mother will always have of her tennis partners, fellow bridge players, swimming buddies, church goers, coffee clutches, chore doers, members of the coterie and breakfast, lunch and dinner companions! Thank you. No one has been more special to Mary than her brother Jim, our in-house Trappist monk, or her sister by marriage, our Aunt Pat. It was a touching scene as Mother squeezed Jim's hand several days ago and they said their final goodbye. And surely Mother has always bonded with her sister in-law Mary Pat, with whom it might have seemed she was locked in a horse race, or even an arms race, over who would be the first to arrive at the magic number of ten. No words can describe the thrill that would run through the legs of all those little Nachtweys as our annual August visit to Mother's and Father's hometown approached. I still see the pandemonium, as if it were only yesterday, when our tires finally eased to a halt on the gravel outside the farmhouse and all of that collective pent up anticipation would explode, as our ravenous horde was unleashed into that fog of humidity bathed in twilight, from those two overheated station wagons. One shot for the barn, another the chicken coop or toward the horses, someone else sprang in the direction of the goat pasture or playhouse and there were always the practical ones who made a beeline straight to the big table on the porch that was heavy with homegrown beef, potatoes and vegetables freshly picked from the big garden. Our family can only feel supremely grateful and honored that our country cousins have joined us here today, from so many far flung corners of the world. And last but not least, for those of us who left our hometown of Springfield long ago, we must now say thank you to our brothers and sisters, and their families, who chose to stay so close to this ancestral place. For make no mistake - it's only because you were here, that we allowed ourselves to strike out for other terrain. Thank you for tending to that little corner lot, which will always and forever be our special patch of earth. And now that Mother has passed away and the anchor's unloosed, it's our time, more than it has ever been before, to stay the course which was charted long ago by seizing for ourselves a life filled with hope, decency, faith and love. At the end of the day - this is our true inheritance. As we look around and admire each and every one of grandma's youngest generation, who are pursuing their own unique dreams in her wake, we know that this is surely Mary's richest vein of precious ore. So we shall lift the bright stitches of Mother's quilt high into the air - as we offer its border to each sibling, spouse and grandchild - and begin spinning with gusto more new squares, under all of your watchful eyes. Because now it is Mother's time to take her leave. And, with no regrets, she sets off downstream on her own private and wondrous journey toward what she has always known to be heaven. Past all the little towns which lie along the great river's muddy banks, by the screams and laughter of children racing homeward at twilight, past the little post office, the churches and the white clapboard steeples, these dark waters keep rolling, past stands of wild berries ripening on forest floors that are rich with fox and pheasant and grazing deer, roll on Mississippi roll on, past the hubbub and wild senseless clamor of humanity, 'cause this Mississippi Ma Ma's headed silently homeward, slowly, through the tinkling lights and beneath all of those milky constellations studded with blinking stars, deeply, silently, ceaselessly and gathering strength with each passing mile, because it's blue o'clock in the morning and this Midwestern girl's got a full head of steam. And she knows that there's no turning back from oblivion's warm embrace.