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Rosemary W. Secrest of Olympia, WA passed away in Chicago, IL on January 2, 2023 due to complications from metastatic pancreatic cancer.  She was the beloved wife of 59 years to the late Charles “Chuck” Secrest.  Born and raised in Glendive, MT, Rosemary met Chuck while both were attending the University of Montana (UM) in Missoula and later married.  They lived in Helena, MT after Chuck graduated from UM law school.  In 1970, they moved to Olympia, WA where they raised their family, worked and lived for the rest of their lives.  She is survived by her daughter Cheryl Secrest, son Mark Secrest as well as six grandchildren: Max, Maggie and Teddy with Cheryl, Tate, Cole and Leo with Mark and Melissa.

Reflections

“What’s your mom like?” said very few to me growing up, as almost everyone knew her or at least had some level of interaction – no explanation necessary.  I’ve gotten that question more after we moved away, and life got more compartmentalized, and a lot more recently after her trip to the ER on New Year’s Eve morning (I’ve always disliked that holiday – for amateurs – and it will hold a further, worse association from now on) and mercifully short remaining life after her stroke.  She is both simple and hard to describe, but her life and being, her character, can be best described by the two related but separate themes of presence and service.

Presence, as in the art of being present, is one of them.  I’m frequently (constantly, according to them) telling my kids that they should master the habit/art of showing up, as that is a universally admired character trait that is completely within their control.  She showed up.  She was present – from my first memory.  She showed up for us as kids, for music practice, for ballet, for soccer practice and games, for basketball, for cheerleading – she was present.  In adolescence, when my sister and I were out of the house more for school and activities, she showed up at high school – literally.  This might not be exactly true, but it’s my telling of the story: my memory is that she showed up at THS and volunteered, over and over, and they relented and found her a job (probably super comfortable for my sister…who doesn’t want your mom at school when you are a teenager?).  She became the admin / research assistant for the Social Studies team of teachers (great crew, and great stories to this day) and, on days off, the proctor for the detention room.  Both seemed a good fit – particularly detention room.  You could never fool her with a pitch, as she could foul off your best stuff.  She was kind(ish) but firm, velvet glove over steel fist kind of thing.  Later in life, after we both moved to the east coast (Cheryl took a pit stop in Chicago for business school – which included a family Thanksgiving prepared in her South Side apartment, where we re-enacted a scene from the old classic “Too Many Cooks”), she and dad showed up in NYC.  Frequently.  Particularly after dad’s retirement in the early 2000’s and there were new grandkid birthdays.  By frequent, I’m talking 2+ trips / year which, over a 15+ year period, adds up (we also made trips back home, as they had birthdays too – but the balance of travel was heavily weighted towards them).  They were in NYC a lot (some in my household might say a little too much of a lot, but I digress).  So much that they tested my theory that New York was a better town to live in than to visit, as locals get to figure out the tricks, hacks and work-arounds to turn that unnavigable, dense city into a livable or at least tolerable experience.  But after more than thirty trips, are you a tourist?  You couldn’t tell when my mom would walk into the restaurant Chez Josephine on the edge of the Theater District and hear Jean Claude Baker, the owner and soul of that place before his passing, sing / scream ROSEMARY, HOW ARE YOU?  After several years of showing up there, she wasn’t a tourist, she and dad were locals.

Her second defining theme was service, as in service to others.  She lived to help our family.  She was strong in her Catholic faith.  Late in life, as my dad’s health deteriorated, her life was essentially spent caring for him 24/7 – finally relenting and allowing for external help as well in his final years.  Her life was outwardly focused to the end – something that actually became challenging after he died.  She wasn’t selfless, per se, but she was close to the opposite of selfish, and it became clear that she had spent no time thinking about herself.  There were many occasions where the conversation loop was along the lines of – “What would you like to do?  I don’t know – haven’t thought about it.”  “How can I help?  You can’t.”  (or, when particularly cranky – “If you can’t figure it out, then nothing”).  She consistently ducked the question of her future and how she wanted to spend her newfound wealth of free time by saying there was too much to do.  The path forward became even clearer last April.  I was going to Dublin for work, and mentioned it to her, and said – “You should come with me.”  “I can’t”.  “No, you actually can – let’s book your flight – it will be fun!”.  She thought about it for a day, and came back with a tearful no – she wasn’t ready to return to a place she had traveled with her life partner (since she was 20!) without him – too soon, too many memories.

That knowledge helped us hatch the plan for her 80^th birthday in August.  She would come to Chicago to celebrate.  No more asking – we just planned it, which meant every single day.  Reservations everywhere – no walking in and taking any chances.  No more “would you like…”, but rather, “we are going to …today”.  It worked.  Not seamless, but generally fun – she seemed to realize that there wasn’t a steering wheel in the passenger seat of the car, so it was much easier to just enjoy the ride.  Of all the memories of that week though - her birthday, and the dinners, lunches and tea service and museums and gardens – my favorite was sitting in the sunshine on the front deck of an Architectural Tour river boat and sharing a beer with her.  Beautiful day, cruising on the river looking at beautiful buildings, and just talking about …anything.  She seemed happy, maybe for the first time in a long time.

Like everyone else, she wasn’t perfect.  She could be really stubborn.  She had a short temper, and relatively low flash point (to the significant surprise of the uninitiated – not expecting anything like that from the maybe 5 ft., seemingly demure lady – what could possibly go wrong?...).  She could hold a grudge, firmly and for as long as you’d like.  But then you’d apologize (you, not her), and all would be forgiven, and she would go back to being her caring self.

My oldest son is now 19, and we’ve recently had broken a 19 yr. tradition of hers – the sending of colorful celebration cards.  Since 2004, she had sent beautiful gift cards to the kids (and us) for the “major” (Hallmark) holidays, addressed with the most unbelievably precise handwriting I’ve ever seen (she even used a ruler to make sure the address lines were straight…).  Over the years, the kids became to recognize the pattern, helped by the fact that she would add a handwritten note inside as well as a new $5 bill (Pavlov would be proud).  Every year, it started in February with a bright red envelope with a card for Valentine’s Day.  March?  Green envelope for St. Patrick’s Day.  Easter?  Bright yellow (or blue) envelope.  October?  Bright orange for Halloween.  November?  Brown or amber envelope for Thanksgiving.  Finally, for Christmas, a dark red envelope (different hue than February version) – with a check for gifts, filled out using the same insanely legible handwriting.  The streak was broken this Christmas - no cards in the mail.  She showed up instead.