Lillian Rourke, 1923-2019

I've written and published this blog over the past 11 years for a variety of reasons.  To express my views on politics, and the arts.  To develop my skills as a writer, which has offered me the best combination of personal fulfillment and financial success in my life.  And, mainly and more fundamentally, to make a difference.  Great or small, I didn't care.  So long as it was a good one.

At times, it has felt like a somewhat solitary and futile pursuit, as I have not gotten a lot of direct feedback from readers.  My blog stats and Twitter feed (to which TRH is linked) tell me that I have a readership, and I'm grateful for that.  It's not easy to generate Internet traffic if you're committed to doing it in ways that don't involve setting your hair on fire (which at my age, is not much of an option in any case).  But I am committed to doing it the hard way.  Yes, I promote some of my posts.  But no buying of followers.  Anybody who follows me does so because they want to.

And nobody was more devoted to following me, whether on my blog, in my acting career, or with respect to anything else, than this lady:

Lillian Irene Randall Rourke.  She was my mother, and the mother of my two sisters, as well as a grandmother to eight and a great-grandmother to another eight.  And, after a long life, she passed away peacefully nine days ago, at the age of 96.

When you see my blog, and read any of my posts, my hope is that you see a lot of things, perhaps without realizing it.  I hope you see dedication.  I hope you see what I hope are high standards, with regard to both are the content and the writing.  I hope you see a deep love of the best things that life has to offer.  And I hope you see a perspective that questions a number of assumptions, and a belief that all of us--this author included--need to be challenged on a regular basis, because all of us have room for improvement, and all of us need to wander around that room as much as we possibly can.

In other words, my hope is that you see Lillian.

Like my late father, with whom she has now been happily re-united, she was a Depression-era baby.  She grew up in Waterloo, Iowa, with her parents, her older sister (with whom she shared the gift of a long life), and her younger brother, who gave his life for his country in Europe along with many other young men of his generation.  Both of those relationships shaped her life, and therefor mine, in profound ways.  

With her sister, Rose Mary, she competed academically all the way through college, each of them trying to get more A's than the other.  This, of course, is another way of saying that both of them were very bright and very accomplished, with both of them pursuing careers at a time in history when doing so was not an option for many women--my aunt, in New York as a journalist with the Associated Press, and my mother as a registered nurse who became an instructor at the Yale Nursing School, where she met my father as a patient (a long story better suited to another post).

The foreshortened life of their brother was something that affected both of them very deeply, especially in the case of my mother.  She and Charlie were very close, and his death in World War II was a profound loss for her, one that shaped her views on war (and therefore on politics) for the rest of her life.

And both of these relationships shaped the way that she parented, and the expectations she had from me.  She wanted me to be a straight-A, Ivy League-bound student.  And she wanted me to live the most risk-adverse life possible.  As an academician and as a survivor of the Depression and the war, my father shared both of those goals for me as well.  And, I must confess that, as a son, I did not always do a great job of living up to those expectations.  Academically, although I managed to land in a good college (Oberlin), I had a very checkered career grade-wise in getting there.  In hindsight, that may have been partly a product of ADD, but it was also a function of being bored if I had a less-than-inspiring teacher.  As for risks--well, like a lot of boomers, I courted my fair share of them.  Taken together, these features of my life led to a lot of difficult moments with both of them.

But neither of them gave up on me.  Every time I needed either or both of them, they were there.  And, although I appreciated that quality in both of them when I was younger, it is only really now, having achieved orphan status at the age of 63, that I fully appreciate how lucky I was to have both of them.  Not every child is that fortunate, especially in an age when looking for a better life for your family can cost you both your freedom and your children.

And, just as I derived my fascination with politics from my father, starting to read "Newsweek" even when I was in elementary school, I derived my fascination with show business in general, and theater in particular, from my mother, who would tell me stories about visiting Rose Mary in New York and going to see shows together, including the original productions of "Death of a Salesman" and "A Streetcar Named Desire."  She and my father took me to see my first show on Broadway, "Butley," at the now-departed Morosco Theater, which helped give me my love of Broadway and its old theaters.  And they always attended the plays I have appeared in; it hurts to think that she can never see another one.

If I have mentioned my father a great deal in paying tribute to my mother, it should not surprise anyone who was privileged to know both of them.  My mother viewed her marriage as the greatest accomplishment of her life, and was as utterly devoted to my father and his best interests.  The love and understanding that the two of them shared for more than 56 years has done more than I can say to bless the lives of everyone with whom they came into contact.  Whatever strengths I have shown as a spouse (and, certainly, as a parent), I owe to their example, and their support of my family.

And, for almost the entire history of TRH, she was its most devoted reader.  Over the past several years, as I would call her and talk to her about various things, including our mutual dislike of the current White House occupant, she always made a point of telling me how much she liked reading it.  I never got tired of hearing her say that, especially during periods when I was wondering whether anyone besides me even knew TRH existed.

Even as I write this, I'm aware of how much more I could say about her.  Even now, I'm painfully aware, especially as I've already grieved for one parent, that I have a long road ahead of me when it comes to processing what Lillian Rourke meant to me, and sharing with others what I've learned as a result of having had her as my mother.  But I'm determined to walk that road as openly and as successfully as possible, and make the most of that experience.

She wouldn't have had it any other way.

Good night, Mom.  Sleep well.  See you again one day.  And don't let the GOP get you down in the meantime.

I love you up to the sky and back.