My mother was a worrier, a compulsive worrier. She grew up during the Depression, and got married as the world was at war; but her Irish mother was also a worrier, and probably her Irish grandmother as well. In other words it was genetic, not situational – it was that black Irish sense of doom. If there was nothing to worry about she’d make something up.
So I’m glad, for her, that she died when the worst political news was that Bill Clinton did some bad things with an intern. She didn’t have to see the towers fall, the plane crashing into the field, the Pentagon on fire, the anthrax letters, the endless wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, the Christmas tsunami, Hurricane Katrina, the financial meltdown, Bernie Madoff, waterboarding, or the glaciers melting. And now, since she’d probably still call herself a Republican even after all that Bush havoc, she’d be worrying about Obama trying to finish the big government takeover that FDR started.
When your mother dies it’s like a big hole opens up in the world, but the one good thing about it is that all her worries disappeared. She would have been 93 today, and I hope she’s resting in peace.