Obituary of Barbara R. Glennon

Barbara R. Glennon, 78, of Hyde Park, NY, died peacefully of natural causes on Sunday, December 1, at Vassar Brothers Hospital in Poughkeepsie, NY, surrounded by family and friends. She was born in New Rochelle, NY, on October 12, 1946, to the late Louise Mistroff (nee Lichtenstein) and William Mistroff. She was a longtime resident of New Rochelle, where she began her long career as a legal assistant. She is survived by her daughter, Jennifer S. Blakeslee of Beacon, NY, and her brother, David M. Reuben of New York, NY. She was a devoted member of the Westchester Church of Christ, a region of the NYC Church of Christ. A memorial will be held on Sunday, December 8, at 12:30 pm at O'Byrne Chapel, Manhattanville College, 2900 Purchase Street, Purchase, NY. In lieu of flowers, contributions would be welcome at the Dutchess County SPCA.

A Note from Jennifer Blakeslee, Barbara’s Daughter

I’ve spent much of my adult life processing the complicated relationship I had with my mother. We’d been estranged for many years, but as I sat by her side in the hospital bearing witness to the ebbing of her difficult life the way a lake’s surface calms after a storm, I was grateful for the opportunity to find closure and tell her I love her. I played our favorite Gordon Lightfoot songs in her ear and talked about Attean Lake up in Maine, the only place on earth where she was truly happy (and the only place I got to really be a kid). I told her how her daddy’s waiting for her on the other side and can’t wait to see his little girl again (she was seven when he died of brain cancer in 1954).

While looking through old photographs I’d never seen, I found one of a woman I hadn’t yet met—a girl, really, just 19 and desperate to be desired, desperate to escape. She’d set her sights on a red-headed Irish Catholic boy fighting in Vietnam alongside her brother, my uncle David. (David says I’m his rock; I hope he knows he’s my mountain.) The pic of her in a bathing suit has a small hole in the paper; my dad must have hung it in his tent—so much hope in one piece of paper that traveled across continents of sadness and war. Their union may not have lasted, but I did, and I’m grateful for that.

I also found the photos I was really looking for—me as a kid in Maine. It was a time of innocence, where her happiness meant I didn’t have to take care of her, and I could be a kid. I was seven, maybe eight years old. Things grew to be very difficult soon after, but finding these photos has helped me rediscover and honor her innocence, and reclaim mine.

I will forever be grateful to her family at The Westchester Church of Christ, especially Sheila, Raquel, and Jasmine, as well as her friend Tina, and all those who showed her kindness over the years. Your care was, as we say in the language of her Jewish grandparents who emigrated from Ukraine, a mitzvah. Thank you.

Rest in peace, mom. The shackles of pain and history that held you down for so long, have fallen away, and you’re finally free. Sit on the West End dock at Attean, listen to the loons, smell the woodsmoke from the Franklin stove in the Woody Crest cabin, and let the gentle waves rock you to sleep. Dream of your little seven-year-old hand held tightly in your father’s as you breathe in the piney trees, feel the sun on your smiling face, and walk on a bed of soft pine needles, finally together again.

 

A Note from David M. Reuben, Barbara’s Brother

78 years—more than three quarters of a century. For every minute of that time I had by my side the oh so complicated, but at heart caring and loving helpmate and soulmate that was my sister Barbara. For much of that time nobody knew me better. And for many years it felt it was just the two of us up against the world, adrift in the choppy seas that took over our life.

Her first six years were out of the much clichéd 1950s “Leave it to Beaver” life—happy, cheerful, warm and loving, with a smile that could light up a room—even as a very young child.

And then in 1954, like a thunderbolt, our lives crashed apart. She was seven, I was eleven. But in those four years lay an ocean of difference. She had no comprehension of what had just befallen us. How could she??? She was seven!

I still remember at our father’s funeral, she turned to our mother and said, with all the innocence that only a seven-year-old could possess, “Mommy, why is everybody crying?” But soon enough she would find out, even if she didn’t realize it. And from that point on I became unwittingly and somewhat unwillingly her surrogate father. Not a role I wanted, or was prepared for—I was eleven for God’s sake, and dealing with my own grief.

But in this world we don’t get to choose our fate. On that sunny day in June 1954, demons were released in my little sister, all dressed up in her first fancy dress with the pink roses on it and her shiny Mary Jane shoes. Demons that she would battle for the rest of her life. She fought hard—sometimes she beat them back, but ultimately, however valiantly she struggled, they took her down.

Down but not out.

In her later years, it became tougher and tougher for her. But she was blessed during this time to have the friendship and support from several devoted friends from The Westchester Church of Christ, where she was herself a devoted member for many years. Although I never met them, I will be eternally grateful to them for always being there for my little sister.

But, even during the worst of times, there were still sparks of what I think of as the old young Barbara. Whenever my phone rang, I would tense up, never knowing which Barbara I would get. But when it was the Barbara of the before times, all was right in my world. The innocence, the trust, and the love that were always the base of our relationship shone forth and we were happy—I would even say we were kids again, the kids we were never allowed to be, even if for only a few minutes.

Sadly for my little sister, and If I might say a bit selfishly, for me as well, those days became fewer and farther between. But even now, as I think back on the last conversation we had, barely a week ago, when she called me on my birthday, it was like the 50’s once again. She was the warm and caring six-year-old I remembered and cherished. We laughed, we joked, we expressed our love—neither of us, of course, knowing it was for the last time. But if that was it, I’ll take it. Who could ask for a greater birthday gift?

And, finally, speaking of gifts, for those of us who knew her, we’re each blessed to be able to carry a bit of her in our hearts forever. But I consider myself the most blessed of all for I have the greatest gift I have ever, or will ever, be granted—the love and support of what was the best of, what lay in the heart of, my little sister—her daughter and my beloved niece, Jennifer. She is the rock for me that I always tried to be for her mother.

Dearest Barbara, it’s now time to again put on your fancy new dress with the pink roses, strap up your Mary Janes, and go forth not crying, but laughing into a world where all you will know is the peace and love you were denied in this life and where you will bask in the light and grace of God and family.

 

“Mountains and Marian” by Gordon Lightfoot

All is well

I've made my peace where highways never end

Yesterday's a memory today is just a friend

For the mountains and Marian are calling me again

And the red pines will bow their heads

The rivers and the watersheds will swallow up my tears

 

All is well

I left the cold mid-western towns behind

There's a semi up the road ahead I'll take him in my time

For the hot-blooded mountain love is calling me again

And the vagabond within me cries

The wind and rain might burn my eyes but I won't feel the pain

For the mountains and Marian will greet me there as only she can do

 

All is well

As I swing up to the border bent for hell

And the service station man agreed I didn't look too well

But the mountains and Marian are calling out to me

And I got my bedroll on my back

And everything that I could pack to see me on my way

 

All is well

I've made my peace and man, I'm feelin' fine

And the losers that I left behind I'll think about some other time

For the border men were all my friends they couldn't find a dime

And the prairie towns go sailing by

Saskatchewan there's mud in your eye I'm leavin' you behind

There'll be hot-blooded mountain love to satisfy my soul

And the red pines will bow their heads

The rivers and the watersheds will carry us along

And the mountains and Marian will greet me there as only she can do

 

All is well

The foothills are coming into sight

Today is just a memory the future is tonight

And the red pines will bow their heads

The rivers and the watersheds will carry us along

And the mountains and Marian will greet me there as only she can do

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