My Godmother ~ Margaret Jones Maher

Not everyone is lucky enough to have a godmother like my Aunt Margaret. The oldest of my father’s three sisters, she was the picture of love and patience. She was thirteen years older than my Dad and she doted on him. When I came along, the oldest of her nineteen nieces and nephews, she doted on me, too.

Like all four children in my father’s family, Margaret was programmed to go to college. She studied to be a teacher, but her career came to an abrupt halt because she couldn’t discipline even one child, let alone a whole classroom. So she left teaching and went to work as a secretary for the Northern Pacific railroad, the same railroad where my grandfather worked. From all accounts, she was a good secretary because she didn’t have to discipline anyone but herself.

Margaret was a great cook and an exceptional knitter. I have pictures of clothes that she knit for me and my brother ~ skirts and shorts with matching sweaters. Margaret’s knitted afghans sold for the most money at the church bazaar. To my knowledge, she never dropped a stitch.

Margaret, like my Dad, didn’t say much. She was content to sit quietly, smile and murmur her approval of whatever was being said. I loved sitting next to her on the couch, holding her hand, and resting my head on her arm. I know she liked that, too.

Margaret didn’t marry until she was in her late-forties. (More about that later.) She never had children of her own. Given her inability to discipline anyone, that might have been a good thing. 

As I was going through old family photos last summer, however, I stumbled on a batch of pictures showing Margaret with a man, labeled only as “Margaret with her Gentleman Friend.” The pictures show a young, very happy Margaret, with a very handsome man, on vacation somewhere in Arizona. I will never know who he was, where he came from, or what happened to him. I believe he gave her many happy moments. I wish there could have been more.

As I mentioned, when Margaret was in her forties she met Patrick Maher. They were both members of the St. Paul Hiking Club. They shared a love of the outdoors and both could walk for miles. They fell in love and wanted to be married. 

Grandma and Grandpa never approved of Uncle Pat. They were genteel. He was uncouth. They were intelligent and valued education. Pat never fit in. He was a savant. A man who knew the statistics for every sports star and sporting event ever held. My brother would ask him questions that no one knew the answers to, like:

“Uncle Pat, who won the World Series of 1938?”

Pat would answer (trust me, I looked this up!) “The Yankees beat the Cubs in four games in the 1938 World Series.” Then he would go on to recite the statistics for every player in the game. He was a walking encyclopedia of sports. My brother loved it. Pat put the rest of us to sleep.

Margaret and Pat were married in 1952, without the approval of my grandparents. I was at the wedding. Margaret and Pat were beaming. My grandparents were not.

Margaret and Pat rented their own small house after they married. They lived there for only a few years, however. When Grandpa died in 1954, they moved into my grandparents house to take care of Grandma. Grandma died two years later and Margaret and Pat were the new owners of the house at 731 Delaware Avenue.

I stayed in touch with Aunt Margaret when I was in college. She sent me letters and money. Every holiday she sent me boxes of Fanny Farmer candy. 

Margaret’s life took a turn for the worse when she retired from her job with the railroad in 1967, at the age of sixty-two. By this time Aunt Ruthie, had moved into the house with Margaret and Pat. She, too, had little tolerance for Uncle Pat, but she appreciated having a place to live and learned to tolerate him.

I moved to Denver, was married and had my first child when I got a call from my mother.

“Margaret isn’t doing well.”

“Oh, no. what’s the matter?”

“She’s in the mental hospital.”

“For what?”

“For being scrupulous.”

Who ever heard of such a thing? I looked it up. It’s called scrupulosity and Margaret had it. She was convinced she was an evil person, when in fact she was a saint. She was convinced she would go to Hell and there was no way for her to repent. The treatment for scrupulosity, at that time, was electric shock. 

I came home from Denver as soon as I could. I went to see Margaret in the hospital. My sweet, smiling godmother was not smiling. She was in tears. Constant, copious tears. She grabbed my hand and pleaded with me.

“Please, you’ve got to get me out of here. They’re going to give me more shocks. They are going to kill me. And then I’m going to Hell.” There was nothing I could do. There was nothing anyone could do.  

Margaret died when I was back in Denver. My Dad got a phone call from the hospital. He turned to my mother and said “Margaret is dead. I need to go to the hospital. You stay here.” 

Margaret was buried in the Catholic cemetery. I wasn’t able to come home for the funeral to say goodbye to the sweetest, most loving, tender-hearted godmother anyone could wish for.

Rest in Peace, Dear Aunt Margaret. Rest in Peace!