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Last weekend in Rochester was an exciting saw. We laughed. We cried. And best of all, we hugged a lot. My sister-in-law, Julie, passed away and being with her family meant everything to me.

For two days with my five nieces and nephews, wives and grandchildren, I shared their fond farewell with their mother. On the first day we gathered at the funeral home. Julie made it to 91, the last few years of physical struggles finally behind her.

Julie and I first met 58 years ago. Our story started with her only brother-in-law.

Tom O'Brien, the handsome Navy pilot who had proposed to me (!) flew from his home in San Diego to Connecticut where I was living in 1966. We drove together to Rochester, New York to meet his little family. I was looking forward to meeting his parents, brother and sister-in-law and their five children. Five children! Wow! What would be their expectations of me? I was more than anxious.

I was very tall. I was the wrong religion. I had a funny accent. What would they think? I was a flight attendant then for American Airlines, and it usually didn't bother me too much. I was surprised that I was actually nervous. But nothing gets to know adults faster than breaking bread together.

Tom's parents warmly welcomed us into their cozy home. They were thrilled to see their youngest son home again after his years in Vietnam.

The dinner table was set for six. Tom's mother was a wonderful old-fashioned cook. She made a pot roast dinner with her youngest son's favorite dessert – the world's most perfect chocolate cake.

Tom's only brother, Ted, was nine years older than him, and Julie was nine years older than me.

I was amazed that this slender, beautiful, personable woman could be the mother of five children. I met all five the next day and was even more impressed – with her calmness and common sense. An only child, I had never met anyone close to my age with five young children.

I remember my first family Christmas. Tom and I thought it would be fun to give their youngest, Daniel, a particularly large dump truck of Tonka. There were lights, horns and a whirring noise emitted by 6 “D” batteries. After a continuous hour, Julie put Dan to sleep, slowly removed half a dozen batteries and put them in a kitchen drawer. End of the subject. She continued to talk to us later that day. Dan rode his new toy without sound effects until he outgrew it.

Julie was never scared. She even looked sane – a far cry from the craze I would have been. Maybe being a preschool and kindergarten teacher helped. Otherwise, I thought, how does she do it?

Bonnie, one of Julie's close friends from their early days of marriage, shared a personal memory in the chat. When she first moved into Ted and Julie's neighborhood, she shared a view of the O'Brien backyard.

The youngest mother watched as pregnant Julie put her 3- and 4-year-old in the sandbox to play. Then she took it out, unfolded it, sat her little one in the middle and proceeded to walk outside, waving the box of Cheerios in a perfect snack circle around the 18-month-old. Bonnie said: “I was fascinated. I could never imagine doing something like that.” Until two years later when she was expecting her third. It was another sunny day. And she also had to hang out the laundry. As I said, Julie was a very practical person.

On Sunday morning, we gathered at the grave under gray overcast skies. The view across the cemetery was of the school where Teddy had been principal, Julie had taught, and their children had attended elementary school. I could only imagine their individual thoughts interweaving memories of school and their parents' final resting place. Julie sat on the ground in the casket she had chosen: biodegradable, “green”. Very practical. We said our personal goodbyes as we each threw single red roses at her, covering the casket. Goodbye old lady. Old friend.

Stories abounded around the dinner table that night. Siblings and cousins ​​threw themselves into loud games, Thanksgiving dinners and summer camps. But for me, just watching them all together was joy.

Ted and Julie's five grown children, now mostly gray-haired, accompanied their mother over the weekend – with all the lessons she taught them, the examples she set. Her humor, love of the arts, heated political debates, history, theater, good music of many kinds, and her books – all defined her. Julie and I always talked books.

As I left my single dilated birth, I realized I was the last one standing. Kate called me “The Matriarch,” a title I don't seek. Julie WAS the matriarch. She was extremely qualified… and still is.

Marcy O'Brien writes weekly.

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