‘I will always love you, Paulie’

My mom and I were tight and a lot alike.

It’s very common in large Irish families for the mom and oldest son to develop a special bond. As the oldest of 10, I presented many firsts for my parents and lead the way for the remaining siblings. With schooling, I was the first to graduate from high school, earn undergraduate and master’s degrees, and the only to get a doctorate degree. I initially enjoyed touting the doctorate, as I’m the only Maguire from any generation to earn one. Then, when my ego settled down I’d put “Dr.” in front of, or “Ph.D” after, my name for my extended generations of family, and my mom and dad.

My dad was an educator and coach, received a degree from Harvard and emphasized education for us kids. He’d say the best way to make anything good of your life is to get an education. As Maguires, we were worthy and able to achieve academically as modeled by my dad and I. Eight of my 10 siblings attended college.

I was in Alaska in 1986 when tweaking the finishing touches of the Ph.D. dissertation after four years of full-time study at Oregon State. I flew my mom from Boston to Corvallis, Ore., for the graduation, where we spent some beautiful days on the coast and in the Willamette Valley. I always made her laugh. After many laughing binges and being brought to tears, she’d often hug me and say, “I love you, Paulie.”

My dad was out jogging one Sunday morning in the fall of 1978 with my 4-year-old brother and died suddenly at 48 years of age. He taught CPR to supplement his income. That morning he first went to his familiar track at a local high school. The high school marching band he had just trained in CPR was using the track, so he went to another vacant one nearby.

My little brother was kicking a ball around him when medics arrived. They said my dad died in mid-stride, as the bruise and scrape on his forehead indicated he didn’t even have time to extend his arms and break the fall. The 10 of us kids and my mom were devastated. My mom and I drove to the cemetery to select dad’s grave. Once parked and feeling overwhelmed by the enormity of it all, I put my head on the steering wheel and cried like a baby. She put her arm around my shoulders, drew me close and said, “You’re the man of the house, now. I love you, Paulie.”

We cried together. We both knew, though, I had to live my life and continue with school. I knew I’d retain the title of “man of the house” in action and deed by role modeling as best I could. I’ve stumbled along with some success.

When my dad died, I quit graduate school in Wisconsin and returned to Boston to try and fill his shoes by supporting my mom’s effort to raise my nine siblings on little to no income. I dug graves that winter with a jackhammer and 5-foot-long shovel.

My sibs said “no way” to my effort to be their dad, so a year later I returned to finish my master’s degree.

Time went by and my mom and I enjoyed going to the movies when I was home in Boston. In 1992, we saw “The Bodyguard” with Kevin Costner and Whitney Houston. Mom loved the soundtrack and Whitney’s voice.

My mom died suddenly in 1993.

Three days after returning to Alaska from mom’s funeral, I received a small package at the University of Alaska Anchorage mailed by her and postmarked on the day she died. She’d sent a cassette tape by Whitney Houston with a note reading, “I want you to have this tape. It has my favorite song: ‘I Will Always Love You!’”

My mom and I cried together in 1978 after losing my dad — the man of our house. I cried quietly and privately on the flights home from a trip to Vermont this past weekend thinking about the tape postmarked on that November day in 1993 when my mom and dad were together, again. I hope they’re proud of my efforts to continue role modeling and being the figurative “man of the house” for their great-grandkids and those Maguires yet to come.

Since hearing of Whitney Houston’s death, I’ve been humming “I Will Always Love You,” thinking of my mom and smiling occasionally at the joy we shared. Life is short and precious, and there are no guarantees for longevity. Please take the time to smile with, hug and tell those whom you love “I love you — and always will.”

Paul Maguire is a Palmer resident and former professor at the University of Alaska Anchorage. He is the facilitator of the Center for Creating Peaceful Neighborhoods, and advocates for eliminating bullying and fully including all people in community.