REMEMBERING MY MOM

This is the eulogy I read at my mother Betty Bob Buckley’s memorial service, on her 100th birthday, November 1, 2025:

Psalm 118:24 says, “This is the day that the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.” If there is any Bible verse that sums up who our mother was, how she lived her life, this is it. She always looked for the joy in life and she encouraged all of us to do the same.

A year ago we celebrated our mother’s 99th birthday at the Fort Worth Club. Someone asked me at the time why we were having a big party then as opposed to waiting until today, her 100th birthday. I said I wasn’t sure she’d make it and I wanted to celebrate her while she was still here. Given how present and lively she was that night, I don’t know why I said that. But it was an inner knowing, an acceptance of the inevitable—that she was headed towards the conclusion of a most accomplished and amazing life.

I wrote in my journal on January 2 of this year, “Mother wasn’t feeling very well yesterday. It’s always worrisome. I remind myself that she’s 99 years old and not likely to survive too much longer. It’s a reality that we’ve been struggling with for a long time. And what’s enough? 100 years? 105? She’s sleeping more and more. She can barely walk. She’s suffering. So how to prepare? How to let go with grace? It’s an interesting process, struggling with life. Because that’s what we do. We struggle towards some type of goal that’s always just beyond our reach. And we never quite get there. We work towards it and then at some point let go of the struggle. But she’s not ready yet. She’s a warrior. Thoughts of an afterlife don’t permeate her thinking. They’re a side issue. The greater part of her is still engaged with life, still interested in what’s happening. She reads the newspaper every day. She wants to know what’s happening next. She finds meaning in her experience.”

That is who our mother was. She engaged with life on its own terms. Even though she always tried to put a positive spin on it, it by was by no means a smooth ride. She knew a lot of loss. She was born to parents who had a troubled marriage. Her father lost his bakery in Big Spring during the depression. He was a gambler and a wanderer, joining a carnival and leaving his wife, son, and daughters to fend for themselves.

Our grandmother Mary (or Nana, as we called her) had a nervous breakdown, retreating to our great grandmother Mama Barnes’ house in Marlow, Oklahoma. In 1936, at 10, our mother was sent to live with her paternal grandparents, the Diltz’s, in Chickasha. Shortly after she arrived, she was riding in a car with them when they had a head on collision. Her grandmother Rosa Lee Diltz was killed and our mom was knocked unconscious.

She returned to Mama Barnes’s house and, at that early age, our mother essentially became Nana’s caretaker, nursing our grandmother back to health with the help of our great grandmother. During her time in Marlow, our mom also had two playmates who died of childhood illnesses.

Our aunt Mary Ruth was a dancer at the original Casa Manana during the late 1930s and taught dancing in Big Spring during the off season. She supported our mother and Nana once they returned to Big Spring. The three of them moved from house to house, often renting garage apartments and rooms from friends. My mother’s father died in 1938, under mysterious circumstances at a Veterans’ Hospital in Muskogee. 

Her brother Joe had been bouncing around from job to job throughout the late 1930s, then joined the army. He sent money home to our grandmother during WW2, but was killed at the end of the war. Our mother confronted difficulty and death early and often. But this did not dampen her spirit. 

In 1942, at 16 our mom went to work on the Big Spring Herald. She worked her beat with her dog Byline (who is pictured with her on the cover of the program.) She told me it was on the police beat she learned everything there was to know about human nature, and she said it taught her to be kind, as others had lives so much more difficult than her own. At 18 she had her first front page story, on D Day, about the local response to the invasion of Normandy. Her newspaper publisher and editor believed in her and encouraged her to go to college. She was never sure, but she suspected they paid for her tuition at Texas Tech University, where she majored in journalism.

She married our father in 1946, after he returned from his deployment in the Air Force, and together they forged a remarkable life, which was the first real stability our mom had ever known. She continued to find jobs as a journalist in every town in which they lived. She worked throughout my childhood, but I never felt neglected. I don’t know how she did it—she was always vitally involved with her own life, setting a wonderful example, pursuing those things that interested her, yet she was also present for all of us. 

That being said, I am amused by this excerpt from a letter she wrote my dad while he was working out of town, describing how she just wanted a little time for herself.  She wrote, “…it is raining and thundering here now and I have just returned from taking the kids to the stable…. BL, Pat, Mike, and Steve. Norman is downstairs watching the boys’ TV so he is leaving me alone, too. Wup, spoke too soon. I now have a jabberbox with me. It is really pouring down now and I guess I should go get the kids, but they will stay in the barn, I hope. I just called to see if the kids were in the barn, etc. Betty Lynn says I am going to have to take her out to the stables more often because Black Bucket reared with her about four times and scared the heck out of her. She says, ‘I just thought I better tell you that, unless you want me to get killed.’ —Time marches on…We’ve finished eating now, I’ve cleaned the kitchen while the kids were playing wild games with all the neighborhood in our backyard. I have called them in now to start their homework. It is a keen evening to play out and they are reluctant to come in and begin studying. Now the Buckley kids have decided it is time to begin baths, feed the dogs, and Norman is running around like something from a fairy tale. He is scarved from head to foot.”

“The Buckley kids” all grew up and our lives moved in different directions, spread all over the country. Our parents moved to South Dakota for the last six years of my dad’s life and they found their greatest happiness there, enjoying each other’s company. But it didn’t last. My dad was diagnosed with lung cancer in January of 1989.

Our mother nursed him through his radiation and chemotherapy, but he only lived a few months. After he died, she moved back to Fort Worth, with the help of my brother Mike. She moved into the home she’d live in for the rest of her life and she cared for her mother and her sister in their final years. Both of them became severely debilitated and it wasn’t easy for Mom to take on that responsibility by herself. But she did it, without hesitation. She created a home where Nana and our aunt Mary Ruth could both live and feel safe.

I tell these stories to demonstrate our mother’s incredible resilience and her compassionate nature; such that even in the face of loss, challenge, and adversity, she found a way forward, with optimism, a sense of humor, and a joyful spirit. She never complained. She just continued, always looking ahead to what was next, looking for new ways to contribute.

On a personal level, our mother was a great anchor and friend to me. Through my own losses, she has always been there to support me. At my worst times, she would gently, compassionately say to me, “As bad as it is right now, you WILL continue. And you will find meaning in it. As hard as it may seem at this moment, you must find your way back to joy.” And I have tried to do that, to emulate the example our mother set for a way of living. As I navigate this very great loss, I hear her voice in my ear, now, saying—find your way back to joy.

I moved back to Fort Worth during the pandemic in 2020, originally planning to be here only three weeks. But I didn’t want my mom to be alone and I realized time was running out. I felt she had given so much of herself, to me and to so many others, and I was now in a position in life where I could return this favor, share this time with her, making sure that she could be at ease as she approached these final years. It was one of the best decisions I ever made. With the support of my siblings, and with the wonderful ladies who cared for her, we made sure our Mother could stay in her home and live out her days in peace. I spent my time here whenever I wasn’t working—and I was able to witness my mom reflecting on her life as she prepared to complete this wonderful, joyful, challenging 99 and a half year journey. 

You see, she approached her death consciously—embracing the Latin phrase, memento mori—remember, you shall die.  She had no fear or anxiety about it, but instead moved towards death in the manner in which she lived, with optimism, curiosity, kindness, and hope.

On June 7, my mom went out to dinner and the theater with my sister, brother, and sister-in-law, to see Cats, of all things, at Casa Manana. She had a wonderful evening. On June 9 she took a fall at home and quickly declined. She passed away very peacefully just over two weeks later. I was holding her hand as she did so.

After she died, I found a note that she had written. She spoke lovingly of each of her children, and gratefully of my dad, who left her well provided for. At the end of it, she wrote, “I thank God for my wonderful family and my outstanding husband, Ernest Lynn Buckley! And I thank the Good Lord for my long life! I have been Blessed in so many Ways! Amen!!!! …Time is precious and I appreciate and am thankful for all these eventful years allowed me! Love Always, Betty Bob Buckley”

A friend of mine read our mother’s obituary, and the list of her many accomplishments, and he said to me, “Norm, your mom stomped the earth” —and I like that image. She indeed joyfully stomped the earth. She came to participate. And she left everything on the field.

My sister Betty Lynn, my brother Patrick, and I want to thank you so much for coming today to celebrate our mom. We also want to pay tribute to our brother Michael, who died in 2020. Because of the pandemic, we were never able to give Mike the memorial we would have liked, but we remember him with so much love. He was always there for our mother with such faithfulness and care, and we all miss him. If you happen to be walking along the Trinity River between Bryant Irvin Road and Southwest Blvd, take a few moments to sit on the bench we dedicated in his honor.

Just a month before my mom passed away, on Memorial Day weekend of this year, I took her out for my last drive with her. We would often get ice cream in the evenings and go through the old neighborhoods, reminiscing. That night we drove by Casa Manana, where she had happily spent so many years, both as a child and as an adult. She suddenly got philosophical and wondered why she was still here. I told her she was here so that I could continue to learn from her. We were headed home then and—I remember this so clearly—she said it had been hard to lose so many of her family and friends—and she longed to see them again. I thought about my own losses and sighed, “Life is so strange, isn’t it?” She agreed, saying, “Yes, it is very strange.”  She hesitated a moment and then added, “But just look at that beautiful sunset.”

Even as she anticipated her death, she was so engaged with life. Even as she remembered the past, she was so aware of the present and reminded me to be so. I loved her very much and will always miss her. She was my mother, my teacher, my friend. She reminded me, even at the very end of her life, “This is the day the Lord has made; so let us rejoice and be glad in it.”