All of the words I can think of to describe my dear friend Beth, who passed away in July at the age of 93, fall far short of conveying what an absolutely magnificent, loving, generous, and joyous person she was. But I will tell you instead about the many things I learned from her over the more than a decade during which I came to know her through our local writing group. I will always count myself blessed by her friendship, and I hope I can give a glimpse into who she was, and why she was so well loved and is so deeply missed.
And so, here are ten life lessons from Beth Brough.
As you age, stay active and involved. When Beth and Walter moved to Maine thirty years ago, they set about weaving themselves into the fabric of their chosen community—joining, volunteering, seeing what needed to be done and doing it. Whether it was their beloved church, the local land trust, book group, writing group, or Senior College, they were there, making new friends, sharing their talents, and making the world a better place.
Never stop appreciating the splendor of your surroundings. I’ve often wondered if people whose homes offer a striking view, even one as spectacular as Beth’s, looking west to Old Speck and the Mahoosuc Range, eventually stop being awe-struck by it. I never wondered that about Beth. I am certain that she rose every single morning and was filled with the same amazement and gratitude for that view as she had felt on her first morning in that house. And it wasn’t just the grand views that Beth noticed and cherished—the flowers in her gardens, the birds at her feeders, and every bit of the natural beauty around her brought her joy.
Pay close attention to politics and current affairs. Graduating with a degree in political science from Boston University must have been a somewhat unusual accomplishment for a young woman in the early 1950s. Beth’s grandfather had been Governor of Massachusetts around the turn of the 20th century; she found her passion for politics early and it never left her. The titles that lined her bookshelves, and the stack beside her chair, could have come straight from the reading list of a present-day poli sci major. She had read them all and stayed on top of all of the details of current events, eagerly discussing the latest posts from Heather Cox Richardson and Robert Reich, freely expressing her dismay and outrage with the current political situation, and, as her children wrote in her obituary, “Woe betide the caller who interrupted her Fareed Zakaria program in later years!”
Welcome your kids’ friends with open arms. Although I didn’t know Beth yet when she was raising her five amazing kids, I have a pretty good idea of what it was like to visit their home. It must have always been filled with music and laughter and joy and good food, and never without a warm hug or a shoulder to cry on whenever one was needed. At the meetings of our writing group each month, Beth would fill us in on her recent weekend visitors—her own children and grandchildren, of course, but also, often, her kids’ friends, her friends’ kids, and an assortment of other “adopted” family members she had nurtured and loved like her own.
Cultivate a special relationship with each member of your family. At 93, with five children, thirteen grandchildren, and several great-grandchildren, Beth might have been forgiven if she had mixed up a birthday here and there. But she never did. She knew who was studying where and majoring in what, who was starting a new job, nursing a broken heart, struggling with a big decision, or just needed to hear their grandmother’s voice on the phone. They all came to see her for holidays and special events in big, loud, happy groups that filled the house to the rafters, and they came one at a time when they wanted advice, had news to share, or just needed to talk.
Write real letters. On a table beside her favorite chair in the living room, Beth kept stationery, stamps, pens, and letters to be answered. She wrote to friends and family, of course, but also to any member of her church who was struggling, bereaved, or celebrating. She shared their joy and grief; her words lightened their burdens and let them know she was in their corner. At Beth’s celebration of life, we were each given a postcard with a photo of the view from her home on the mountain, and charged with writing and mailing a note to let someone know we were thinking of them—a beautiful way to remember Beth and continue her legacy.
Cats rule the roost, and that’s as it should be. What would our writing group meetings have been without the constant presence of Maisie? She made the rounds, trying out each lap, before settling into one of her favorite spots—on the tray of Beth’s walker, by the sliding glass doors for birdwatching (and chops-licking), or curled up in a big fruit bowl on the kitchen counter (there was never any fruit in the bowl…because it was Maisie’s spot).
Music and humor are indispensable. So much of both shaped and inspired every part of Beth’s life. They were like extra languages she and her family and friends used to communicate and share their love for each other.
Your memory will live on in your children and grandchildren. Beth’s celebration of life truly was a celebration, with all of her five wonderful kids and many of her grandchildren sharing their love for their remarkable matriarch through words and music. I felt as though I already knew many of them from the essays Beth had shared with us in our writing group meetings, and I felt blessed to have had this brief glimpse into the deep love (and abundant humor) shared by this extraordinary family. At the time of her passing, Beth had five great-grandchildren, and three more on the way, and there is no doubt that even those still-to-be-born babies will grow up knowing just who their great-grandmother was, what she stood for, and how fiercely she loved.
And the most important and life-changing thing I learned from my friendship with Beth is this:
If you love someone, let them know. Beth was generous with her love, and if you were fortunate enough to be a part of her wide circle of loved ones, you always knew it. You knew it by her thoughtfulness, by the way she listened with her whole mind and heart, by her hugs—but also by her words. I grew up in a wonderful family, and there was never any doubt that we loved each other, but it just wasn’t something we said very often. The first time Beth said, “I love you, my dear,” and hugged me as I left our writing group meeting, I carried the warmth of her words all the way home.
Ever since Beth died, I have been telling my family members and friends that I love them. At first it felt a little awkward—many are people I’ve known and loved for decades, but I had never actually told them so—but I started by first telling them about Beth, and that the greatest lesson I had learned from her was that if you love someone, you should make sure they know it. I’m finding that, after you say it a few times, it gets easier and more natural. And every time, I remember Beth and I am grateful.
I love you, Beth…forever and always.
I was honored to get to know Beth in the writing group. I can’t think of an adjective that could describe her well enough. She will stay with me.
As my wife Ellen's health deteriorated Beth's wonderful notes were a welcome comfort. Such a thoughtful person.