[Congressional Record Volume 152, Number 124 (Thursday, September 28, 2006)]
[Extensions of Remarks]
[Pages E1878-E1879]
From the Congressional Record Online through the Government Publishing Office [www.gpo.gov]




                HONORING THE LIFE OF BARBARA C. McENROE

                                 ______
                                 

                          HON. JOHN B. LARSON

                             of connecticut

                    in the house of representatives

                     Wednesday, September 27, 2006

  Mr. LARSON of Connecticut. Mr. Speaker, I wish to submit for the 
Record the following tribute that appeared in NE Magazine on September 
17, 2006. For most, words never quite convey the poignancy of the 
moment. For Colin McEnroe, his craft and the life of his mother merge 
in beautiful sentiment. I did not know Barbara McEnroe, but I know many 
families who empathize with her son's article, ``Banana Chair Sunset.'' 
I sometimes believe that creative and vivid writing is genetic with the 
Irish, but McEnroe's love of his mother and father unfolds in this 
article in a way that shares with the reader the unique perspective of 
a family gathered at the bedside of a loved one soon to be gone. I'm 
honored to submit this for the Record. Our hearts go out to him, his 
son Joseph, and his family.

                   [From NE Magazine, Sept. 17, 2006]

                          Banana Chair Sunset

                           (By Colin McEnroe)

       She was a tiny person born into a big world.

[[Page E1879]]

       She was the fourth daughter of the sonless Howard and Alma 
     Cotton. I was told that my grandmother, knowing she would be 
     expected to try again, was too angry to think of a name for 
     the baby. The Cottons owned a general store in Dana, Mass. 
     Ruth, the oldest sister, finally looked at some kind of candy 
     display that offered a list of names. (It was a sort of game 
     where you found out who would be your sweetheart, I believe.) 
     She picked the name Barbara for her baby sister.
       At least, that's one version. Ruth told it to me one night 
     after making me promise never to tell my mother.
       The next baby was a boy, Gaylord. I don't think my mother 
     ever completely forgave him for being the right answer.
       She was not the right answer, but she decided to know the 
     right answers. She was a whiz in school. She was high school 
     valedictorian. She was never quite at home.
       She wasn't as tough or as solid as the rest of her family. 
     She was pretty, chatty, restless, troublemaking. Now and 
     then, a teacher would notice her and realize she was a little 
     bit lost. One woman made a point of taking her places, 
     letting her catch glimpses of the world outside rural 
     Massachusetts.
       One such place, of course, was Boston, which was a very 
     thirsty town. Years before my mother was born, the city began 
     to outgrow its supply of water. Bostonians cast their eyes 
     around and noticed the Swift River Valley. It might be 
     possible to dam the whole thing up and make a reservoir. Yes, 
     that could be done.
       And what about the people who were living right where the 
     enormous body of water would be?
       They would have to leave.
       Four little towns were dis-incorporated and depopulated. 
     The Lost Towns of the Quabbin. Dana was one of them. The 
     Cottons left a few years early, because Howard had four 
     daughters, and he believed that rough men would be arriving 
     in great numbers for the huge construction projects. He 
     didn't want that kind of trouble.
       Gone, gone, gone, the four towns. And gone, gone, gone the 
     five Cottons. Ruth, Gladys, Arlene, Gaylord. And Monday 
     night, the last of them, Barbara.
       Nothing was ever exactly home. Nowhere completely right.
       ``What's the best place you ever lived?'' she asked me 
     again and again from hospital beds and wheelchairs, really 
     asking herself.
       She graduated from North Brookfield High School--did she 
     mention she was valedictorian?--and eked out a couple of 
     years at Boston University. She came to Hartford. She was a 
     bobby-soxer, overheated and frivolous. She and her friends 
     followed Sinatra around after his show in the city and had a 
     snowball fight with him.
       The years went by, full of dates and parties and boyfriends 
     and jobs. Hartford was fun. She met a man, a very peculiar 
     man. He lived in a boarding house on Asylum Hill and worked 
     at United Aircraft. He was handsome and brooding and 
     mercurial. Nobody had ever heard of him. And then, on a 
     single day, this obscure man in the boarding house sold two 
     different plays he had written to Broadway producers.
       She couldn't stay away from this man.
       They married and lived for a while on Fifth Avenue next to 
     a huge park that scared her a little. They lived for a while 
     in Beverly Hills. Their agent was Swifty Lazar and he took 
     them to all the swank spots; and she didn't have to throw 
     snowballs at the big stars. They chatted away from adjoining 
     tables at Chasen's.
       But that didn't last. Nothing ever seemed to last. Nowhere 
     was exactly home. Things were never quite right. It was hard, 
     really, to settle down.
       She had a son, and she loved him. It was hard to tell him 
     that in the traditional ways. She wasn't at home in the 
     world. She pushed him hard to work and achieve so that he 
     would feel safer than she did.
       She had a grandson, and she loved him. She took him to the 
     park and showered him with presents. On New Year's Eves, she 
     would decorate her apartment and buy hats and noisemakers for 
     her husband and the little boy, and they'd eat shrimp and 
     drink sparkling cider.
       Her husband died, and she was alone.
       And then she began to forget things. Her son took her to a 
     neurologist, and the doctor said, ``I'm going to say three 
     words to you, and I want you to remember them because I'll 
     ask you about them in a little while. Banana chair sunset.''
       He asked her quite a few other things, and, in the most 
     charming manner possible, she revealed how little she could 
     remember. Laid out there in the doctor's office, it was 
     breath-taking, like the water pooling up and overspreading 
     four whole towns.
       ``Now,'' said the doctor, ``Do you remember any of those 
     three words?''
       ``What three words?'' she asked.
       And that was the beginning of the end. Banana chair sunset.
       A couple of years went by. She fell. She got sick.
       On Monday evening, her hands and feet grew cold.
       The light appeared. You know, the light? The soothing, 
     comforting, all-loving light? She asked the nursing home 
     staff to turn it off. It was bothering her. Things were not 
     quite right. This room was not quite home.
       I picture a worried angel, conferring with his peers. She 
     wants the light turned off.
       Has this ever come up before? Don't people always like the 
     light?
       A few of us sat in a room, in chairs, watching the sunset 
     spread across the bricks of a courtyard outside the window. 
     We talked so that she could hear our voices. And she fell 
     asleep and was gone.
       I am surprised to find my heart is broken. My son's heart 
     is broken, too.
       Banana chair sunset.
       Maybe there's a place you go where finally, finally, 
     everything is just right.

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