AUDREY McCLEARY

Audrey McCleary was a whirlwind of a woman. For her, "Time to go!" was more than a catchphrase. It was a calling and, at times, a command that signaled to friends and family members alike that yet again, Audrey was on the move. She always seemed to view her destination as a minor detail. It could be as routine as a jaunt to the kitchen to thumb through her carefully curated rolodex of recipe cards, only to inevitably settle upon one of her tried-and-true classics: beef stroganoff served over buttered noodles; baked chicken with a side of stewed cinnamon apples; coffee cookies topped with chocolate espresso beans. Or it could be as remarkable as a 4,000-mile trek to France to retrace the footsteps of her father, who half a century before had sacrificed precious years with his young family to free a suffering humanity. For Audrey, it was the journey itself that really counted. Hers was a spirit so ceaseless that not even the diagnosis of a disease as debilitating as Parkinson's dared tame her body. So, in the cruelest of ways, it made sense that she had no choice but to surrender her mind in its place. But in those final years, even as her memory began to fade, she constantly amazed all around her with the countless recollections she never conceded. Audrey's oldest and closest friends knew that just one mention of the legendary house parties she hosted in the 1970s was enough to quicken a smile to her face. Since so many of them ended with guests diving into the pool, clad head to toe in their dinner clothes, while Neil Diamond roared on the record player in the background, she would often quip, "How could I possibly forget?" Her last conversation would come with one such friend of 40 years, who thanked her not only for her companionship, but for her continued reminders that a home cook only needs three decent dishes to conquer a dinner menu. And while her emphatic embrace of this axiom never wavered, it was a quieter sort of faith that Audrey revealed in her farewell. "Don't worry, Charlotte," she said, "It'll only be temporary." Her three children knew that even in her final years, just as she had throughout their earliest, their mother could easily give Martha Stewart a run for her money. More than just the master of her kitchen, she was the matriarch of their home. Summer journeys to Cape Cod in their Chevy station wagon were never complete until Audrey had her fill of "soaking up local color." To Brett, Bart, and Sue, this was code for endless expeditions from one dust-ridden antique shop to another. But for their mother, these were genuine treasure hunts – not for items of great expense, but for those with histories as storied as the one she hoped to build with her own family. And fill their home she did, with children's clothes and bedroom curtains so expertly tailored that no one could quite believe they were the proudest products of her white Singer sewing machine – and the labors of a love that spanned a shared backyard as easily as it traversed a thousand miles or more. Little wonder the very first portraits of three beaming faces kept watch over her bed until the very last time she left her home. And little wonder the mere mention of a certain favorite phrase never failed to bring a smirk to her face: "Wait until your father gets home!" For their part, her four grandchildren were perhaps the least surprised of all her friends and family members to hear that when a priest had visited her to offer a final blessing upon her entry into a hospice house, she seemed perplexed by the proposal. "That's alright," she whispered with a twinkle and a grin, "I've already been canonized!" In the eyes of John, Ben, Taryn, and Max, this stunning assertion was hardly more than a statement of fact. After all, only a saint could have possessed the patience it took to make the hour-long, round-trip drive required to pick two of them up from school each afternoon; guarantee a hot meal would be waiting for them at precisely six o'clock each evening; and gently guide them as they toiled over their math homework long into the night. In Audrey's later years, these roles would be reversed. The daily dinner dates around the farmhouse kitchen table; the lessons she lent that fostered college opportunities for them that were never afforded to her; the memories of moments they shared on countless family trips to Connecticut, the coasts of Ireland, and beyond – these became their collective charge to keep. And they gained no greater joy than in hearing her reflect in her parting hours, "I took care of you. Now you're taking care of me." Or in knowing that each time they reminded her they loved her, her response would always be the same: "I know you do." Even if these words were seldom spoken aloud, they were always deeply felt, and never more so than through her relationship with her husband, Dennis. From the time they met as teenagers, it was evident to him that the force of her will was a sight to behold. This is, of course, a polite way of saying that for most of us, Audrey McCleary was the single most stubborn person we knew. Dennis, though, just counted himself lucky that she was stubborn enough to stick by him for nearly 70 years. As he quickly came to learn, sitting still was not Audrey's strong suit. She rarely let a morning pass without rearranging or replacing at least one decorative element in their house. Sometimes, she would abruptly decide that a storebought, watercolor print in the kitchen wasn't quite up to par – so she would simply paint her own. Other times, Dennis would walk into the family room to discover the area rug he had begged her not to replace had suddenly disappeared. For years, their grandson could never reveal he had been complicit in the crime; his grandmother had sworn him to secrecy when he caught her attempting to stuff the 8 x 10-foot evidence behind the guest room couch. Later in life, Audrey's afternoons were usually reserved for practice on the piano Dennis salvaged from a fire and personally restored for her. It only took her a few decades to warm up to the ivory keys – and to get past the fact that, truthfully, she would have preferred he spent that money on the mink coat she always wanted. But when two of her grandsons took up lessons, she followed suit with aplomb. Dennis could hardly recall an hour of her last twenty years that wasn't spent plugging away at the most difficult compositions by Bach and Brahms that her teacher could throw at her. Again and again, he begged her to choose something a little lighter, a little easier. But Audrey lived for the challenge, even if her listeners didn't always love the melodies. The truest testaments to their enduring love story, though, revealed themselves in quieter moments, poetically befitting a couple from a generation that epitomized the sacred simplicity of silence. In farewell conversations that lasted far into the night, when they spoke of their gratitude for a life filled with the blessings of a greater kind of privilege than power or wealth could ever provide. In intimate portraits that were rarely unveiled to those around them, but which proved more moving than the grandest of public gestures. Scenes like the one their grandson stumbled upon a few years ago, after Audrey's dementia had begun to take its toll. It was no longer safe for her to drive, but she was desperate to visit Dennis, who was recovering from surgery in the hospital. A heated back and forth ensued when John offered to make the trip with her later that day, when his schedule allowed. She simply wouldn't hear it. She demanded to leave that moment, but she finally relented and agreed to wait. Her grandson left, but he returned shortly thereafter with a sneaking suspicion she might attempt to slip out with the car. And there he found her, a picture of stoic nobility, sitting patiently in the passenger seat, purse in hand. "Where are you headed?" John gently asked. She couldn't quite remember. But instantly she knew. She just needed to be with him. Eternal life came angelically to Audrey. Surrounded by generations of friends and family members, she passed so peacefully they barely even realized her relentless spirit had taken flight – just as a nearby pianist finished his rendition of "A Little Fall of Rain" from the same songbook she once used. There are many Audrey McClearys in the world. Simple, selfless souls whose joy blooms in the service of others. To her, these acts seemed routine. But to those who loved her, the impact they left over half a century was nothing short of remarkable. And for them, their greatest comfort comes from their abiding faith that even when she could no longer remember, she always knew. A Mass of Christian Burial will be held for Audrey at Holy Cross Catholic Church in Vero Beach, FL, on Monday, July 14, 2025, at 10 a.m.With gratitude for the loving care she received in her final years, her family kindly requests any donations in Audrey's honor be made to either the VNA of the Treasure Coast or the Alzheimer and Parkinson Association of Indian River County.