An Essay by Eric Picard
In the fall of 2022, my grandmother died. She was 100 years old and would have turned 101 in just a few weeks. While it’s undeniably sad that she’s gone, reaching 100 is quite a remarkable feat. In the wake of her death, I found myself flooded with memories, stories, and revelations that have brought me even closer to her. Let me introduce you to my grandmother, and then share a story she once told me.
My grandmother’s name was Mary. She started life as Mary Sheehan, then became Mary Nolan, and finally Mary Bimmler. But to me, she was always “Grandmother.” Yes, it sounds formal, and it is. Apparently, that’s my fault because, as the oldest grandchild, I called her Grandmother, and it stuck. I was undoubtedly just as much a geek as a kid as I am now.
Born Mary Elizabeth Sheehan in 1921, she was South Boston royalty of sorts. Her father, my Great Grandfather Frank “Ike” Sheehan, was an Olympic runner and became the head of roofing for the city of Boston. If that sounds like a political appointment, you understand how Boston worked in those days. She had seven brothers and sisters, and she grew up in the middle. While they weren’t a wealthy family, they were undoubtedly upper middle class with a stately Victorian on Savin Hill in South Boston, and a lovely summer cottage in Scituate, MA.
My grandmother married my grandfather, Charlie Nolan, at the age of 21. He was 22 and soon went off to serve in WWII in the Navy. At 23, she gave birth to my mother, Mary Elizabeth Nolan — the first of seven kids. Charlie worked for Polaroid in Cambridge among other places, and the family lived in Dorchester, then Quincy, then eventually Braintree, MA each move upgrading their living situation. She lived a housewife’s life in the 50s and 60s, raising her own large family, staying deeply connected with her siblings and their children, and running a busy household.
When my mother was 21, she married my father. And when my mother was 23, I was born. That means my grandmother was 46 when I was born, and my youngest aunt was just 8. In fact, I have an aunt and two uncles who are less than 10 years older than me — closer in age to me than my mother. It’s like having siblings with a weird age gap.
As the first grandchild, I often tagged along with my younger aunts and uncles and spent a lot of time with my grandmother — frequently on weekends and often for weeks during the summer.
When I was three years old, my grandfather died unexpectedly of a heart attack at 50. This left my grandmother a widow at 49, with four kids still at home. I distinctly remember her 50th birthday party; that was the year she became a realtor. And let me tell you, she didn’t just become any old agent.
My grandmother had been a housewife for 24 years. Then, at 50, she began a career as a real estate agent. But she didn’t just become any old agent. Over a 25-year career, she became one of the top agents in New England.
She was a superconnector. She knew everyone. My grandmother would go on group tours of Europe, and once unexpectedly ran into five people she knew — one from her Kindergarten class! She remembered every person she ever met, their names, their facts, their families, and their people. She had an uncanny ability to recognize people even after many decades. She would take cruises and bump into acquaintances at the dinner table. She would see people after fifty years and hail them from a distance, “Yoohoo, Margaret Sullivan, I see you there!” This ability played out well in her burgeoning real estate career.
She eventually started her own real estate brokerage, sold it to one of the bigger firms in the state, and then became their top agent. She was a machine. She managed the family finances through the years after the death of her husband, and became a very social widow, but ever a widow first and nobody saw what was coming.
At 75, she was getting ready to retire from Real Estate when she ran into Bill Bimmler, a childhood friend who had lost his wife a few years earlier. Quietly and cutely, they began to date. Holding hands at church turned into a wedding at 77. When I first met Bill, he said, “Oooh, when I saw your grandmother, she looked exactly the same as she did at 16. Mary Sheehan was the cat’s meow; every boy was in love with her. She was so beautiful then, and she is just as beautiful now.” For 14 wonderful years, my grandmother had a blissful marriage to Bill until he died in 2012.
Widowed again, I asked her if it made her sad. She responded, “Why should it make me sad? I was married to two of the best men I’ve ever known, and I’m grateful for all the time I had with them.” She lived another ten years, filled with joy and family. She continued to live alone, swimming every day in the ocean either near her Summer home in Falmouth, Massachusetts or her Winter home in Pinellas Park, Florida near St. Petersburg.
My grandmother was silly and had a great laugh. She had a great sense of humor. She was an excellent storyteller, often whispering the punchline. Let me share one of her stories, one that perfectly encapsulates her charm and wit.
About eight years before she died, my grandmother got very sick. I received a call from my aunt saying she was near the end, and if I wanted to see her, I needed to fly to Boston from Seattle immediately. While I was in the air, she made a miraculous recovery. I arrived at the hospital at 2:00 in the morning to find her restless, wide awake, and wanting to talk. That evening was a real gift.
She started her story by asking if she had ever told me about John F. Kennedy. She said that the very first time he ran for office, he was walking in the Saint Patrick’s Day Parade in Boston. She grew up in South Boston, on Savin Hill, and had gone to the parade with a group of her girlfriends. As Bill Bimmler told us, she was very pretty — and I’ve seen the pictures. Meow…
JFK was walking in the parade, and he saw her and her friends on the side of the road. He beelined over, shook hands, kissed cheeks, and asked them their names. The parade had stopped at this spot for a few minutes. When he got to my grandmother, he asked her name. She told him, and he said, “I hope I can count on your vote.” My grandmother replied, “I’m not sure if I’m going to vote for you.” The parade started moving again, and he said he hoped he’d have a chance to change her mind sometime and walked away.
Later that evening, my grandmother was in the basement of her sister’s house. A bit of background is important here or this won’t make much sense. My Great-Aunt Frances was married to an undertaker, and they lived above the funeral home. In those days, especially in Irish funeral homes, the basement was a frequent gathering spot for the whole neighborhood. This was likely a holdover from Prohibition. So, there were a lot of people there, and my grandmother was sitting on the stairs leading to the first floor.
In walks JFK, glad-handing the crowd. He sees my grandmother on the stairs, finishes his circuit of the room, sits down next to her, and says, “Mary Sheehan! Now I get to change your mind about voting for me.” And he proceeded to talk her up.
I had to ask, “You know, Grandmother, he was a known womanizer. Did he try anything?” She chuckled, smiled, and whispered, “Oh, I was a proper young lady, and my four brothers and my father were in the basement, so there wasn’t much of a chance for any of that.”
I asked, “So, did you ever tell him why you hadn’t decided if you’d vote for him?” She said, “I told him that I thought he walked in the parade like a snob with his nose in the air. He didn’t wave at anyone, and he only came over to talk to us because we were pretty young ladies. So, I wasn’t convinced.” Eventually, he said goodnight and left.
The punchline of the story is that the next year at the Saint Patrick’s Day Parade, he was smiling and waving at everyone. When he saw my grandmother on the street, he said, “Will you vote for me now, Mary Sheehan?”
What I’ve taken away from my grandmother’s life. She had one life growing up in South Boston with her large Irish family. Then she had a second life as a mother and housewife with her own large Irish family, which changed at 49 with the death of my Grandfather. At 50, she began her professional life, selling real estate and becoming a huge success. At 77, she remarried and had yet another life as the retired wife of Bill Bimmler. Finally, she had another life as a widow surrounded by her kids, grandkids, and great-grandkids.
Here’s my takeaway from the many lives of my grandmother. Life is not short. Lives are short. But life is long. There’s always a chance to reinvent and start anew.
Eric Picard 