Reflection: Seeing More Than Just an Old Friend’s Mom

“Mary was a loving wife, devoted mother and grandmother who always put her family first.
“Mary instilled a love of world culture, the arts and a deep appreciation of education, in her family. Rest in peace, Mom. You will be missed.
“‘All that I am or hope to be, I owe to my mother.'” ~ A. Lincoln
Family of Mary Weithas in her obituary

I didn’t know her well. She was just a friend’s mom. Just? Not really. I don’t even think I knew that her first name was Mary, yet I have a vivid picture in my mind of a gracious, spirited woman donning a stylish outfit topped with a hat and a royal-like attitude with every show opening she attended.

She may have even been wearing gloves. At least that was what was stuck in my head. It was all about that image that was stuck there — in my noggin. Class. Style. The coolness from afar of a friend’s mom. A friend’s mom. Just a mom to me … to all of us. All of that was laced with the sort of awe-struck intimidation I felt when she made her loyal opening night audience entrances.

She was my friend Billy Weithas’s mother. He was my high school buddy. My theater compadre. My hilarious, antic-loving, mischief-making, talented, stylish, go-on-with-the-show friend. She was his faceless, yet ever-present, mom to me.

As with most teens, we never really see these moms like Mary as women. We truly didn’t see them. All of them, anyway. They just were someone’s mom to us. They embodied an image, often that faceless one. Attached to the image was always some sort of attitude. Was she cool? Was she scary? Was she judgmental? Was she a scolder? One of those qualities is mostly what a teen sees. It’s what I saw.

And some mothers we knew better than others — down to each well-earned crease of worry or bulging vein in their chiding faces. Some not so much. Mary Weithas was, to me, Billy’s sort of out-of-reach, stylish mom — the maven of the proper, perhaps a bit overdone, community theater opening night extravaganza. As I recall, it could have been a children’s show in the daytime and Mary was there in full fancy regalia and proper VIP attitude.

My mom, to me, was an overload of enthusiasm, pride and polyester — all of the uncoolness of which I’d gladly bathe in now for a trip back. Mary was different and oh, so cool to me. And, as teens go, different is always cooler, right? Perspective. Age. Wisdom.

Mary Weithas’s silhouette is still emblazoned in my mind: The hat, the fabulous outfit, the gloves (or my imagination), the greeting to all her fellow audience member royal subjects, the nod to her son as she entered the theater and he warned, “Ohhhh, brother! Here comes my mother!”

I couldn’t have told you back then what color eyes she had, what her smile really looked like, or what her voice or laugh sounded like. Though, I do have memories of quite the Christmas call from Billy in 1977, a festive Mary and family corralled around the piano in the background.

I mostly remember the feelings Mary Weithas evoked in this theater geek teen — her son’s friend. I remember her support, love and respect for the arts, those moments of her gracing many a show with her supportive “Uh, oh, she’s here!” presence.

It never really occurred to me that all that she embodied in those brief, impressionable moments was always right in front of this clueless teen. It was all there in every moment of hilarity I had with her funny-as-hell, handsome son who made me laugh nearly every day. That guy with a devilish star-of-wonder twinkle in his eyes.

We always seem to see these moms as just moms. We forget that they, too, were that teenager like us. We forget that our friends are a part of them. They, after all, gifted us with these special star buds. We forget, or are not even conscious of the fact, that what we love in our friends is a piece of them. A big piece. We forget that these moms are a part of us, who we become, too. They are part of a community of moms who also thank them for giving us that gift of a good friend.

Then, often many years later, we are reminded. It hits us like a sledge hammer to the head. Well, maybe not quite that hard. But it does give us a good whack. It happened to me last week.

When I did my usual obituaries’ perusal and saw Mary Weithas’s face close up, after all these years, I just stared at it. I remembered. I saw Billy again in her eyes, in her smile. I saw her. I thanked her. I remembered her, perhaps then faceless, yet prevalent, presence in my life. The whole picture came back into focus. I put her face into it and I smiled remembering a mom with the face of my friend. The heart of my friend.

I heard Billy’s laugh and missed him all over again as I saw his mom — all of her, for the first time. I remembered him driving down my street in his Toyota mid-snowstorm to pick me up for a joy ride and lunch. I remembered him pranking me at rehearsals. I remembered scouting out colleges with him. I remembered his loyalty. I remembered him believing in me. I remembered his loud laugh and the force of love behind it.

I also remembered painfully vividly the look on my own mom’s face, a woman who was likely faceless to a teen Billy, the day I came home from work and she told me, tears in her eyes, that she had just read that Billy had passed away. I hadn’t seen Billy in years. Yet, he had always lived in me. I ran to the funeral home, just in time to make it to his service.

Everything was a blurred flurry. Grappling with the reality of my young friend’s death, I fought back tears and any selfish need to mourn, I do vaguely remember feeling stupid about my brief intrusion on a grieving mother to offer my condolences to her on the loss of her baby, my friend.

I remember that I still didn’t really see her face. I’m sure she didn’t see mine. I remember feeling faceless myself in the moment. Isolated. No one really talked to me or even remembered that he was my friend. Why I was even there. They had no idea how much I had loved him, valued his friendship, remembered every single moment. None of that mattered. I knew. I had hoped she knew.

I remember studying Billy’s frozen face, trying to will back into it the terminal animation it had. I remember hearing chatter and Mary’s whimper. I remember seeing that silhouette of hers, the one that held a place in my mind for so long, this time with a tissue in hand, somehow a bit less stoic or intimidating.

I remember now a mom, a woman who had lost, but not before gifting a grande win in my friend.

Rest In Peace, my friend, Billy. I hold every laugh, every crease in your eyes when you grinned or pranked, every moment with you in my heart.

Thank you, Mary. I see you now.

More about Mary Weithas from her obituary …

Mary and Bill Weithas Jr. raised their family in Rumson and were active members of their community.

Long standing members of Navesink Country Club, Mary enjoyed playing golf, tennis, ice skating and was a sharp bridge player. She never missed a NY Times crossword puzzle, usually finishing it each day. Mary enjoyed the beach and spent many happy summers with her family in Avalon. Mary and Bill travelled the world, living in London, England for several years.

Former longtime Rumsonite Mary Eileen Weithas, also formerly of Little Silver and Jupiter FL, passed away peacefully on Nov. 24.

Mary was born in Keene, NH to Albert and Susan Davidson Livingston. Mary was pre-deceased by her husband of 64 years, William V. Weithas Jr who passed in September, and her son, William V. Weithas III.

Mary is survived by: her children, Suzann (John) Cahill, John (Lisa) Weithas, Jeremy (Matthew) Minnetian, and Claudia (Conor) Mullett; her 10 grandchildren, John (Lauren Kelly), William and James Cahill, Emma and Lila Weithas, Julia and Charles Minnetian, and Liam, Griffin and Mary Elizabeth Mullett; and her siblings, Dr. Albert E. Livingston, and Ann Trudeau and her family.

Her family would like to thank her friends and aides at Brandywine at Sycamore Living for their kindness and care.

Due to the health crisis, services were private. A memorial mass will be held in the spring. Thompson Memorial Home is in charge of arrangements.