A most remarkable ninety-two year-old woman passed from our midst the morning of June 9, 2011. The life of Dorothy Long Griffin had a breadth and depth experienced by very few of us: Mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, businesswoman, and special friend to whom many turned for her warmth and wisdom. Each person who knew her felt uniquely known and cared about.
Born in McKinney, Texas on November 27th, 1918, Dorothy married Joe Griffin, Sr. and became a partner with her husband both in raising a family and growing a successful Oldsmobile dealership in Plano. Her two sons watched their parents love and enjoy one another in unmatchable ways. After the death of her dear husband her light dimmed a bit, but she never lost her interest in business and her determination to love her family and friends and to involve herself in causes that mattered to her, such as the First United Methodist Church of Plano, the Library of Plano, and the University of Texas at Dallas where she served on the advisory board. Dorothy had a rare intelligence and a capacity to get things done when she turned her attention to anything or anyone important to her.
You will be sorely missed, our dear one. But you will certainly live on in the hearts and minds of people whom have been touched by you.
Forever.
She could communicate with all types, as shrewd a negotiator on the car lot as at the boardroom table. She was friends with a Congressman and even spoke with a US President. When she turned 92 she opened a Facebook account to keep up with her grandkids, always up with the times. On the phone, she always ended with 'Love ya' instead of 'goodbye,' because she knew she would always be with us.
She is preceded in death by her husband Joe B. Griffin, Sr. and her son Joe B. Griffin, Jr.
Survivors include: her son Dr. Fred Griffin, his wife Carol, and grandchildren Matthew Griffin and Meridith Griffin Catterick; grandson Greg Griffin, wife Pam, and great grandchildren Regan, Erin, and Justin; grandson Jeff Griffin and great-granddaughter Katie Griffin; and her daughter-in-law Sandra Griffin Thetford.
After a private family burial at Restland Cemetery, a public memorial service and reception will be held at 1:00pm on Saturday, June 11th in the First United Methodist Church in Plano, Texas. In lieu of flowers, memorial contributions in her name can be made to the First United Methodist Church.
Eulogy:
Memories of my mother have been returned to me in waves over the past week while she was in the hospital and as it was sinking into my mind that—despite her strength, intelligent intensity, determination, and love of life—her almost 93 year-old body was likely too tired to go on.
At the center of the memories that have been pushing their way into my mind, I see her smile—a smile when she was happy, in a particular way—and her voice that came with this certain kind of smile. And though this smile that I’m speaking of came up in different kinds of circumstances in the memories returning to me, it is consistently there.
Here’s one memory. 1959: Mother, Dad, and I were at Hickory Creek, a part of Garza Little Elm Lake where Dad had his boat in a stall in a boathouse. We had gone for the weekend in our little 13-foot long house trailer that was parked on a hill just above the boat. Dad was cooking his special steaks, and the three of us were sitting there in folding aluminum chairs.
As I focus on the smile in this memory, I can clearly see that it was a smile of contentment. For that particular moment, all was right with the world. Although I think that Mother was glad to have me there, I think that she was mostly contented because she was there with my father, my father who was also completely happy with the moment. This was one of these times with the family in which Dad would say—probably borrowing from a Humphrey Bogart movie—“If this was any better, I would swear that it was a frame-up.” His comment had to do with being happy with his family—and, I think, mostly with his beautiful and loving wife. So in this memory, my mother and father were in perfect sync: They were together and happy and things were just the way that they should be.
Memories of someone we love do not arrange themselves in our minds in chronological order; nor do they return to us in the form of objective facts about that person—or facts about ourselves with them. Rather, it is those essential qualities that we perceive in our loved one that provide the shape of what we recall. Maybe ultimately, memories come mostly in the form of how we feel when we are with that person.
The element that shapes these memories that are filling my mind is this smile.
Another smile returning in a memory comes from 1960: On the wedding day of my brother, Joe, and Sandra Bozeman. You can see a photograph of this smile at the reception today. Mother’s first-born son had found the woman he loved, and the two of them were going in settle down in Plano. Everything was again right with the world—but this time the source of contentment centered on her son, Joe. My brother was happily creating the life that he wanted. And she was happy that he was happy. A complete circuit.
Another time, another smile—this one in 1952: With just a trace of embarrassment, I must say that this is one of my favorite smiles. This is the scene: I am a three- or four-year-old boy was sitting on the kitchen counter watching her cook. Now with this smile came a song, you may be familiar with: "You are my only sunshine..." So here I had my beautiful mother singing to me that I was not only her sunshine, but her only sunshine. And, “I made her happy when skies were gray…” Now for a little boy about this age, this is pretty powerful stuff. For I actually believed at that moment that I was the only man in her life. Of course, the bubble would be burst an hour later when I saw her having her special and affectionate moments with my father and then with my brother. But for that instant, Mother and I were enjoying one another in our own special way. I suppose that she saw the smile on my face and that seeing this made her happy that I was happy—and this kept her singing.
I told you this last memory not because it’s such an unusual fantasy for a little boy that age, but because it is a segue into a point that I want to make about my mother: She could see who people were. She took the time to really get to know the people she cared about. Because she knew each of them in deep and understanding ways, she knew what made them happy. And when she could provide that something special that made someone she cared about really happy, well, she became happy too.
You see, I discovered that Mother had quite a number of people—in addition to me—people who felt that they were special to her. I suspect each of these people felt that, in a sense, they were a kind of only sunshine to her. Remember what I said about memories taking shape around how being with that person makes one feel: I would hazard a guess that many of you here today can recall feeling carefully listened to and understood and responded to in ways that made you feel that you were very special to my mother. And you know what it was like to be the recipient of that kind of smile when she felt happy to make you happy or offer you comfort or counsel or perspective on something that might have been troubling you.
And I sort of think that I am a pretty generous fellow to share my mother with those others who felt especially important to and with her.
Now I want you to look for Mother’s smile in the photographs we have provided for the reception. And look at who she is with when she is smiling in this way. You will see it with each one of her grandchildren and great grandchildren and many friends who adopted her as their mother or sister or other kind of trusted confidante.
Two last, short memories. 1962 when her first grandchild, Greg, was born. I thought she would burst with happiness. And not only because she was made happy by now having a grandchild, but also because Joe and Sandra were so happy and proud to be the new parents of this beautiful little baby.
But Greg, I have to break it to you now: I saw something of this smile when your brother, Jeff, was born. And when my children, Matt and Meridith came along. Granted, you were the first. I have seen this smile when she is with each of her great-grandchildren. Mother knew who each of her children were as people—and exactly what they were interested in and what made them happy. She tried to provide the kind of close attention and interest that generated their happiness. When they were happy, she was happy.
Now I don’t want you to get the idea that Mother was always smiling in this way at me or other family members. There was the time that my brother and I conspired not to go to Sunday school, and she chased us—saying that she was going to “jerk a knot in us.” I don’t know what “jerking a knot” in someone really involved, but it sounded pretty scary. Or when I was a senior in high school and came in slurring my speech from a little too much to drink. She had a few choice words for me then, which I won’t repeat today.
Okay: She wanted her children and her children’s children to be happy. But she also wanted them to “do right” as well.
A final memory of one of Mother’s wonderful smile: Easter 2011—in this very sanctuary. Sitting beside me she told me about each of the ministers and bragged on the music director and the choir: She spoke of her church. And smiled proudly. She was very proud to be a member of this church, a church she joined in 1939 when she married my father, the church then on Avenue K next door to my father’s parents. The church where my brother was christened in 1941, and I, in 1948.
As I now remember this occasion from only two short months ago, it reminds me of another time in the old church—probably 1957. In this memory I recall standing, singing a hymn, and looking up at my mother’s smiling, approving face, on one hand, and at the stain glass window now on the front of this program, on the other.
We will all miss this most remarkable woman—all of us who have seen the smile. But there is no doubt that she will live on vividly, powerfully in our memories. Smiling lovingly upon us.
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