Patricia Palmer

Pat was born to Walter and Florence Rochford on June 8, 1946, in New Haven, Connecticut. She was a much-loved only child, and her father often told her that he had purchased her at Newberry’s, a five-and-dime store down the street from their apartment. “I walked up and down the aisles, looking at all the babies,” he would tell her. “And when I saw you, I knew you were the one.” Walter doted on Pat, photographing her for the local “Charming Child” competitions and taking her four times a year to New York City for a special ritual: dining at the Automat. Walter liked trying different meals there, but for Pat, it was always the macaroni and cheese, with a cinnamon-topped custard for dessert. “Don’t you want to try anything different?” Walter would ask. (She really didn't. Even then, Pat loved a good routine and was never afraid of repetition.) After Walter passed away suddenly in 1964, Pat spent decades taking care of her mother, whom she called Bunny, with true tenderness and devotion.

But many of Pat’s memories from New Haven were happy ones. Her friends sometimes called her “Red” or “Cheese,” she sang jingles to collect money for the Heart Fund, and she both adored and poked gentle fun at the nuns who taught at her school. Although her father's family was Irish, Pat loved growing up in an Italian-American neighborhood and spoke glowingly of eating pasta e fagioli at friends’ houses.

After graduating from St. Mary’s in New Haven, Pat earned her B.A. at Albertus Magnus and her M.A. in English at the University of Iowa. It was there that she met her husband, Bob, who showed up early to a party she was throwing, before she was even dressed. Never mind that he was always early and she was often late; they liked each other right away. Pat loved a person with quirks, and Bob had plenty. They married in 1971.

When Bob’s work as a medieval English legal historian took him to London, Pat went with him. She supported them both by earning money as a social worker in Haringey, where her colleagues became her lifelong friends. She started a community mother-and-child group, she visited castles and museums, she injured herself on a hike and found that a cream tea magically cured her. She wept when they had to move back to America four years later. But Bob promised he’d bring her back – and he did, almost every summer for the rest of her life.

They brought their children with them, too. While Bob was researching at the Public Record Office, Pat was marching all over London with Edward and Elspeth, creating special routines. They played hide-and-seek inside the Brutalist architecture of the Barbican, sipped Darjeeling tea out of mismatched cups at the Wisteria Tea Room, and pond-dipped at Camley Street. In later years, Pat and Elspeth created many more special routines in London with Pat’s grandchildren. Pat took the kids on scooter rides around Highbury Fields, and they enjoyed breakfast every morning at Ottolenghi Islington, which was one of Pat’s favorite places in the whole world. She loved sharing the French toast and granola with her family, she loved the lattes, she loved the gleaming white interior and colorful array of cakes – and she deeply loved the kind staff, who welcomed her with open arms every summer. To be at Ottolenghi, chatting with the staff and sharing food with her grandchildren, was a dream come true. It was a place, she thought, that “brought people together in joy.”

Pat’s own joy and thoughtfulness made her a treasure to her friends and family. She made friends at every place she went – stores, restaurants, or doctors’ offices – and cherished the stories these friends told her about their lives. She was also unfailingly affirming. Pat believed in us, marveled at our good qualities, and was generous with compliments. If we did a passable impression, she would laugh and exclaim, “You could be on SNL! You really could!” (Reader, we could not.) But her admiration was genuine: she loved knowing and celebrating people.

And it was Pat’s deep empathy and capacity for connection that drew her to social work and psychotherapy. She began her career as a psychotherapist in Houston in the 1990s and continued her practice until near the end of her life. Buddhism, mindfulness, and meditation not only had a profound influence on Pat’s philosophy as a therapist but also informed the way she lived. She went on silent retreats, she attended a beloved meditation group with friends, and she kept up a regular meditation practice. This is how we will so often remember our exceptional mother: meditating in a beautiful garden and then, at last, opening her eyes to take in the view.

Pat was one of life’s great appreciators. She loved nature, literature, plays, and art, and she was curious about the world. But most of all, she was an enthusiastic spirit who, again and again, made the brave choice to love freely and wholeheartedly. And we were so very lucky to be at the center of this extraordinary person’s orbit. Pat always told us, her children, that we were the joys of her life, and we felt that love so clearly. She loved weekend dinners and long discussions with her son and daily phone calls from her daughter. Ever an expert letter-writer, she delighted in exchanging clever emails with her son-in-law, Andy. She went to Fairyland for hours with her granddaughter and admired countless passing cars with her grandson. All of these times were so very precious to Pat, who saw us for who we truly were and loved us for being ourselves. She made our lives wonderful and special. She was the joy of our lives, too.

Pat is survived by her son, Edward; her daughter and son-in-law, Elspeth and Andy Rosbrook; and her grandchildren, Saoirse and Willoughby, who deeply adored her. Pat’s beloved husband of 51 years, Bob, died in March of 2023. To reach Pat’s family, please email her daughter, Elspeth, at [email protected].

Fond memories and expressions of sympathy may be shared at www.earthmanbellaire.com for the Palmer family.