Florence Maxine Gardner

“There are these three things that endure: faith, hope, and love. But the greatest of these is love.” Corinthians 13:13 Florence “Flo” Maxine (Cieminska) Gardner died in the presence of such love. At home on the evening of October 19, 2020, children and grandchildren gathered and sent her into the arms of God and Heaven. Flo embodied the practice of love. Her nine children: Mary, Mike, Joe (Lena) Siobhan O’Neil (Daniel) Margaret Moore (Matt) Catie Giusta (Tim) Liz (Aaron), Tim (Kacey), and Chris (Karla) were her life’s work and the parts that made up the sum of that everlasting love. She tasked each to carry love to themselves and others. She is survived by her sister-in-law, Georgia Hott, grandchildren, great grandchildren, and a multtude of nieces, nephews and their children and grandchildren. Born in Minneapolis May 21, 1924 to Max and Laura Cieminski, Florence “Flossie” was raised along with her younger brother, Max “Bud” in a loving and devout Roman Catholic family in the small river city of Winona, Minnesota. Her mother’s sister, Anna “Nana” Kowalewska lived with them as an indispensable member of the family. There is a photograph of Flossie (nicknamed by her dad) and Buddy (as she called him) ages five and three. They are outside sitting side by side, on stairs, eating ice cream cones, and giggling. The picture was taken by their dad, an avid amateur photographer. It is easy to imagine Max and Laura enjoying their joyful, healthy kids as he snaps the picture, “okay, got it,” he says. The two children stand up, and the four of them continue their walk down the street, confident in their affection for each other and in their future together. Winona of the 1930’s and 40’s was an idyllic place to grow up. Photographs from before she was born show her parents with family and friends relaxing at picnics on the lake, swimming in the river, and partaking in high spirited theater productions. The Kowalewska Cieminski family was part of a thriving and proud Polish- Kashubian community centered in parish life and the language of their Baltic Sea homeland. Flossie was enveloped in the comfort of a world where the food was as soft as the native tongue: paczkis (donuts), golabkis (stuffed cabbage), and kluskis (dumplings). She felt like a princess at the center of a kind of small town aristocracy. Her family owned the bustling Quality Fur Shop where Max made opulent as well as practical fur coats and Nana charmed the customers. Her Uncle Joe was the beloved and charismatic Monsignor of St Stanislaus Basilica. And, Kowaleweski cousins owned the (hands down, best) Hot Fish Shop, famous for its delicate batter and pickled herring. Flossie was her father’s best pal, ever game for errands or outings, the consequential and mundane - just hanging out with her dad was the treat. These were all opportunities for gregarious Max to catch up with people along the way. “Dad had, or made new, friends wherever he went” she would say with the admiration of a reserved person who would rather be reading than “making chitchat.” She had her adventurous side too and swam across the Mighty Mississippi, skated the lakes, took many a river paddle-boat trip, and seriously trained as a ballet dancer. She matched her love of adventure with a love of books. With sharp intelligence and endless curiosity, she roamed the world far and wide through poetry, fiction, plays, history, and philosophy, reading way beyond her years and often outside of what was prescribed by the strict teaching nuns. She could be found at the public library or tucked up in her bed late into the night, reading - preparing herself for the life of scholarship and teaching she considered to be her future. Decades later her children would be held spellbound by her vivid stories of her childhood. They felt like they were right with her, sitting within the screened-in porch with bees buzzing around the fat lilacs that leaned onto the screen emitting their intoxicating aromas. They admired her strength as she climbed a neighbor’s large apple tree, its very existence a marvel to the burgeoning romantic. Right with her, they smelled its fragrant blossoms as she looked out through the leafy lovliness to the surrounding rooftops, including that of Marge who lived next door and was her best friend since they were five. And, they boarded the train with her at age twelve, bound for New York City and the glamorous universe of her Aunt Florence who was married to a famous radio personality. Getting her license was liberation for teenage Florence and driving was eternally one of her greatest pleasures. She was a skilled and relaxed driver. In fact, as a baby, the only way her parents could get the budding insomniac to sleep was to take her for a drive. They described how they would tuck her into the small space between them and the back window of the roadster two-seater and drive the car’s sleep-inducing top speed of 20 miles per hour. Because her dad readily relinquished the keys and neither her mother nor Aunt drove, she was in an extremely unique position of being a teenager in the nineteen forties with a car at her disposal. With her ever-willing chums Evelyn and Frances, she drove around the countryside. They “royally” (as Flo would say) cracked each other up, dishing the dirt, singing to the radio, and discussing their crushes. Florence never did get over a river boat dance with the dashing Jim O’Connell, forever wondering how his life had turned out. She declared repeatedly that her dream car was either a 1950’s MG racing green sports car, a jaguar, or a corvette but forever and always, a convertible. Hope. Optimism and hope were her bywords, always up for a new horizon, her college career was interrupted by enlisting in the recently established Women’s Army Corps (Private First Class, 1945–46). She convinced her friend Evelyn to join up with her, inspired by her adored brother, Bud (preceded in death in 1993) who saw active service off the Coast of Okinawa during the Pacific War Theater. During her time in the service two things had a forever impact on Florence: at Camp Cooke she was awestruck by the wildness of the Northern California Pacific Ocean and she decided she was to be known forever after as “Flo.” After the war, her devotion to everlasting peace never wavered. She had a deeply held belief that people were essentially good, that redemption was always possible. Once back in Winona, Florence picked up where she had left off with her studies at Saint Theresa’s College. She acted in theater, edited the school paper, and graduated with a BA in English and teaching credential. Her passion for literature was contagious and one of Florence’s oft repeated memories occurred when she was a newly minted High School English teacher in the tiny town of Erskine, MN near the Canadian border. “By the end of the first term,” she boasted “snow was blowing sideways outside the classroom window and inside the toughest naysayer football players were reading aloud Shakespeare and Emily Dickinson.” Feeling the pull of the west and the tempestuous Pacific Ocean, Florence returned to California for a Masters program at U.C. Berkeley. Once there, she became part of a progressive group of young Catholics centered at the Junipero Serra Bookstore in San Francisco who were committed to social justice and a more accessible liturgy. It was there that she met Charles Lewis “Lew” Gardner (preceded in death in 2017). They married August 7, 1954 in San Mateo, Ca where, three years earlier, her parents had retired. Flo spent the next 62 years with Lew together and separate but always with a shared interest and participation in their offspring’s lives. As much as possible they spent time with their grandchildren: Shannon Moore Wystepek (husband Adam and great grandchildren, Athena and Isla); Andrew and Stewart Moore; Nevin Lewis O’Neil; Duncan, Sophie, and Quinn Gardner; and Edwin and Augustus Jaqua. Although they never shared another address after their youngest graduated high school, Lew and Flo were good friends. They went to movies, plays, poetry readings, and art openings and took an active part in community theater and radio. Their shared passion for all types of music meant going to hear jazz, classical, and rock bands. They had fallen for each other through letters exchanged when Lew was in the Army and the written word was the fulcrum of their relationship. They knew exactly what book would bring a smile and wrote inspired, spot-on poems for one another. Flo consistently maintained an appreciation for the transformational force that Lew was for her: she had been very sheltered and being a bohemian mother of nine was certainly not the life-path that had been laid down by her upbringing. Describing her exceptional children as babies was in Flo’s usual way full of metaphor, pride, and just a smidge exaggerated: As she nursed and rocked him, Chris attentively listened (‘and understood!”) Tolstoy’s “War and Peace.” Tim’s toddler hair was a lovely dandelion seedhead moving gently in the breeze. Liz first gazed at her mother with huge, pellucid blue eyes. Calm, sweet, and cherubic, Catie was the gift needed during a particularly hard time. From birth, Margaret was a whip smartie pants and electrically charged for action. As soon as Siobhan started walking she had “scissor legs” that moved so fast she was but a blur. Joe was born with a caul (one in 80,000), destining him to be the first married pope. Mike was the most perfect, beautifully formed baby the world had ever seen. And, after her first haircut, Mary’s blonde curls sprang around her head like coils of gold. Watching Flo with her grandchildren was a way to time travel and experience what it was like to be parented by her. Each baby was treated as a fully formed individual human, never talked down to. Upon seeing her children’s children, She lit up ear to ear and in their company, it was a journey of never ending discovery. As fuel for their imaginations and curiosity, she worked with whatever was on hand. Wind in the trees or patterns in old wallpaper challenged their brains and nourished their creativity. Connecting the present moment to ancestors, her own experiences, or to their parents’ childhoods was a running theme. As she made dinner: “My mom, your great grandmother, would go straight to the kitchen after Sunday Mass, so excited to check on her roast that she would forget to take her hat off.” Or after a soccer game, “Your dad had that same precise, focussed passing ability.” Patient and encouraging (compliments were sincere, no phoniness here) and warm, firm and clear about her expectations. No nagging, no complaining. Modeling manners and kindness. And, feelings were validated. Having grown up in a family where the unspoken often led to lingering tensions, Flo was determined to create a different culture for her children and grandchildren. An environment where it was safe to express oneself, forgiveness was fast, and apologies easily given. Being encouraged to be an individual did result in nine unique, very independent persons, who held their own with her and blazed their separate trails. In the same way, though it was his behavior that made their lives so often difficult, the children were not asked to take sides against their father. There was always space for hope, borne out in later years when Lew turned his life around. Flo knew how to make an occasion special. She had a flair for decorating, making things pretty and celebratory, the very setting of a table done with deliberation, even tenderness thinking about those that would soon gather. Even in the leanest times, for birthdays, graduations, baptisms, and holidays, she would come up with a way to mark the moment, a little something - a burger out, a matinee, or a Baskin-Robbins. And, during flusher days, there would be larger extravagances - jewelry, albums, or a restaurant meal. Her handmade cards were unmistakable with delicate and colorfully drawn flowers and a poem written by her, and always signed with the Greek symbol for Christ. One of her last poem/notes: “It’s Christmas Eve and we are together, strewn about. Love settles in like a reassuring hand on a worried brow.” “Sleep is my enemy,” Flo would say, never wanting to give it power over her, reading mysteries until light would break and then finally letting herself slip into dreamland. This stubbornness was hard wired in her. Once her mind was made up whether politics, or what was best for a family member (“You need to go to the doctor.”) or herself (“I do not need to go to the doctor.”), she dug in her heels, held her position and did not waver: It was all personal and, yet, she did not hold grudges, could move on (well, til the next stand your ground, fight to the death argument). And, because she was physically so strong with absurdly amazing healing powers (“...a Viking,” some said), she thumbed her nose at getting old, at her mortality. Though beset by many fears and anxieties her whole life, when it came to so many things, Flo was fearless. She was an independent spirit in the truest sense, an original and maverick. She was open to ideas and fields that were radical at the time, things that often became more acceptable, and even mainstream, eventually. She was an early champion and adopter of drug-free childbirth, breastfeeding, positive discipline child rearing, unadulterated foods, vitamin supplements, natural fibers, yoga and meditation, and alternative remedies. All this meant that she was often told that she was too idealistic, impractical and, even, rash. It was moral indignation that prompted her to climb into a paddy wagon eight months pregnant to vouch for a family friend who had left his wallet at home and was being charged with vagrancy. This was San Francisco’s North Beach in the 1950’s. Fifty years on she would speak righteously about Officer Bigaroni, “He was on beatnik patrol, cracking down on what he regarded as worthless loafers ... they were artists, poets, musicians, and students.” In 1958, her gut told her everything would be fine and Joe was born at home, unheard of in urban America at the time. “It was such an easy, fast delivery,” she repeated over the years, “that Lew barely had time to throw aside the guitar he was playing to sooth me during labor … the doctor arrived only in time to cut the cord.” Faith. During any hour, Flo’s Catholic faith and her laughter lifted her through many trying times. She was a devoted teacher of CCD in every parish of which the family was a member. Flo raised her children with the blessed sacraments, the teachings of Christ while also practicing Meditation of prayer -- a daily ritual learned in the 1970’s at the Easwaran’s Blue Mountain Center for Meditation in Petaluma in the 1970's. With her unwavering belief in Dorothy Day, the Catholic Worker in hand, Flo promoted peace. She took part in many social justice actions throughout her life, participating in marches for the strength and goodness of all humankind. Many friends and family members have fond memories of being collected up over the years to walk the talk with her. After she moved to Chico in 1994, she volunteered at the Peace and Justice Center, the Catholic Ladies Relief Society, the Food Bank, joined the Green Party, and worked for the Dennis Kucinich presidential campaign. When able, she supported the Southern Poverty Law Center, the ACLU, Amnesty International, and many other progressive causes. Her core values were based on compassion and respect for humanity and she remained a champion of the poor and marginalized her whole life. Discovering what made people tick was endlessly fascinating for Flo. She loved to dissect, analyze, and draw conclusions about everybody and anybody. Celebrities were particularly fun to put under the microscope. And, her kids were right there with her as willing sleuths and armchair psychologists. Information about where people grew up, with whom, ancestry, culture, religion, and astrological sign was drawn out with her sincere and incisive questioning. “I knew it,” she’d exclaim, discovering that the person was an ounce Polish or baptized Catholic or a Leo (her favorite sign in the zodiac). An introvert in the truest sense when it came to groups of people, she was outgoing and curious one on one with a stranger, soon-to-be-friend, in her living room or on a train. Debriefing after any trip - she rode the rails countless times on the Coast Starlight to the East Coast (Marblehead, MA, New Jersey and NYC) and back again, visiting her children, her brother, nieces and nephews in Oklahoma City and her many old and dear friends along the way - was full of vivid biographical details of the of individuals now added to the list of people she prayed for every day. There was no attention like Flo’s attention. She was the best listener in the world, “Oh, honey, tell me everything, no, start at the beginning …. you walked in, and then what?” Settling in and telling her the story of the day so far, the trip, the heartbreak or success was never rushed. Exuberant to share in a triumph and empathetic if emotionally more complicated, she was brilliant at sorting through, pulling gently at the knot of feelings, steering one to look at his or her part and move forward, have hope, heal. Then saying “how about a rootbeer float, kid?” And, when her children were in different cities, states, or countries: pressing phones against cheeks to hear their mother say, “It’ll be alright, you can do it, you are strong.” To be loved unconditionally, to be seen, believed in ... is a grace that her children share with those lucky enough to be their intimates. Flo had a story for everything, relating the current situation to something in her past, to people and events in her life or in books. She would laugh and commiserate with her friends Jocelyn, Cathy, Flo with half an eye on kids who swirled and tumbled around them with the occasional interruptions for arbitration, permission, or food. At one point, she was compelled to request that her fellow mothers resist the temptation to discuss their kids ad nauseum, “makes our brains mushy, and there is so much else going on in the world,” she said. “What kind of statement do I want to make today?” Flo told her daughter that she asked herself this daily before getting dressed. Growing up, Florence was proud of her figure and wore clothes well; she devoured the latest fashion magazines that came to the Quality Fur Shop. Shopping trips to Saint Paul were always a highlight for the women in the family. Often this included a hotel-stay, eating out, and, sometimes, a concert or the ballet. Early on she developed a chic all her own: simple lines, excellent fabrics, and surprising color combinations. She was most often at odds with the current fashion of her peers or her mother’s wish that she dress more femininely which she saw as unnecessarily fussy. Flo described in animated imagery favorite items of clothing from her youth: “the smart white linen sheath with the crisp sailor collar, a seafoam green, shot-silk taffeta evening dress, and the calf-length red, wool tartan, pleated skirt.” And, invariably, there was the story about the leopard fur coat her father made for her when she was twelve (so opulent then, so scandalous now) and how they redesigned it together for her adult size, elegant in its simplicity. Later second hand stores became treasure hunts as she ran her fingers along a rack of clothes, pulling out the cashmere, silk, and linen. Her love of clothes was passed on to her children who each developed their own distinctive style, some more flamboyant, others more classic but always with an eye toward quality. “It’s all in the cut of the fabric” one hears Flo’s melodic voice state, as she holds up yet another bit of designer platinum among the rack of castaways. The last two decades of Flo’s life were cushioned by the financial security made possible by an inheritance from her Aunt Florence. She was able to buy her dream “English Cottage” that checked all the boxes of a list honed after years of housing instability. Nestled behind overgrown foliage, it had hardwood floors, a fireplace, an open living plan, and easily accommodated her children and their growing families. It even had a pool. She spent those years immensely comfortable in a whirl of strong coffee, good food, old movies and popcorn, the New York Times, C-Span, dripping wet, “hongry” grandkids , public radio, brother Springer Spaniels Sam and Boz, Hercule Poirot, and marathon phone conversations with offspring living afar. In 2003 the family opened Cafe Flo. Until it was sold in 2008, every afternoon Flo made her way there to read the paper and check in with family and friends, often returning in the evening to hear music or poetry. She traveled first class to New York and Europe. The trip fulfilled lifelong dreams to breathe the air of her English heroes Shakespeare, Boswell and Johnson, Jane Austin, Virgina Wolf, and Dorothy Sayer, and to walk the hallowed paths of Oxford (Brideshead Revisited!). Crossing the Channel, Flo was up on deck, face whipped with sea spray, standing like an elder-maiden masthead pointed toward Paris. There, she indulged in the magic and romance of the land of Collette, Mattisse, Debussy, Isadora Duncan, and Paul Klee. Flo’s love for sporty, fast cars with the top down was a dramatic contradiction to the fact that she was a world class worrier. Yet, was exactly the right example of how she fretted non-stop about those she loved but for herself, well, she knew best, always in control, always in the driver’s seat. Her worry drove her children crazy, of course. How many times can one explain that personal calls at work are verboten no matter that she heard a “suspicious” cough. Or, how unnecessary it was, showing up at her 23 year old son’s front door, in the wee hours, because he lived in a bad neighborhood (her safety not a whit of concern as she stood on his porch at 2 a.m). Or, the sad irony of insisting, after much argument, on walking her adult daughter to the bus stop in Beverly Hills only to get her purse snatched walking back to her Aunt’s apartment. This worry is generational. Her father was the same, and his mother before him, and many of Flo’s children and grandchildren fall out this way too. She was sure of her omnipotence (“let go, let Flo,” one of her kids would tease), sure that she kept people safe, planes in the sky, and all sorts of other evils at bay. At the end of her life her worry-prayer list was over two hours long, “I will put you on my prayer list,” she would say. And…there they stayed. But horribly bad, tragic, forever-life-altering things do happen and the most devastating experience of her life was the transition of her grandson Nevin on June 18, 2017. Their bond was deep and wide, forged the day of his birth and cemented during her care of him starting at 18 months. Their days were full of everything, some non-negotiable (the New York Times, Kathy and Regis, naps), some up for discussion (Barney - never, Mr Rogers- always, soda - maybe). “How is my pal today?” she’d say arriving in the morning as his mom got ready for work. By the time she got home he could give a full report on world news as well as the latest from his aunts, uncles, and cousins (gleaned from grandma’s daily phone check-ins). He grew into a kind, loving, smart, gorgeous, funny, well-read, musically-gifted, brave, and complicated young man of whom his grandmother was crazy proud and who will 4-Ever be missed and loved and cherished. The year before she died, Flo’s nieces and nephew made the journey to Chico from Oklahoma City to spend time with their Aunt whose family legacy of unconditional love and humor was the same as their dad, Max, who had sadly died, too soon, many years before. Encircled in the hugs and stories and laughter Flo was over the moon. It was a beautiful tribute to her and to her brother and the generations of love that came before them and continues on in their children and grandchildren. Flo had always made the rounds, spending time with all her children in California, Idaho, and New Jersey but as she slowed down they made the trek to Chico. And, then, the last year of her life was spent in what was dubbed “The Queen’s Cottage.” It was twenty feet from Mary’s kitchen window and everyone took turns staying with her. Though her beautiful brain was beset by dementia, Flo was her proverbial loving, generous, cheerful, witty, feisty self. She always knew her children and grandchildren, asked about them, and as usual thrilled in getting every last detail of the goings on, “What’s the gossip,” she’d say. The smell of bacon, the sound of the coffee grinder, and the taste of buttery caramels, crisp cold watermelon, and lemon bars were pleasures that elicited her forever-quality of enthusiasm. “Carmen McCrae or Bill Evans?,” Catie would ask, “oh, of course, Carmen,” she would answer with satisfaction. There is a picture of Flo taken in Grass Valley in the early 2000’s. She is surrounded by a field of snow, her arms outstretched, face tilted to the sky, palms up, snowflakes melting on her Roman nose and Polish cheekbones. Moments before she had been awakened by a child’s sweet voice, “it’s snowing, Grandma Flo, it’s snowing.” Not wasting a second, she had thrown on her sheepskin bomber jacket (wrapping her in the romance and heroism of early fighter pilots) over her pajamas and headed outside...alive to the world, ready for what new joys the day held, her deep brown eyes sparkling...looking straight to heaven.