Obituary of Patricia H. Morrison

Patricia Helen O'Rourke Morrison peacefully departed this life on April 9, 2020, eleven days shy of her 92nd birthday. She died of natural causes unrelated to the current viral pandemic. She is survived by her daughter Ann Morrison of Scarborough, ME, her son William Morrison and daughter-in-law Dr. Beth Serniak of Fort Collins, CO, her son Patrick Morrison of Neshanic Station, NJ, her son James Morrison and daughter-in-law Mary O'Connor Morrison of Dingmans Ferry, PA, her son Matthew Morrison and daughter-in-law Dr. Marion Keckeissen Morrison of Raleigh, NC, her son Mark Morrison and daughter-in-law Lisa Schramm Morrison of Pipersville, PA, her son John Morrison of Franklinton, NC, her son Christopher Morrison and daughter-in-law Joie de Marie Morrison of Metuchen, NJ. She was pre-deceased by her husband, William J. Morrison, and her son, Thomas Morrison of Parsippany, NJ, her sister, Ann O'Rourke of Point Lookout, NY, her sister, Rose Yunker of Point Lookout, NY, and her sister, Grace Bartnett of Bethlehem Township, NJ. Patricia, or Pat, was a daughter, a sister to three, a wife to one, a mother to nine, a grandmother to 21, and a great-grandmother to five. She was a devoted friend to many. Her life was full and her passion for life helped fill the lives of many others. Pat was born on April 20, 1928. She was the fourth of four sisters (Ann, Rose, Grace, and Patricia). She was born in Manhattan to proud parents, Patrick and Elvira O'Rourke. She was raised in Astoria, NY. She was several years younger than her sisters, and allegedly received a good deal of sisterly pampering. Rumor has it her sisters protected Pat fiercely, but did on occasion chide her for being the spoiled baby of the family. In later years, though, all one could detect between and among them was the bloomed warmth of sisterly love. Patricia was a child of the Great Depression, born 18 months before Black Tuesday. She toddled through the row houses and back alleys of Astoria, minded by her sisters and mother, as the markets collapsed and stockbrokers fell in despair. Her parents had the foresight to buy a beach house in Point Lookout, NY. Patricia's childhood summers were halcyon days of bare feet and salty breezes along the South Shore, her winters were wool coats and Mary Janes beneath the towering Hells Gate bridge. Patricia came of age in the shadow of World War II. She was a thirteen-year old eighth grader at P.S. 122 in Astoria when Pearl Harbor was attacked in December, 1941. The war dragged on through her teens until the United States dropped atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki in August, 1945. By that time, Patricia was 17 and was preparing to enter her senior year at Julia Richman High School in Manhattan. In her yearbook she was noted to be "smiling, cheerful, always dependable. Nothing about her that's not commendable." Her sister Grace, a naval officer who had worked on code-breaking in the war, took time off to return home and encourage Patricia to pursue a college degree. With Grace's guidance, Pat attended NYU obtaining a Bachelor degree in Home Economics. She took a job at the Borden Company, working in its test kitchens. She even had a television spot where she demonstrated various recipes for the audience on live TV. At the request of a friend, Patricia attended a dance at Manhattan College. There she met Bill Morrison, a veteran home from World War II who was finishing up his engineering degree. They began to date. Bill would drive from his home in Long Island City out to Point Lookout to pick her up under the watchful eye of his future in-laws. Bill was smitten. They were married on November 28, 1953. Shortly thereafter, children began to come along. Thus began a great American partnership. The Morrisons had nine children in eleven years - Ann, William, Thomas, Patrick, James, Matthew, Mark, John and Christopher. Together the Morrisons raised the children -- changing diapers, cooking meals, assembling bicycles and erector sets, reading stories, bathing kids and lining up the crew at Sunday morning Mass. Bill and Pat moved their brood around a bit - from Whitestone, NY, to Andover, MA, to Chicago, IL, to West Caldwell, NJ, to Dallas, TX, to Parsippany, NJ. Along the way there were PTA meetings and cub scout jamborees, First Communions and Confirmations, birthday parties, Halloween trick-or-treating (in Pat's home-made costumes), July Fourth barbeques and Memorial Day Parades, Easter Egg hunts and Christmas mornings. Pat made sure all were welcome under her family's roof. Neighbors and their children always found the door open and the greetings warm. A local newspaper, The Caldwell Progress, featured an article about Patricia and the growing Morrison clan entitled "The More the Merrier." The idea for the article was inspired by a reporter watching a woman wind her way through a supermarket with a train of children trailing behind her. For a time Pat participated in a church program where she invited children from the local orphanage into her house for the Christmas holidays. On Christmas morning, she had presents ready for her guests under the tree. She dressed the children for church and the Morrisons hosted them for a Christmas dinner of ham, with pie and gingerbread men for dessert. They became her own children, if only for a few days. Pat eventually had to stop participating in the program. Returning the children to the orphanage after New Year's day broke her heart. Patricia made sure her children lived full lives. She watched the lunar landing with kids in her lap. She made sure they went off the diving boards, body-surfed, watched Star Trek and Disney, read books, and could kick a ball, catch one with a mitt, or toss one through a hoop. She made a sport out of picking wild blackberries or blueberries or apples for pies. She instilled reverence for elders and teachers, but also nurtured self-confident independence. She made them work for their money, encouraging paper routes, leaf-raking, rock-wall construction and babysitting. Pat stretched a home economic dollar further than it had a right to stretch. How did she do it? Alchemy? We are not sure. It involved using powdered milk, a few loaves of home-made whole wheat bread (on snowy days), patched blue jeans, and oatmeal cookies. Something was always cooking in her kitchen, and she always included a pinch of optimism and a smidge of laughter. When the family moved back to New Jersey in 1971, Pat and Bill had a house built. Bill, the engineer, designed the house to Pat's specifications. A colonial. Big. Center-hall. Stairs that were double-wide so kids could go up while others came down. A laundry chute from the second floor down into the basement laundry room (no baskets on the stairs). A kitchen that stretched on and on. A spacious living room and dining room. Six bedrooms and five bathrooms. It was a house built to her specifications and it was her home for nearly 50 years. (Pat breathed her last in that house, in a bed, just off the kitchen, while holding her son's hand.). She and Bill kept their clan safe through the Cuban Missile Crisis and the Vietnam War, through Watergate and the Cold War, through economic booms and busts. Through it all, she persevered in her pursuit of a better life for her kids. She never bought that pink Cadillac of which she claimed to dream. She never went on her "someday" trip to Ireland with her husband. She and Bill traded those dreams in for tuition payments to Catholic grade schools, high schools, and Colleges (She sent seven sons through Manhattan College – that same school that gave her a husband years ago). Several went on to obtain graduate degrees. Her last tuition payment was sent to Fordham University School of Law in 1991. Final score in years of tuition paid? Christian Brothers 28 - Jesuits 3. Over the years she worked for Nabisco and tested recipes for her friend Rosemary McCoy (a friend from her Borden Days), a free-lance home economist. She tested many newfangled items including bread-baking machines, ice cream makers and microwaves. She had a captive crew of unpaid and sometimes reluctant taste-testers, including husband Bill and nine children. Patricia knew great loss in her life. Thomas, her 20 year-old son, was killed in a car accident in 1978. While dealing with her own pain at the loss, she never let herself neglect the others in her life. She was a source of strength for all. In 1985, Patricia lost her husband and partner-in-mayhem. Bill died of cancer, leaving 57-year old Pat behind. The retirement they planned and deserved evaporated. Pat had two sons still in college and a new responsibility for independently managing her own finances. She pulled together information on her pension money and savings and began to take classes in personal finance. She arranged regular meetings with her sister, Rose (a recent widow herself), in the financial district in New York. They would have a nice lunch, then go roll over or invest anew in some tax-free government bonds. Widow financiers. When grandchildren started to arrive, Patricia lost no speed.To her grandchildren she was a baby-sitter and a playmate, a soft disciplinarian and a willing participant in much of their hijinx. There is no doubt her greatest joy was seeing a child smile. She slowed over the years, but she kept her optimism and wit. Somewhere along the line, her now long-grown children started calling her "Lady." That may sound like a term of royalty, high society or privilege. When used properly, though, the term "Lady" hearkens back to Pat's days in Queens where cab-drivers yell things like "Hey lady! Where ya headed?" Pat got a kick out of her nickname. Despite its humble etymology, "Lady" became a moniker reflecting our deepest affection. Patricia has left us behind now. Many are heartbroken, but we are at least heartbroken together. For that we can thank our dear Mom. She gave us herself. And she gave us each other. Rest in peace, Lady. Rest in peace. In lieu of flowers, please consider a donation of time or money to a local Foodbank/Soup Kitchen or Catholic elementary school.