Rash, Marguerite “Mickey” Edith (nee Miller)
August 13, 1926 – February 8, 2020
Age 93 of St. Paul. For more than 93 years, every person Micky met became a friend. A ten-minute trip to the store for a half-gallon of 1% and a box of animal crackers? That’s code for an hour-long catch-up with the manager who just had another baby, this one a girl—finally; the cashier with the high-spirited wheaten, just like Doogie; the bagger moving on to Notre Dame in the fall. Close friendships that started in adolescence outlasted hairstyles and decorating fads, traversed both decades and time zones, and survived marriages and births—and deaths—of children. Friendships that started in middle and older age were no less precious, no less nurtured. A phone call to a friend or a grandchild would turn into winding tales of who was doing what where and with whom, “You really should keep in touch.” Always the glue.
Micky Rash was called home on Saturday, February 8, 2020, in Saint Paul, Minnesota, after a brief illness. Her granddaughter and her Lord were by her side. Preceded in death by the love of her life, Bill; their daughter Sandie; their sons George (Ted), Bill Jr, and Donald; and their grandson Luke. She is survived by numerous grandchildren, great-grandchildren, nieces, nephews, other relatives, and dear friends.
Born to working-class parents in Chicago, Illinois, right before the Great Depression, she spent most of her childhood and adolescence in foster care after her parents died of illness. Perhaps it was this moving from house to house that engendered her desire to befriend those she met and to make others feel special, wanted. In one of those houses, there was already a “Marguerite,” so she became, and remained, “Micky.” When her husband of 62 years, Bill, was nearing the end of his life, he would look to whomever else was in the room, and smile and say, “Where’s the Mick?” and there she would be, never far away. He’d pull handfuls of animal crackers out of his pockets, and she’d wait until his back was turned and then scoop them back into the box. He’d go get more, and she’d wait and then scoop them back in again.
Micky loved her family and friends without measure. She loved and lived by the word of God and held onto her faith in times of need and, more significantly, in times of joy. She adored animals, wheaten terriers especially. She was a horrible driver (remember that time when she and Bill got into a two-car accident—with each other?). She could talk for hours about Gilmore Girls. She took her grandkids swimming in the Southern California sun all summer even though she was terrified of drowning. She made every phone call an occasion. She was stubborn. She turned the negative into the positive, and she skipped over the bad parts to see the good. Some might call that blindness, but we call it optimism, resilience, and devotion. She called it love.
A service will be held later this spring. In lieu of flowers, please consider donating to Lyngblomsten Care Center in St Paul.