Month: July 2014

26Jul

A love story: Part 1

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Naivety can sometimes get us to a point where knowledge and experience can not carry us. This is where the story of my beloved dachshund Tony begins.

MICHAEL AND CATHY SITTING IN A TREE

     Michael and I were newlyweds in May of 1998. He was as freshly divorced as he was freshly faced. My handsome new husband was young, energetic, adventurous, and oh yes, 33 years old. His son was eight and his daughter was almost seven. That would make me, “the older woman”. In 1998, I was 9 years his senior with two almost adult daughters (both out of the nest), and an 11 year old son. I had two divorces under my belt and had been on my own for the last four years.

     Michael and I were co-workers at the local utility company where we had known one another for many years. As time went by, our paths crossed intermittently and in to the last year before our first date, the attraction was something that could no longer be denied. Shortly thereafter, I guess you could say, the rest is history .

     We dove into marriage and lost ourselves in the blissful state of new love. After four years of being a single parent, I relished having another adult in the house. We cooked together, me chopping onions, him chopping green peppers, we cleaned together (yes, a man can clean toilets). We laughed, and yes, we cried. Sometimes we cried because we felt so blessed to have found one another, and sometimes it was the heartbreak of one of his children crying on the other end of the telephone for him. In those many times of comforting my husband over missing his children, never in a million years did I realize that soon he would be holding me while I mourned over my son moving in with his father.

     It hit me like a ton of bricks, knocking the breath out of me , no, knocking the life out of me. My son Shane, only 11 years old, had decided that he would prefer to live with his father. Only after a court hearing, was it official. Shane moved out in November 1998 and my world collapsed. Michael was at a loss of how to help me. My children had been my world, and suddenly, my motherhood was taken away. I prayed, “Dear God, was it too much to have my child AND a good husband? Was that too much to ask for?” Never in my life until now had I been angry with my Maker.

     For the next several months, going home to an empty nest was just too much to take. We would stop for dinner after work, we joined a gym, we got to know our neighbors, and yet, in the end, we would come home and the house would be empty. No signs of life except for whatever we had left in the  morning, maybe an empty glass, a towel on the floor, but that’s about all. So, Michael and I grew together, out of love, and out of sorrow for our absent children.

    Out of sorrow, comes rebirth. After denial, comes acceptance.

GOTTA GETCHA SOME

     It was slow, it was an evolution, but eventually, Michael and I began to function as a couple that had a full time marriage and part time children. We arranged it where our children stayed with us on the same weekends and we began to look forward to not only the on weekends, but the off weekends as well. Still, during the week, it was really difficult coming home to an empty house. We had always been caretakers of children, and that’s a hard habit to break.

     On Easter morning of 1999, while sitting out on our back patio, the conversation turned to pets, dogs specifically. Michael had grown up with pets in the home. He felt like dogs filled up a home with warmth, energy, and companionship. When he moved from his children’s home, he left behind a beloved dog named Mollie. He missed her. He never toyed with the idea of bringing her with him, because his children loved her too. So, we decided on that Easter morning that we would get a dog. Watching my husband talk about having a four legged addition to our family made his eyes light up. His excitement was contagious and I found myself wanting my own arms filled with a puppy. We opened the Sunday newspaper and fervently began scavenging the wants ads for puppies. I can’t recall how or why, but we got it in our minds that we wanted a dachshund (or as we Southerners say, a weenie dog). Toby Keith, a country artist, had a song out called, “Getcha Some”. Michael and I came up with our own verse, “Gotta Getcha Some…. weenie dog”. It made us both laugh, and it became an inside joke for years.

     Our newspaper search led us to only one possible lead. Michael called the seller of the litter of dachshunds and agreed to meet her in North Carolina that afternoon. We had decided to get a male. I stayed behind to get ready for the work week ahead. I was excited that in a few short hours, Michael would be walking back through our door with a puppy! I anxiously awaited a phone call that he had gotten there safely and had picked out the new member of our family. When the call finally came, it wasn’t what I had expected. He explained to me that upon his arrival only two puppies were left, both males. He couldn’t  decide which one to get. To my surprise, I blurted out, “Get them both, they need to stay together”.  And that’s exactly what he did. A few hours later, Michael walked through the door with not one, but two black and tan puppies.

     Love comes in all shapes, sizes, and lengths.

IGNORANCE IS BLISS, OR IS IT? 

        Two people could not have been more unprepared to bring puppies into their home than the two of us were. An infant could had as easily been left in a basket on our doorstep. Our excitement about the thought of having a puppy clearly outweighed the reality that not only did we not have a fence to put them in while we were at work, but when did we plan on housebreaking these pups? For the time being, we quickly decided that they would stay in the kitchen during the day, and then in the spare bathroom at night. The following weekend, Michael would construct a pen for them in the back yard before permantley installing a privacy fence. We, however, had to get through the first night. Our first few hours with them were fun. We played on the floor. We got puppy kisses. We took them outside and watched them pounce on the fresh new grass of the season. We did our best to get “potties” out of them before coming in for the night. The Sunday newspaper which ironically is where we found these new loves, was placed on the bathroom floor, a blanket from our bed was carefully placed in the corner for them to sleep. Michael felt sure that the scent of us would help them find comfort and they would settle in for the night. We placed them into their impromptu bed, closed the bathroom door, and naively, if not smugly, retired for the evening.

     It had been a full day for the two of us, and we were admittedly exhausted. Minutes after crawling into bed, the sound of scratching on the bathroom door and the whimpering of two scared little puppies, carried throughout the house. We tried our best to ignore it. Michael reassured me that they would soon go to sleep. He was wrong, so wrong. We tossed, we turned, we tried to tune it out. Just as if they were infants left crying in a crib, I could not ignore it. Against my husband’s advice, I went in and checked on these unnamed creatures. And there they were, those big eyes looking up at me, so helpless. I walked in and closed the door behind me. All I knew to do was to lie down with them on that paper lined bathroom floor and try to comfort them. They quickly nestled into that blanket with me, cradled themselves next to my heart, and went to sleep. That’s all they wanted, human comfort, human touch. Thoroughly exhausted, I found myself slipping into sleep. Yes, on that bathroom floor, yes with these two silly little pups that I had only known for a few short hours.

     The bathroom door opened, it was Michael. He caught the sight that later he would say endeared me to him even more. He scooped up the boys and said, “Love, lets go to bed, all of us”.  He placed the boys on our bed, and wrapped them in that same blanket. We all slept until daybreak when Michael and I were awakened with kisses to the face, reminding us that we would never again be alone in our home.

Let not your hear be troubled, neither let it be afraid.

….. to be continued.

Cat

19Jul

A Sister’s Gift

This is my outrageously beautiful sister Terri Lee.

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My hero, my rock, my person.

We were not especially close growing up,  but as we grew into adulthood, we formed not only a friendship, but a bond that sealed our status as best friends. It hasn’t always been easy. We had children, we went through bad marriages that ultimately ended in divorces.  Sometimes we simply didn’t have the time to devote to one another. But even in those sparse times, I never doubted the depth of our devotion to one another.

When my husband Michael took his life in 2009, Terri and I had not been communicating much. In truth, I was wrapped up in my marriage, my children.  Although Terri had gone through a very difficult break up, I had not really been there for her. It wasn’t intentional, but a failure on my part to be there for her just the same.

When Terri got the call in the middle of the night from my son Shane that something terrible had happened with Michael,  it took her a bit in those foggy moments to realize that it was Shane and that I needed her. Her sister instincts kicked in, and this woman, this amazing woman, hardly left my side for one solid year after that tragic night. Forget the fact that I had failed her during her difficult time, she never hesitated to be there for me.

During that year my sister witnessed my pain, my broken heart, my anger, my self doubt. She endured my tears, my questions that had no answers. She put her life on hold to be there for me.  Even though you could call it the worst of times, in its bittersweet truth, it was the best of times. We took trips;  summer at the beach, Christmas in Charleston.  Terri introduced me the into the world of photography (she has that photographer’s eye). She taught me to see beauty and quirky and oddity through a camera lens. We took trips just to shoot, her with the finest equipment, me with my simple point and shoot. In truth, I don’t know what would have become of me had it not been for that time with my sister. There was healing that was taking place that I couldn’t see in the making.

And for reasons that I will not disclose, our relationship became fractured. We were both hurt. We hurt each other. We said things that I never dreamed we would ever heal from.

We held our distance for six long months.

During that time, I became roommates with a long time friend. I became active in painting classes, I forged new friendships. That was when I decided that along with these new beginnings, to change from being Cathy to simply, Cat. I’ve always had a few people in my life that would call me Cat, and it always evoked a sense of closeness, like an inner circle. So why not at this new time in my life to simply begin introducing myself as Cat. And so it began. I even changed my name on Facebook to Cat Corrier. I knew that it was possible for change to happen. Many years ago the friend I had known as Martha for as long as I had known her, decided after her mother passed away that she wanted to be called Martie. I never thought I would get used to it… but I did. Now I can’t hardly recall a time when she was known as Martha.  So I knew it could be done, change could happen.

Those six months without my sister in my life were tough, but I held on to my anger like a life preserver. I held on to my resentment as pain relief. I was stubborn. I knew that Terri was going through some life changing events of her own, but I refused to be the first one to appear weak, to be the vulnerable one to make the first act of reconciliation.  Terri made the first move, and in reality, made her the strong one, made her the brave one.

It was a birthday card from her. Simple. But I crumbled, and I cried from relief that this void in my life was over. We spent my birthday unpacking her belongings into her new apartment. We really didn’t want to talk about that thing that kept us apart for six months, so we didn’t.

The next time we were in a social situation together (we had discovered a local sports bar in her area), I introduced myself to the gentleman next to me as Cat. Terri quickly intervened, dispelled the notion that my name was Cat…. and that was the end of that. She would have nothing to do with this so called name change. The sister had spoken. And although in my writings, and in my signature on my silly little paintings, I am Cat Corrier, I had  resigned myself to the fact that I am stuck with Cathy.

This year (2014) marks the third year of my reconciliation with my sister. We have had an incredible three years. Lazy days at the pool, grilling at The Bistro (it’s the grill pad at her apartment that Terri marked as her territory), nights at “The Dog” (our local hangout) and countless hours on FaceTime. Not a day goes by that we don’t communicate in one form or another.

So, this year when my birthday rolled around and I opened my gift from her, it was an embroidered beach towel especially made for me:

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Years ago I was asked if I would rather be accepted or understood. My instinctual answer was I would rather be understood. But the more I thought about it, the more I leaned toward accepted. Because to be accepted goes beyond the reach of being understood. It means, “I may not understand you (or your reasonings, or your way of thinking, or your choices), but I accept you regardless.”  And that’s what that embroidered towel meant to me.

Of course, in my sister’s eye I will always be Cathy.. and that’s ok. But if someone else calls me Cat in front of her, she will respect it.. or at least suck it up and let me have my moment.

Cat

 

 

05Jul

Helen Ruth

She was beautiful, she was complicated, she was strong willed, she wore a veil of many layers,  she was my mother, my Mama.

A few days ago marked the 20th anniversary of my mother’s death. She lived almost a year after her 1993 diagnosis of lung cancer. In that short year is the most vulnerable I had ever seen my mom. I witnessed her fears, her illness, her helplessness. This was not the mother that I had known for 36 years.

Helen Ruth Jett was born on January 6, 1930. By the time she was 22, she was divorced with two young sons, Michael and Rocky. I don’t know the details of her first marriage, other than the fact that her husband lacked maturity, and well, sort of liked the bottle.  After her marriage failed, my mother moved back in with my grandparents.  I feel sure that she didn’t have an easy time being a single mother of two.  She didn’t really talk about it while I was growing up, but I did hear few stories of her life as a 1950’s divorce’.

Like the night her date walked her to the door after an evening together. They were standing under the front porch light (that my grandmother had strategically left on), he pulls her close (a little too close for her comfort), and says, “Don’t fight it baby, it’s bigger than the both of us”! My mother couldn’t help but laugh him off, go in the house and give up on dating forever. But, somehow, through the hand of God (I’m convinced), my parents met through mutual friends, dated for six months, and ultimately, got married on June 6, 1953.

Helen Ruth & Ray Howard - Wedding Day

Ray Howard & Helen Ruth-Wedding Day

 

I can’t be sure what my parent’s expectations were when they married, except that the two of them, along with my brothers, would move in together and live happily ever after. That didn’t happen. My brothers, at that point, had lived most of their young lives at my grandparent’s house (particularly, under my grandmother’s influence). Trusting solely on what I believe as a person, most everyone on earth has at least a few redeeming qualities as human beings. That belief gets me through some days, and helps me tolerate the world in general. However, to hear my mother speak, my grandmother possessed  very few of these qualities. In those years that my mother had to rely on the goodwill of her parents, my grandmother gladly stepped out of the role of grandparent to Michael and Rocky, and gradually became “Mama” to them. They actually called my mother, well, “Mother”.  So, even with all the efforts of my parents, my brothers decided they were most happy and most at home to continue to live with “Mama” and “Daddy Bill” (my grandfather).

Surely, my mom was heartbroken about it, but by the time I came along in 1956, it was just a matter of fact. My mother never spoke to me about her feelings of this, even as I matured into an adult myself. Maybe it was because I never asked her. Maybe it was just life as we knew it and we just kept on living it.

Those was the early years of Helen Ruth. I will continue writing about her another time. My wish is that I had known her more as a person, and less as a mother. I never really understood her. She was not openly affectionate, I can only recall one time that she told me that she loved me. She could be distant, and on more than one occasion I felt like she wished that she was somewhere else.

Just last night, I was talking to my sister Terri (you will hear that name quite frequently in my future writings). I was sharing with her about wanting to write about our mother. I told her about Friday night and how after 2 hours at my Mac, I had managed to write only 14 words. I was stuck. Terri then shared with me a book that she had bought for Mama for Mother’s Day 1992. It was a fill-in-the blank “Grandmother Remembers” memoir. The idea was to learn more about our mother by her filling out questions about her childhood, parents, marriage, children…etc. Our mother was reluctant, but at the urging and insistence of my sister, she filled in just some of the questions. To be precise, our mother dictated while Terri hand wrote the answers. Most of it was pretty straight forward, names, dates of birth, marriages. But under the heading,”As a young girl“, my mother answered the question, “At home I was expected to“, and she answered, “Stay out of Mama’s way. We had to stay outside while she took a nap”.

I was humbled, I was saddened by those words, and yet, it brought a clearer understanding of why she was the way she was. “Stay out of Mama’s way”. I think that was the nature of her growing up years. And sadly, my mother duplicated many of the same maternal traits as her own mother.

Please don’t misunderstand. I value my mother,  she was a good woman, she took care of her family, in her own way she loved us beyond measure. I will always love her, forever miss her, and hold dear that she was, after all, my giver of life.

Helen Ruth Jett Turner. 1930 – 1994.

 

 

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Helen Ruth