Category: Fathers

21May

To Brandon, with love.

Michael and son Brandon – Halloween 1991

Today marks the tenth anniversary of Michael Corrier’s death, my husband of 11 years.

I hesitate to publicly acknowledge this date out of concern and respect for my husband Charlie. But, he’s mature and understands that this day is still a day that I stop and remember a man; a great man that was in my life for many years. Just because I have had the good fortune to meet and marry Charlie, doesn’t diminish the good years I had with Michael. 

Ten years is a long time to go without seeing someone, or talking to someone. Their voice becomes distant, their presence becomes less, their name comes up less often, and sometimes, the people around you never even knew that person.

Life goes on, with or without us.

And as true as those statements are, I stand firm in the belief that Michael Corrier is a man that will be missed and thought of for as long as some of us have a breath left in us.

In less than two weeks Michael’s son Brandon will be getting married to an absolutely wonderful woman named Kelsey. The Save the Date magnet has been stuck proudly front and center on my refrigerator for months now; only to be replaced recently  with the wedding invitation.

Brandon and Kelsey have been making preparations for months. The dress. The venue. The non traditional wedding cake. All the fun things (and some not so fun things) that it takes to host such an event.

And as happy and excited as I am for them, I’m so sad that his Dad will not be there to witness his son getting married. That moment of pride when a father looks over at his son standing at the alter, most likely remembering the day his son was born, his first steps, and so many other milestones that we are privileged to witness as parents. Mike won’t be there for that moment when Brandon watches his beautiful bride walk down the aisle. Standing in for Michael as best man will be Shane, my son, Brandon’s step brother. 

So let me tell you about this man named Brandon.

He came into my life in 1998 when his dad and I married. I thought step-parenting of two young kids would be a breeze. Boy was I wrong.

Just because I was ready to be a stepmother, didn’t mean that Michael’s children were ready to be stepchildren. I was met with reluctance and resentment. When Brandon and his younger sister Heather were with us, they missed their mom, and quite frankly, they didn’t want to be there with us.

Much of our first year of marriage was spent trying to adjust to being part time parents. (Shane had recently moved in with his own Dad).

Even though things weren’t ideal, we all got into a pattern, a routine. It made it easier that Brandon and Heather made friends with some of our neighborhood children. Summers were spent at the pool, cookouts, sleepovers; life as a stepmother, and life as a stepchild became easier, less stressful – and yes, eventually, actually enjoyable.

Michael always looked forward to seeing his children.  He would make it a point to stock up on groceries, look for movies to watch with them, anything to be able to spend time with them. I loved watching him interact with his kids; conversations that would take place over dinner, tucking them into bed at night; he loved being their dad.

I watched Brandon go from a little boy to an awkward adolescent (as most adolescents are). When he turned 13 or so he asked to come live with us. Thankfully, his mother agreed –  and that’s when I became his full time stepmother. Coincidentally, around the same time, Shane came back home to live with us.

Boy was my plate suddenly full! And awesome!

Those few years that Brandon lived with us is when I came to know him much better. Every morning I would take him to school. We had about a 25 minute commute – and don’t judge – but we bonded over listening to Mancow’s Morning Madhouse on the radio. In case you don’t who that his – Mancow is the name of a radio host that was loud, opinionated, irreverent, and sometimes inappropriate. It was mine and Brandon’s guilty pleasure.

As teenagers almost all of us go through a time when our dress or our hair (or both), drive our parents crazy. And Brandon was no exception.

All of his clothes were black. From his hat down to his shoes. With the exception of his gold chain that kept his wallet attached to his jeans. Goth, I guess… but it drove us crazy!

Thankfully, he grew out of that phase.

High school. Rugby team. Good grades. First job. First car. Graduation.

And then one weekend Brandon went out of town with some friends. And his stepfather had to make the impossible call in the middle of the night to Brandon.

“You need to come home. Your dad died tonight.”

Shocked.

We were all shocked by what happened. Suicide. Oh my God, why?

I believe that night Brandon became a man.

At the funeral service he bravely got up in front of everyone; steadily, without hesitation, never faltering.  He talked to this group of friends and family about his dad. About Michael’s  never ending love of family. Of friends. And his children.  Brandon talked about how his dad was always the last one to sit down for dinner, making sure everyone had everything they needed. He spoke of his love for his father. His generosity. The way he hugged, the way he loved.

I have never been more proud of Brandon than I was that night.

That was 10 years ago.

I have watched Brandon grow into one of the finest human beings on this planet. He could’ve used his dad’s death as a crutch, or an excuse not to succeed in life. Any lesser person would have. But he didn’t.

Brandon stayed by my side in the darkest of times, even while dealing with his own grief; when there were no answers to the questions. No rhyme, no reason. And even though we were “technically” not related any longer, he has never not been my son, and I have never not been his stepmother. He made the choice to stay in our lives after his father passed away, and for that I am eternally grateful.

This fine young man has completed college (he and Shane graduated on the same day). He has continued to advance in his career. And now, he will be marrying the love of his life.

We miss Michael. Some of us always will.

But I have been blessed to have a part of him continue to be with me through his son.

Michael’s legacy.  Brandon Michael Corrier.

So, next Saturday, as champagne filled glasses are raised and toasts are made, I will raise my glass and silently toast to Michael and the son he left behind.

Cheers to father and son. Cheers to your legacy Michael. You would be so proud of him, I know I am.

Wish you were here to see it all.

07Feb

Monkey see, Monkey do, I am my Father’s daughter

For the first twelve years of my life my mother was a housewife. That’s what they were called in the 1960’s. Today, we would refer to her as homemaker or a stay at home mom, but back then, it was housewife.

I give my mother credit for the love I have for a neat and tidy home. Keeping a clean home was important to her, and as children; we were given household jobs to contribute to the maintaining of a clean and orderly home.

My mother had the good fortune of having a  dear friend Shirley that lived across the street. After her morning chores were done, my mother would put my brother John in a fresh diaper, grab her cigarettes, and head over to Shirley’s house for a time of talking, coffee drinking, smoking, and adult company.

Shirley had a daughter Lee Ann that was John’s age, which worked out great for the moms. All my life, I have chased after the hopes that one day, I could have a friend, neighbor, that I could duplicate that relationship that Shirley and my mother had.

I was around nine years old at the time and I loved to accompany my mom and my brother to Shirley’s house. I would play “teacher”, reading to the younger ones, drawing on the chalkboard, or coloring with them; basically being their boss.

Perhaps a year down the road, Shirley gave birth to a son. I remember the first time (possibly the last time) I was given permission to hold him.  Of course I had to sit squarely on the sofa, getting instructions from my mother, “support his head”, “keep him covered up”, all the things nervous adults tell children.

For the first few minutes Billy peacefully laid there in my arms while I soaked in his sweet baby smells, touching his soft newborn hands, and stroking his downy soft hair. He then began to squirm, and shortly after, he began to cry. I looked  squarely into his eyes and without any regard to my surroundings, in the company of my mother and Shirley,  and said, “Quit crying you son-of-a-bitch!” In my defense, I had NO idea what a bitch was, let alone a son-of-a-bitch. I just knew that I had heard my daddy say it PLENTY of times out of frustration for one thing or another. My mother reeled in mortified disbelief and shock while Shirley grabbed her innocent son from my cradled arms. My mom in a desperate attempt to save some sort of face said, “Cathy Rhea, where have you heard that kind of talk?” To my mother’s embarrassment, I calmly replied, “Daddy says it all the time.”

Needless to say, I learned quickly that was not an acceptable thing to call a babe in arms.

I get a laugh when I think of this story, but keep in mind, my Daddy has always said that I would laugh at a funeral. I’ve always taken that as a compliment, because to me it shows that I look for the humor in life.

What is life without a few embarrassing moments, without a few experiences you would like to sweep under the carpet? I choose to hold on to those moments if for no other reason but to keep my humility in check.

Keeping it real 24-7,

Cat

02Jan

For Trish; In Memory of Wayne

Wayne & Trish Wolfenbarger

Wayne & Trish Wolfenbarger

Wayne and Trish Wolfenbarger (along with their three doppelgänger children, Ashley, Brooke, and Gunnar),  came into our   lives in the late 1990’s. There was only one condo that separated our large families (apologies to Mr. & Mrs Casey.) Michael and I were still practically newlyweds and adjusting to our blended family when our families were introduced.

I remember when they moved in. Truck after truck, load after load kept being delivered and unloaded.  I watched with curiosity. Just how many people  and just how much stuff can fit and live in this small three bedroom condominium?

Michael, being the social butterfly that he was,  just had to make a beeline over to meet the new neighbors while all of the unloading and unpacking was taking place.  I, on the other hand, wanted to leave them in peace and allow them to move in, get settled, and perhaps one day, get acquainted. But that was always a difference between Michael and I. He was more “in your face” – I was more.. well, not. And in true Michael fashion, everyone seemed to appreciate his approach.

I am proud to say that Wayne & Trish and three of the most adorable children you ever laid your eyes on became our dear friends.  Our children became fast friends. Our homes became hubs to children going in and out,  laughing, screaming, seemingly always hungry for snacks. There was always a child spending the night with another child. It was busy, it was chaotic, but looking back, I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

Shane, Brandon, Gunner, Heather & Brooken1998.

Shane, Brandon, Gunnar, Heather & Brooke – 1998 (Where was Ashley?)

 

Ashley, Brooke, and Hannah (Grigsby) performing the Macarena. The parents were constantly being treated to performances)

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If you don’t mind, stop and listen to this song. I believe with all of my heart if Wayne ever had a song for his loving wife Trish, it would be this song.

Let me tell you about this amazing couple.  When I met them, honestly I can’t tell you how long they had been married. At that point in time when we first met, they had already fused together as one. I don’t mean that didn’t have separate personalities, they did – clearly, they did. Wayne was soft spoken. His style was slow, it was easy, it was well thought out. And Trish, well, Trish was more like me. She felt things stronger, more powerful, and in truth (for both of us), more exaggerated. But they conducted themselves as one unit. They ebbed, they flowed. One didn’t make a move without the other. And oh, how they loved one another! I can close my eyes and remember the many, many times I caught them gazing into each other’s eyes – the love, the devotion, the respect, and the commitment was clearly evident.  Theirs was a love to pattern a relationship over.

And one more thing, all of “that stuff” that went into that small condominium – well, Trish turned it into a home for their family. Everywhere you looked, it was home. It was comfortable, it was lived in. She loved Americana, and those touches she added to their home made it more special than any professional decorator could’ve done.

We spent several years in that community. We watched our children mature. We experienced great times, and we endured troubling times. But through it all, we managed to raise up some really great kids and still have strong marriages to show for it.

I can’t recall now if Michael and I moved away first or if Wayne and Trish moved away first, but in the end, each family went their own way. We got busy, we lost touch.

You all know that Michael unexpectedly took his life in 2009. Not long after that (through Facebook) I was reacquainted with Trish and her children. We swapped stories, we caught up, promising to visit soon. Time has a way of getting away from us. We have good intentions, really we do. It seems the next thing I know I hear that Wayne is sick – with cancer.

Personally, of all the words in the dictionary, I hate the “C” word almost as much as any other word I know. And when I heard how serious this monster had attacked Wayne’s body, it made me sick. Although no one “deserves” to have cancer, no one “deserved” it less than Wayne. By the time I got over to the Wolfenbarger’s house to bring a meal, I had waited too late to see Wayne. He was too sick for visitors. However, I did get to visit Trish and her amazing children. They were just as I had remembered (although the children were grown adults now). They were the family Musketeers – all for one, and one for all. This family has never wavered in their devotion to one another.

One year ago tomorrow will be the first anniversary of Wayne Wolfenbarger’s passage into heaven. I have in some ways dreaded this for Trish and her family as it will conjure up the memories of the loss of this wonderful man. Quite frankly, these kind of anniversaries  suck – I can’t think of a more poignant way of expressing it.

But what I hope, and what I pray, is that this anniversary will highlight for this family all the love, and all the warmth, and all  the special times that Wayne brought to this world and our lives. He loved his wife beyond measure, he treasured his children beyond compare. What greater legacy could a man leave behind? Nothing…  nothing.

Wayne Wolfenbarger you are a man to be remembered. A man to be respected, and a man that we will never forget.

Send Michael my love.

Missing you,

Cat Corrier 

21Dec

The List

I have so many fond memories of my Daddy, this man that helped mold and shape the person that I am today. The example that he set for us, the life that he led, was a shining light in which we patterned our lives after.

This December is the 2nd anniversary of his passing. His absence is always more pronounced this time of year. The holidays have a way of conjuring up memories and reliving moments in time.  I want to share a story about my Daddy that always makes me smile and always makes me feel special.

When Terri and I were 8 – 10 years old or so, we saw a grocery list lying on the kitchen counter waiting for Daddy. On the list there were the usual items; milk, bread, and so on, written in my mother’s distinctive cursive handwriting. While no one was looking, (the sneaky snakes that we were), Terri and I added to the list (in our own distinct script),

  • cookies
  • candy
  • ice cream

Cautiously, and undetected, we placed the list back on the counter where we found it. Much to our surprise, when Daddy returned home from the grocery, he had bought ALL of the items on the list, including the goodies that Terri and I had added. When we told Daddy it was us that added the “good stuff” on the list, he grinned and acted surprised.

Now, as an adult, I think back about when Daddy saw that list for the first time. He knew he had a choice; Do I do the practical thing and ignore this obvious addendum, perhaps scold them for their attempted deception,  or do I indulge my girls and make them feel special? He did the right thing, because this memory is an indelible part of my being. The cookies , the candy, the ice cream (although a big deal at the time), took a back seat to the way my Daddy made me feel at the time.

Now I ask, how many parents would do that for their children?

Every day I miss this man.

Cat