Category: fifty something

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

 

 

 

29Jun

Dear Mr. Free-Man

I understand that you are now out in the land of the free, the home of the newly single. Welcome to the land of opportunities, where so many single women wait on the sideline as in a 7th grade dance.

Let me guess, you were married for 30 some odd years. Alongside your wife, you were blessed with 2, maybe 3 beautiful children. Oh how proud you were! Those little miniatures of you and your wife! What a miracle! You watched those babies grow, cherished by their mother. Maybe you witnessed your wife battling those few extra pounds after number 1 was born. Maybe you saw her doing sit-ups after the baby was asleep, perhaps you saw her pass up her favorite dessert in spite of her overwhelming desire to have that instant gratification. And surprise, just a short time later, and just a few pounds short of her goal weight, she is expecting another child! As time goes by, you notice that your wife (although still precious) is a little softer around the middle, her clothes although a few sizes larger, are not as form fitting as they used to be. Maybe she talks about it, sharing with you her body image issues, maybe she just hopes you don’t notice. Of course, perhaps your own waistline has grown in girth. She most likely hasn’t even noticed, or cared.

She is an amazing mother and devoted wife. Before you know it, the little darlings are almost adults, life is less hectic, easier in fact. It’s hard to believe the way time has marched on, and how throughout the years, the family portrait has changed so much. When did the kids get so grown up? When did your wife transform from young and slim to slightly pudgy and on the cusp of menopause? Forget the fact that your own reflection has changed. Soft lines around the face, lids drooping, you have developed breasts.

For untold reasons, you find yourself middle aged and single. Men, historically, do not want to live a life alone. So, you get out there. You cast your net into the sea of available women. But wait, you want a pretty one, a lady reminiscent of your pre-married, carefree days.  You want one that doesn’t carry the evidence of ever having a child. You want one that looks good on your arm, one that you can brag to your middle aged friends that she gives you the time of day. So you narrow your search. Yes, there are exceptional beauties in this age bracket. Rare, but they do exist, my very own sister happens to be one of them. But in the meantime, do you know what, or who you might of missed out on?

You don’t know me, but that’s because you haven’t given me a second look. Yes, maybe a passing glance, but not a second look.

You see, at the age of 53, I became a widow, with three grown children. My last marriage had been a happy, fulfilling one. I discovered around the age of menopause that a good 20 pounds had crept up on me. No problem, just cut back a little, get back in the gym and those unwanted pounds will be off in no time, After all, that was the regimen after giving birth. But this time it was different. It seemed to be an uphill battle, one that left me feeling discouraged and defeated. Quite honestly, the determination was not what it was in my younger years. I had a husband that loved me from the inside out, not from the outside in.  My clothing size didn’t matter to him, although the number had increased through the years.  What he was insistent on was that I wore clothes that were current, up to date, and flattering to my body. Don’t get me wrong, I know that men are visual, and I’m sure that he would’ve loved to see me down to the size when we first married, but he also wanted me happy and not judge myself too harshly. The way that this man made me feel about myself, well maybe I took for granted that every man felt the same way about the woman he loves. He thought I was funny, sexy, and intelligent. He was openly affectionate, everyone that knew us never doubted his love and devotion to me. He made me feel like a queen. So, did I worry that my body had conformed to the typical 50 year old female shape? No, because I knew in my husband’s eyes, I was far more than my size. I was loved, appreciated, wanted, and my husband saw far beyond the extra pounds.

And then he died. Unexpectantly.  Devastating. The loss, unimaginable.

He has been gone five years now.

I have had a couple of false starts in the dating world. I have put my toes in the water and as quickly as that water would hit me, I pulled back.

And now, now that I think I might be ready to try again, I see men and how they don’t look at me. There’s no second look at the red light. Sitting at the restaurant, there’s no lingering looks from across the room. Limited interest on a dating site. I’m still the funny, intelligent, and even at times, sexy woman that I was from years earlier.

I’ve learned so much about myself in these last five years. I’ve learned that I’m strong. I have tenacity, giving up is not an option. I am determined to keep my sense of humor, my love of life, my love for family and friends. Although guarded, I remain tender hearted. I had just starting writing when my husband died, and I have continued writing and sharing (most) of my stories. I found out that I love to paint. I’m not great at it, but it brings peace and joy to my life. Although possessions are not of the utmost importance, I take pride in what I have.

I am convinced if my husband could speak from heaven, he would say to any potential man in my life (if he found him worthy), “Dude, she is a treasure, don’t let her get away. Find her beauty, adore her strength and cherish her as she deserves”.

In closing, Mr. FreeMan, please stop judging a book by its cover. Open the book, read some pages, fall in love with what’s inside. The beauty of her phrases, the rhythm of her heart. And maybe, then maybe the cover will not matter quite so much. After all, in time, the cover will age, the binding will crack, the edges will become soft and worn, but the inside, well, the inside will remain the same.

Regards,

Cat Corrier

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 June 18, 2014. Explanation of open letter to “Mr. Free Man”

This letter was written in pure frustration after hearing that a male acquaintance (friend of a friend really) had recently joined Match.Com. He is a very nice guy, witty, intelligent… but in the looks department…well, he’s witty.. he’s intelligent.. you get it, right? His body type, perhaps a bit below average.  And to boot, he has a few legal issues hanging over his head right now.

When someone asked him had he met anyone special on Match, his reply was, “Not really, it’s just a bunch of fat girls with missing teeth.”  Ok, I’m paraphrasing, but that was the gist of his answer.  Really? And on the outside, you’re a prize? Hence, the letter.

A few that have read this letter without this explanation have been left with the impression that I am a man-hater, and truly, I’m not. I’m just not sure why it’s ok to expect more from a person than you are yourself. Given my age, my size, why should I expect a George Clooney to look my way?  I don’t. That’s not to say that I am short changing myself, I’m just being realistic. Now, if Mr. Clooney Look Alike stopped and got to know me, the outcome might be different.

So, dear Mr. Free Man, let’s start with looking at the man in the mirror before you judge others, shall we?