The heart-racing dangers of country living and why they’re worth it

The heart-racing dangers of country living and why they’re worth it

Pussy ..........................................Willow

 

While I was in the grocery store this evening, I spied with my eye these woody stems with fuzzy pods in the flower department. I may or may not have gasped with glee. I immediately walked over to them and rubbed one of the pods to release the memory. I flipped the label over to see what they called it. Of course it wasn't written on there, but I knew full well what it was.

Years ago I lived in a charming little house leased to me by a sweet 75 year old Moravian lady in NC. It was her childhood family home, her father built it. I loved the house and I loved her. We visited each other across the adjacent trail for 11 years. I enjoyed meandering through her wild garden. It was so haphazard and some things looked dead but she would tell me "Just you wait." and then it would happen. Bright yellow Forsythia brightened many a dismal winter day from her window. And then one day I saw something happening on another small tree. I was intrigued and walked up to it as Mrs.C walked out of her house and to me.

"What is this?" I asked. 

This little stooped over, white haired lady straightened up the best she could, all 4 feet of her and peered at me with her bright blue eyes. I think now she probably thought I was goading her to say it. I really didn't know it. 

"Well this is a PUSSY (enough pause for alarm) Willow." she said without a hint of lewdness.

"Oh, that's interesting." I answered, not cracking a smile, Far be it from me to cause a good Moravian to stumble.  

Mrs.C cut some of the woody stems of the Pussy Willow and some Forsythia for me.

A few years later we had a terrible ice storm and I went over to check on Mrs. C. The power had been out for days. She had a roaring fire in her fireplace and a pot of beans going on her wood stove that I thought was for "show."  

After the visit she walked me to the door. When I stepped out I saw it. The tree was snapped all over with the fronds laying on the ice and snow. "Oh Mrs. C!!  Your Pussy.................................... and nothing. Couldn't think of the next word to save my life. 

Do you think Mrs. C would help a girl out? Uh, uh. She left me floundering and red faced until she backed into her door laughing hysterically. This was earth before Google, before internet!! So, I had to pull and from my own resources and finally about a half hour later I called her and her phone went to mailbox. "Willow" was all I said and hung up. 

So these fronds came home with me today. I remember Mrs. C as I put them a jar in the window sill. I remember my daughter Mickie, we laughed about this story for so many years. I miss them both. Thank God for provocation and memory. Even if it's absurd.  

A Journal; Grief unfortunately observed

There are many ways that I feel I was being prepared for this horrific nightmare a year out. One was that I was reading C.S. Lewis "Grief Observed" and Frederick Buechner, "The Healing Power of Pain and Memory." To understand the absurdity of this statement I have to say that last year was one of the best years I can remember in a long time. There is NO preparing though for this pain, but there is unbelievable peace in moments when I realize that my little nobody self was being coddled.

I have a gallon zip-lock bag of photographs on my desk today. Three months ago I had a four foot high stack of albums. Call it providence once again but I began to think that the kids and grands would enjoy them more in their homes so I spent a month divvying them up between the kids and gave them out at Christmas. They were a source of joy between Mickie and I as she sifted through the pile. I wasn't sure if she finished going through them because she had only just received them 10 days before she died because of Covid and Christmas mail delays. I have to think that in some of those dark days she got a smile from those pics. 

I miss her so. I am fighting through this, but grief is cruel. It comes when it wants, it does what it wants, it contorts my throat in a moments, making me sound like a bullfrog if I try to force a word out. I see the forever grief etching itself into lines around my eyes. They look weak, they are, they must be, they have been cisterns for a monsoon of tears. 

I keep bringing myself back to the cross because I feel I may wander off the cliff of despair if not. I feel both weak and reckless. I want to drive really fast, I want to ride a horse, not a broad back mare, but a 16 hand un-cut stallion, dance till midnight with no concern of my aching hip  and yet — equally as strong is the need to sleep, cover myself up with comfy blankets and crawl into the crook of Don's arms to sync my weak heart to his rhythm. 

I don't think this will end. Not on this side of that blue Karman line, not until I see her on the other side. 

Notes: 2 weeks before Mic died, I told her "I got your back baby." 

I don't want to forget a single thing we talked about, did in these past months. This year was a year of restoration for us. I just wish it had been enough.

Another day; I didn't feel the awful heaviness upon wakening that I did yesterday. I made it through the sun rise and first cup of tea and thought, "Okay, someone's thoughts and prayers are kicking in for me." I don't want the memories to stop, but I don't want them to cripple me either. I worked all over the place trying to stay busy today. I mucked the chicken coop. Worried over a bullied hen, gathered eggs, helped Don with work and finally as the sun turned to the west and the light began to fade, I hurriedly gathered my bulbs to plant. I know there may be another day. But, the sooner I see life grow from that cold damp dirt, the better. I planted a few rows of lily's. Mic's favorite. I had to plant them inside the fence so that Zoe wouldn't dig them up and eat the bulbs and die herself. Oh, the fragility of this life. I pulled my gloves off after I hoed the area and got on my hands and knees. The tears began to well the minute I felt that soil. I remembered some gardening ideas she sent me in a message a month ago. Little tiny lights solar lights that looked like dew. I look at the wandering willowy shoots on the Confederate jasmine sitting in the yard that I was going to take her this spring for her porch. Reaching out beyond their trellis, searching for something to cling to. Me too.

My hands are black now, the bulb has long since been covered, I am not just massaging soil as my mind goes to her, to God, to someone. My voice won't eek it out yet. But, I know I will talk in this garden. I am on one side of the fence and Zoe is on the other. She senses my pain I am sure. She licks my face  while sitting in my flower bed on the other side. 

"It's okay" I console. The only words I can speak. I wish I could believe what I tell her. 

Another day; My dear hubby has been a rock for me. I feel selfish that I am so needy of this much support. I can see where the death of a child could rip at the fabric of a marriage. There is nothing certain and this death proves that to us. But he pulls me out if I get quiet, he calms me if I act restless, he holds me when I cry and yet I know he prays that this cup will be removed from us as much as I do. I told a friend a few weeks ago that I had always heard that when a mother gives birth to a child she is as close to death as she will ever be. I beg to differ, there is NO pain on earth. I PROMISE you, that is worse than losing a child and I have never felt as close to death as I have these past weeks.   

Another day; It is Valentines Day, Don brought joy into the house. His thoughtful gift says so much about how he knows me. Specialty teas from Indian, new tea diffuser and beautiful cut flower card. He's been my rock since the terrible night 1 month ago. It feels like yesterday, it feels like tomorrow and it feels like forever. I know it is, I woke one night and knew, this grieving, my grieving for a child would go to the grave with me. You don't get over this. My rock has held me when I sobbed into his chest, when I wasn't sobbing, when I was "holding it in." He has prayed for everyone but himself, I remind him to do so. 

Another day; There are bad days and there are bad days, that seems to be the trend right now. I had a really bad day at work this week. I find myself breaking down on the job. Tears rolling while I am re-finishing cabinets. I finally think I figured out why so much during the day. My phone buzzes and I think it's her. We were texting a lot recently. We called each other when I was out on the road giving quotes, but during the work day we would text each other. I can't believe how many times I think "Oh, I need to tell Mickie about that." and then I realize that I can't and I become distraught. I waited on this day for the wave to subside and the tears to subside and then told Don. 

"Don, a lot of my grief is when I realize that I can't tell something to Mickie."

"You can tell her. Just talk to her like you would if she was here." he told me. 

I guess I may have looked at him like he was being ridiculous because I can't just talk out loud to my deceased daughter while working in  a client's home. But — the next day. I had a thought about something that I wanted to tell Mickie and I went right outside and sat in the truck and talked for about 15 minutes. I told her about the DNA results coming in and that she would be happy to know that we didn't have a damn ounce of Indian in us. But, we are now Scot's and even though I know she preferred the Shamrock, her new country emblem is a Thistle. At the end I told her, "I know you are at peace now, but your Mama, she's not. Please God, Mickie, one of  you, both of you, know that I Love you Mic, I wish you were here more than anything, but I want to know that you know I love you and I miss you so much." 

I was able to go back in and finish the day and my heart became lighter. That evening when we pulled in the drive, the answer came. We arrived home to find a box on the fence post. Don and I presumed it was the new drill he ordered. I carried it inside and put it on the table. A little while later I opened the box and gasped. I checked the label and it was addressed to me and not Don. It was a beautiful box full of relaxing candles, bath salts and lotions but what stood out the most to me was the paper it was wrapped in, beautiful pink thistle flowers and the name of the company — Thistle Farms, was this gift from a dear unknowing friend answered prayer? The beautiful candle is etched in glass with the message Love Heals Every Body. Am I stretching or wishing for it to be so? Probably, but it gave me consultation for that night.  

Another day: It is almost 8 weeks from the day my beautiful girl took her life. I can't say that I am any better since the shock wore off. Some days are worse than the very first night. However, there IS joy in each day. Don prays daily for rest for my weary soul. I need rest for my weary soul but have only found it at the foot of the cross. The nightmares have subsided some, Thank God. I would wake every night or other night with a start and re-live those terrible moments. Only the worse part is I was right there, I couldn't help. The day memories are precious but play like a reel to reel, black and white all day in my head. Every thing is a memory. Food, sky, laughter, song, birds, bugs, snakes, movies.... you name it, there is a memory attached to Michelle. Isn't everything sacred now? I don't want them to go away but I know eventually the showtimes will space out. I told Don today while we were riding home. "My mind, knows that Mic is gone. However, my heart just can't convince it of this truth yet." 

Another day: I think sometimes it's two steps forward and 3 backwards. Is there a forward, is there a backwards? Or is the rest of my life going to be a juggle of pleasure and pain? At some point during each day I feel like there is a hatchet in my chest. Will I die if it is removed? Other minutes may resemble trying to talk through the miniscule airway around the great big ass bullfrog in my throat. Should I be grateful for the assholes who distract me from grief? 

Another day: I miss my girl so much and crazy things are running through my head right now. I guess the anesthesia (for lack of a better word) of shock has worn off and I am fighting the nagging thoughts. Why didn't I call that day? Why didn't I intuitively know she needed me? Or did I? Was her last thought regret? I wish I could have had the courage to dress and fix her hair and make up myself. My granddaughter called after leaving her mama's grave site today. Her heart, OMG, the only thing worse than a broken heart is hearing another break. I am so proud of her for confronting ALL of the demons of this thing we call grief. I don't know how my other granddaughter is doing, she is retreating. I want to be there for her. There is joy in the day, as much as there is grief. One day one will win out, the next another. Such is life. 

Angel of the Morning

 I have been writing human interest essays for 10 years, 7 or 8 of these with Charleston Grit. I base all of my stories on life experience, so my family has trolleyed along with me. I know that if I can't eek out this story, I'll never be able to pen another one. My daughter died 3 weeks ago. 

Breathe in — June 14, 1977. 10:15 pm. I heard her gasp for air as she took that first breath. 6 pounds 12 ounces.  I counted all appendages quickly. She was delivered by forceps, a routine procedure in the late 70's. Did she have brain trauma that caused her progressive myoclonus seizures later in life? My days are a plethora of Why's and If's. 

My brown eyed girl. Van Morrison penned my lifetime theme song for her a decade earlier. She too loved Morrison, her favorite song of his was "Into the Mystic." Michelle loved 70's rock and would jam in front of the huge Marantz stereo in the living room with her dad singing as he played his bad ass air guitar. Bad Company, AC/DC, Styx, Journey, the whole gamut. 

Michelle loved HARD and often. She gave everything of herself to everyone, keeping just enough to get her to the next checkpoint for "fuel."  Over the years the check points became farther and farther apart and she was giving more and more and keeping less. Eventually every little thing became overwhelming. 

Was the disease more debilitating than we thought? Did she hide it better? Was cognitive reasoning affected? I question everything these days.  

But still — still, to the very end she fought the illness, loved deeply and was benevolent beyond anyone I ever knew of. Her beautiful smile could melt ice. Michelle brightened days for many as hers fell apart. The lights dimmed inside those 37 miles of nerve endings. My girl committed suicide. 

I have heard it said all my life. Reach out, there is one person who can turn that tide. We wish we knew who that person was. We do know that a loving husband, mother/father, aunts and cousins, sisters & brothers, beautiful children, brand new granddaughter couldn't do it. 

Now my days, hours and minutes are filled with memories. I see her everywhere and all the time in all things. This is the memory from this morning. Blackies campground on Folly Beach for a full summer in 1981. The campground had a nice large pavilion. The sounds of the party time bands playing shagging music lulled Michelle who was 4 and her sister to sleep on the weekends. During the week a juke box rocked some of the decades best; Peter Frampton, CCR, Styx, Eagles, Lynyrd Skynyrd.....  but quiet time came early at the campground, 10 PM. 

One morning I was up at the crack of dawn with a pillowcase full of clothes to take to the laundry which was housed behind a wall at the pavilion. We walked quietly down the sandy path to the pavilion which housed a laundry room behind one of it's petitions. As I sorted the clothes Michelle wandered off to the Juke Box to check the coin slot and mash some buttons. All of a sudden Juice Newton started playing "Angel of the morning" at party time decibels. I came running around the petition to find her smiling, her eyes big as saucers. People started yelling out of their tents and campers at us. I couldn't find out how to stop the music. I finally got it pulled out from the wall and snatched the cord out of the wall. It was a memory we spoke of often. Michelle wasn't an angel of the morning. She preferred to wake up naturally and around 10 o'clock would have been her preference. But, school, work, life didn't fit that schedule. I would sing "Angel of the Morning" to her and she would snarl. Eventually she began to like the song again AND the morning. 

My heart feels as if that juke box is plugged back in and memory after memory, side A & B are being played. I will never be able to unplug that juke box, nor will I ever want to.   

The morning after she died, the sun was brilliant, the sky was Tarheel Blue. I wish she could have held out for daylight. I believe it may have changed her mind. 

Breathe out —January 13, 2021, 7:02 pm. 

Bad Ass Cat kind of year.

 

 

I have never uttered "I'm bored," not for a day an hour or a minute of my life. When a thought becomes a stitch, a stroke of the brush, a paragraph on paper, we give it life. We have created something that didn't exist, out of the blue, just like that. To me those creations are little miracles in this world. Whether it be the seed a farmer put into the ground that became a beautiful squash on my counter, origami birds, a child's drawing on a frig, a new guitar riff that rippled out into the universe — A zillion little things that weren't here yesterday came into existence today. 

My mind runs continuously and I know it will until I take my last breath but it wasn't always like that. Unsupportive comments from family de-railed and many times stunted my desire to create. It took years for me to learn that their lack of support was more about their inability to dream than my ability to create. You should never let someone else's voice be louder in your head and heart than your own. 

It doesn't matter if what I do will ever be seen. The joy is in the creating. I don't even try to legitimatize the time I spend doodling on a power bill or scribbling random words in a notebook. I just know that if I wait until everything is perfect in my life to do what I like to do then most of what I have done or ever will do wouldn't materialize. 

I am my biggest critic but I have been working on that for the last several years. I used to crumble up a page I had just written on an essay or manuscript and I've been known to  paint a huge red X across a a painting that I felt I messed up. 

But lately I have found that if I leave it, walk away from it like a jig-saw puzzle, I can get past the ugly and when that doesn't work — I sign it and laugh before throwing it out. 

I have tried my hand at watercolor painting for years and every 4 or 5 years I will twist the caps off of those paints and give it another go but, it never ends well. The last attempt was of a cat, easy peezy I thought. Uh-uh. What happened in those few minutes between the vision in my head and the tip of that brush was nothing short of sabotage. What I ended up with mostly resembled the dead cat from Stephen King's Pet Cematary. It was REALLY bad. 

I couldn't not make myself throw it away even thought the muddled water in the rinse glass was prettier than the painting.  I laughed, signed my name to it  and named it "Cats gone bad" why plural? I thought I might make a triptych series.  

So for 2021. I'll try not to be so hard on myself. There's enough criticism in the world without self-inflicting it. It will be alright if I color outside of the lines, paint bad pictures, make ugly Pinterest projects, do it all wrong — as long as I enjoy the process. Happy New Year to you all, I raise a glass to all of your bad ass cat's this year.