70 years of marriage. Through feast and famine. A young city girl and daydreaming country boy. A catholic and a protestant. Irish and French. Reticent and gregarious.
He jumped off a pier in Bay St. Louis, MS on July 4, 1938. He landed on her sister Merrie Gayle but it was Fannie that he fancied. She was petite yet curvy. Black wavy hair and thick eyebrows. I have a photo of her, standing in a restaurant parking lot, wearing saddle oxfords; it is black and white of course, but you can almost see her blushing.
It was a whirlwind romance. Married February 15, 1939 in the big house on St. Charles Avenue. He had big plans... oil, land and money. He eschewed college to make money faster. He was jovial and good looking but had a fierce temper.
She was young, 18, and naive. Her family spoke french and had servants. His father was a country dentist, though he had studied in Vienna. Her sisters would marry men with college degrees, but Billy and Fannie were eager to get started with life. They could smell opportunity and it was heady.
Money was made. And money was lost. Great wealth and staggering loss. He was a gambler. A business gambler. He took risks. She held the fort.
Children were born. First Billy, then Susan, Merrie Gayle and finally little Gussie. By the time Gussie was of age to go to college, only a state university was feasible. In fact, at her fancy private girls school, their daughter Merrie Gayle had to seek financial aid.
Her love was unwavering. When business deals went bad, they fled the Delta and headed to the Coast. A fresh start.
A timeless love story. Is it touching enough that I can forgive him now as he encourages her, semi-comatose, to live another day? He cannot let her go, cannot fathom a day without her. He sits by her bed and holds her unresponsive hand, watching Wheel of Fortune. I know her. I can read her heart. She is living for him. Who will take care of him, she wonders. What will become of B? She drifts in and out of consciousness. You think she is sleeping and then you hear "God Bless You" in a small voice when you sneeze. I know she is still there. But I am willing to let her go... I am wanting to let her go. Dear God, take her and end this suffering. And yet... what will we do with Grandaddy? How can you fill the void made from abstracting 70 years from someone's life? Truly. Who is he without her? Does he become again that gangly 23 year old dreamer, living in the last year of his life he lived without her? At 93, he can't possibly begin again.
As I watch his sorrow unfurl like some dusky funereal rose, I wonder how can we possibly pick up all the petals?
Friday, December 11, 2009
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Taking it with you
I must've been eight. We were still living in Spartanburg, SC. There were already frays at the seams of our family. My brother and I learned to play outdoors or in the playroom, far from the adults.
Charlie was 4 years younger than I and slight for his age. He had yet to give up his fetid blue "Ni-Night" and still sucked his thumb when he thought no one was watching.
We played together frequently, and well. Ambulance, House, Teacher... we kept our games simple but always mimicked adult behavior.
As I was bigger, and inherently bossier, we usually played as I dictated. Charlie, sweet and reticent by nature, was happy to comply. Our only bone of contention was The Chair.
Situated in the only corner suitable for watching the T.V., was The Chair. It was a wingback with a loud abstract floral print. We two comfortably fit into The Chair together, like kittens nuzzling to keep from cold. I usually didn't even mind when Ni-Night was nestled between us. We watched Scooby-Doo and sometimes The Brady Bunch. However, I had begun to feel a little smothered.
There was a moment, I'm not sure exactly, when the tilt of our little planet shifted. Seemingly overnight, my father awoke and decided to start parenting. Suddenly my poor showing in math was pertinent.
My room was untidy. My hair was disheveled. I talked too much. I was too negative. I didn't try hard enough.
At night, next to my purring cat, deep beneath the covers, I cried myself to sleep.
I was too busy to play House, too grown-up to play Ambulance, too bored to play Teacher.
The Chair however remained the same. When all my homework was completed, I was allowed to watch T.V. Charlie and I sat together, gape mouthed, learning about meddling kids and ancient chinese secrets.
I was sour as vinegar. I bit my ragged fingernails and picked at scabs. I did NOT want to share The Chair.
Cramped, and caught in the folds of Ni-Night, I became irate. I pushed Charlie from The Chair. Unfortunately, an upholstery nail had poked through the fabric and as he fell, Charlie's leg, from thigh to knee, was ripped open.
I bolted. "Safe" in my room, I hid underneath the bed. I stayed there, among the dust bunnies and wayward toys, and eventually fell off to sleep. I remember being pulled out and abruptly awakened.
I thought of all my heinous crimes, the Cs in math, the messy room, and knew that this latest of course was the most despicable. I braced for pain. And it rained upon me.
Audibly though, over the slaps and crying, was a small voice beseeching my father to stop. My brother pleaded, insisted that the accident was just that, and that we two just no longer fit in The Chair. In truth, we didn't.
My brother is 34 now and my father is dead. Yet, the scars remain.
Charlie was 4 years younger than I and slight for his age. He had yet to give up his fetid blue "Ni-Night" and still sucked his thumb when he thought no one was watching.
We played together frequently, and well. Ambulance, House, Teacher... we kept our games simple but always mimicked adult behavior.
As I was bigger, and inherently bossier, we usually played as I dictated. Charlie, sweet and reticent by nature, was happy to comply. Our only bone of contention was The Chair.
Situated in the only corner suitable for watching the T.V., was The Chair. It was a wingback with a loud abstract floral print. We two comfortably fit into The Chair together, like kittens nuzzling to keep from cold. I usually didn't even mind when Ni-Night was nestled between us. We watched Scooby-Doo and sometimes The Brady Bunch. However, I had begun to feel a little smothered.
There was a moment, I'm not sure exactly, when the tilt of our little planet shifted. Seemingly overnight, my father awoke and decided to start parenting. Suddenly my poor showing in math was pertinent.
My room was untidy. My hair was disheveled. I talked too much. I was too negative. I didn't try hard enough.
At night, next to my purring cat, deep beneath the covers, I cried myself to sleep.
I was too busy to play House, too grown-up to play Ambulance, too bored to play Teacher.
The Chair however remained the same. When all my homework was completed, I was allowed to watch T.V. Charlie and I sat together, gape mouthed, learning about meddling kids and ancient chinese secrets.
I was sour as vinegar. I bit my ragged fingernails and picked at scabs. I did NOT want to share The Chair.
Cramped, and caught in the folds of Ni-Night, I became irate. I pushed Charlie from The Chair. Unfortunately, an upholstery nail had poked through the fabric and as he fell, Charlie's leg, from thigh to knee, was ripped open.
I bolted. "Safe" in my room, I hid underneath the bed. I stayed there, among the dust bunnies and wayward toys, and eventually fell off to sleep. I remember being pulled out and abruptly awakened.
I thought of all my heinous crimes, the Cs in math, the messy room, and knew that this latest of course was the most despicable. I braced for pain. And it rained upon me.
Audibly though, over the slaps and crying, was a small voice beseeching my father to stop. My brother pleaded, insisted that the accident was just that, and that we two just no longer fit in The Chair. In truth, we didn't.
My brother is 34 now and my father is dead. Yet, the scars remain.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
When your expecting
We sat at her dining room table, steaming mugs of coffee before us. Our daughters sat quietly in the next room, perusing books and somewhat watching T.V.
My medication has resurrected me and my friend and I banter easily so I felt warm and open. Mothers. Frequently my conversations with my adult girlfriends center around our mothers. When do they cease to become infallible? When do you recognize that they are human? When do you finally stop craving approval?
I was eighteen when I struck my mother. Almost as tall as she, it occurred to me that I no longer needed to physically fear her. I'm not sure whether she was wrong or right or even what the argument might have been about but I do remember when she slapped me and the split second I decided to slap her back. Only 21 years older than I, and going through a divorce and dating while I was dating as well, made our relationship tense during my teens. I remember with clarity that it was then that I realized that my mother was not in possession of all the answers.
However, it has taken me years to accept that I crave an approval I may never receive. I have touched on this topic before but as my grandmother lays dying, I am reevaluating my needs. What if love is enough? I know my mother loves me; it is indisputable. What if her love was so great, she expected more FOR me, not from me?
I know that I expect so much for Annelise; will anything ever be good enough?
As I cradled Annelise soon after she had been born, I remember the terror I felt. I had always wanted a son, whom I had, and was frightened at the thought of raising a girl. Eventually, she would become 13. Bleck... I am not greatly anticipating the teenage years.
Yet all of the possible future angst seemed ludicrous as I stared at her lovely face. Her eyes seemed to posses depths unimaginable.
Annelise has been a remarkable child, an fairy book child escaped from the sweetest of stories. She is gentle and seems fragile but is incredibly capable of standing up for herself. She is bright and assertive, patient and funny. So now, as I have donned the mantle of motherhood, I realize I must answer questions cautiously, pose questions judiciously and listen attentively. And love without expectation.
My medication has resurrected me and my friend and I banter easily so I felt warm and open. Mothers. Frequently my conversations with my adult girlfriends center around our mothers. When do they cease to become infallible? When do you recognize that they are human? When do you finally stop craving approval?
I was eighteen when I struck my mother. Almost as tall as she, it occurred to me that I no longer needed to physically fear her. I'm not sure whether she was wrong or right or even what the argument might have been about but I do remember when she slapped me and the split second I decided to slap her back. Only 21 years older than I, and going through a divorce and dating while I was dating as well, made our relationship tense during my teens. I remember with clarity that it was then that I realized that my mother was not in possession of all the answers.
However, it has taken me years to accept that I crave an approval I may never receive. I have touched on this topic before but as my grandmother lays dying, I am reevaluating my needs. What if love is enough? I know my mother loves me; it is indisputable. What if her love was so great, she expected more FOR me, not from me?
I know that I expect so much for Annelise; will anything ever be good enough?
As I cradled Annelise soon after she had been born, I remember the terror I felt. I had always wanted a son, whom I had, and was frightened at the thought of raising a girl. Eventually, she would become 13. Bleck... I am not greatly anticipating the teenage years.
Yet all of the possible future angst seemed ludicrous as I stared at her lovely face. Her eyes seemed to posses depths unimaginable.
Annelise has been a remarkable child, an fairy book child escaped from the sweetest of stories. She is gentle and seems fragile but is incredibly capable of standing up for herself. She is bright and assertive, patient and funny. So now, as I have donned the mantle of motherhood, I realize I must answer questions cautiously, pose questions judiciously and listen attentively. And love without expectation.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Gathering time
When sunshine fell like rain
when giving love was the greatest gain
clouds were elephants, angels in the sky
only boo boos or broken toys could make you cry
your hand was small, warm to hold
you had no fears of growing old
those days so long since past
someone told you life would happen fast
remember to laugh, remember to dance
who knows in this life if you get a second chance
when giving love was the greatest gain
clouds were elephants, angels in the sky
only boo boos or broken toys could make you cry
your hand was small, warm to hold
you had no fears of growing old
those days so long since past
someone told you life would happen fast
remember to laugh, remember to dance
who knows in this life if you get a second chance
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Plunging into madness, with a fork
I started with licking the spatula after I frosted the cake. Pure sugar. So to combat the sweetness, I ate a snack bag of Goldfish. And then another, and another. When the children came home from school, I tasted a piece of cake and then washed it down with Diet Coke.
A few scant hours later, we went out to dinner and I ate the Tater Tots and hummus before my entree arrived.
As the hole in my heart rips open further and further, I scavenge for food to fill it.
This is new for me. I have always been thin. The largest size I have ever worn is a 6.
I crave mashed potatoes and gravy, fried chicken, chocolate pudding and double bock beer. I long for Coca Cola and truffle fries followed by caramel cake.
The further I descend, the more my hunger grows. I am larger now than I have ever been. And truly disgusted with my size. The fabric of my jeans strains over my ever expanding girth and I pilfer my husband's tee shirts to swath my frame.
It's not as if I surrendered; up until two weeks ago, I was running and working out biweekly with my trainer.
And then... a week off my medication, a week of personal losses... and then the withdrawl. It has begun already... already I shy from the phone, retreat from touch, avoid eye contact. It's like picking up Crime and Punishment... you relish every page even though the story is morose, you eagerly digest each sentence, even though you know the outcome will not be pretty.
I am Cassandra. I know my fate.
The descent... it is like coming home, to an empty house. You recognize the artifacts, even welcome the familiarity, but it is lonesome. No lights have been left on. The refridgerator is bare. It is like when you came home from college and your parents had turned your room into a guest suite. You lay your weary bones upon the bed but the paint is different and the sheets are new and your photos have been taken down and as you spin off to sleep, finally, you aren't even sure where you are.
I wear my madness like an old coat; I need it but know I have outgrown it. Haven't I? Shouldn't I recognize the coat, shrug it off... didn't I cast it off before? Why? Why do I don it now again? Even as it settles around my shoulders, as I pull it in close underneath my chin, I swear it won't be long. I filled my prescription today. It shouldn't take long... should it?
The food. The memories of Gran. The nettles of everyday strife. I can break free of this... can't I? If I can write about it, how far along have I gone? Although... I still lift the fork.
A few scant hours later, we went out to dinner and I ate the Tater Tots and hummus before my entree arrived.
As the hole in my heart rips open further and further, I scavenge for food to fill it.
This is new for me. I have always been thin. The largest size I have ever worn is a 6.
I crave mashed potatoes and gravy, fried chicken, chocolate pudding and double bock beer. I long for Coca Cola and truffle fries followed by caramel cake.
The further I descend, the more my hunger grows. I am larger now than I have ever been. And truly disgusted with my size. The fabric of my jeans strains over my ever expanding girth and I pilfer my husband's tee shirts to swath my frame.
It's not as if I surrendered; up until two weeks ago, I was running and working out biweekly with my trainer.
And then... a week off my medication, a week of personal losses... and then the withdrawl. It has begun already... already I shy from the phone, retreat from touch, avoid eye contact. It's like picking up Crime and Punishment... you relish every page even though the story is morose, you eagerly digest each sentence, even though you know the outcome will not be pretty.
I am Cassandra. I know my fate.
The descent... it is like coming home, to an empty house. You recognize the artifacts, even welcome the familiarity, but it is lonesome. No lights have been left on. The refridgerator is bare. It is like when you came home from college and your parents had turned your room into a guest suite. You lay your weary bones upon the bed but the paint is different and the sheets are new and your photos have been taken down and as you spin off to sleep, finally, you aren't even sure where you are.
I wear my madness like an old coat; I need it but know I have outgrown it. Haven't I? Shouldn't I recognize the coat, shrug it off... didn't I cast it off before? Why? Why do I don it now again? Even as it settles around my shoulders, as I pull it in close underneath my chin, I swear it won't be long. I filled my prescription today. It shouldn't take long... should it?
The food. The memories of Gran. The nettles of everyday strife. I can break free of this... can't I? If I can write about it, how far along have I gone? Although... I still lift the fork.
I will always be your girl
I haven't showered in two days. I saw New Moon last night for the second time. I am listening to Outkast while writing this post. I haven't been thinking rationally.
Through an unhappy coincidence, Tim's surgery was scheduled for the same day as my psychiatrist appointment. I missed Dr. Rahman. I have been off my medication for a week.
My skin is pulled taut over my bones; it blisters to the touch. I have been cooking and crying. The cakes turned out too flat. The egg whites won't peak.
Gran was read her last rites yesterday. Hospice has applied morphine patches to quell the pain. She slips in and out of consciousness. I caught her yesterday afternoon and she whispered she would wait for me upstairs.
How did I become a middle aged bottle blonde crying to The Pixies in the kitchen? When did I stop holding a hand to cross the street? When did I start buying products called Regenerist? How did December become just another month with 31 days instead of the crescendo of the year?
My eyes are swollen; I've taken to wearing sunglasses, all day, indoors. I've bitten my nails to the quick. Two days ago I ate 10 chocolate covered pretzels for lunch.
It's a miracle she lived for 2 years, my mother breathes over the receiver. I hold the phone a good distance from my face so she cannot hear my sobs. I cannot tell her, I cannot tell anyone my blackest secret. If she dies, when she dies, who do I remain? As long as she breathed, I was still young, her namesake. I study the puffy face in the mirror; the creases, the newly emerged folds, the flat silver hair. When did time cease to crawl? I waited an eternity to turn sixteen. My days now are wild horses, rushing the paddock, flattening the earth.
Through an unhappy coincidence, Tim's surgery was scheduled for the same day as my psychiatrist appointment. I missed Dr. Rahman. I have been off my medication for a week.
My skin is pulled taut over my bones; it blisters to the touch. I have been cooking and crying. The cakes turned out too flat. The egg whites won't peak.
Gran was read her last rites yesterday. Hospice has applied morphine patches to quell the pain. She slips in and out of consciousness. I caught her yesterday afternoon and she whispered she would wait for me upstairs.
How did I become a middle aged bottle blonde crying to The Pixies in the kitchen? When did I stop holding a hand to cross the street? When did I start buying products called Regenerist? How did December become just another month with 31 days instead of the crescendo of the year?
My eyes are swollen; I've taken to wearing sunglasses, all day, indoors. I've bitten my nails to the quick. Two days ago I ate 10 chocolate covered pretzels for lunch.
It's a miracle she lived for 2 years, my mother breathes over the receiver. I hold the phone a good distance from my face so she cannot hear my sobs. I cannot tell her, I cannot tell anyone my blackest secret. If she dies, when she dies, who do I remain? As long as she breathed, I was still young, her namesake. I study the puffy face in the mirror; the creases, the newly emerged folds, the flat silver hair. When did time cease to crawl? I waited an eternity to turn sixteen. My days now are wild horses, rushing the paddock, flattening the earth.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
carrying the wait
I am tired. Small children bother me. The barking of dogs disturbs me. The bread burns, the pot boils over, the water scalds, the bills mount, the milk curdles, the laundry sours, the phone rings incessantly... nothing is simple. Life rushes ahead and none of it is comforting.
I am bitter. Everything angers me. Every simple chore has become a difficulty. The sink is stacked with dishes. The dog is not yet potty-trained. The sheets need to be changed. The floor is unswept and the lawn needs to be mowed.
I seethe with each task. I gain a pound each time I look at food. My hair has ceased to grow. My skin blossoms with irritation. Wine sours in my mouth.
I listen for the unspoken. I keep note. I bide. I track. I feel to my core the impending change.
Each jangle of the phone nettles me. I answer warily. It won't be long. I am short and dismissive. I am abrupt and irritable. I drink more to feel less.
It is a countdown.
I've been told it won't be long, not to expect that she will last till Christmas. I've been informed that she is already gone, that I wouldn't recognize her, that she is not the Gran I knew.
The children are sleeping. The dog is in his crate. The din of the TV hums from the other room. I type. And delete. And type.
Tomorow, the sun will rise and the it will begin again. The dishes will still need to be washed, the paper will be spread out on the kitchen table, the dog will need to be walked, the litter will need to be changed. Who knows how many things will remain the same? Who knows if the unimaginable will come to fruition? Will she leave me? Will the sun set upon her face again? Will the night fall without her heartbeat? I spend these days waiting, wondering...
I am short. I am tender. Touch me lightly. I cannot bear the weight. The wait. I cannot bear.
I am bitter. Everything angers me. Every simple chore has become a difficulty. The sink is stacked with dishes. The dog is not yet potty-trained. The sheets need to be changed. The floor is unswept and the lawn needs to be mowed.
I seethe with each task. I gain a pound each time I look at food. My hair has ceased to grow. My skin blossoms with irritation. Wine sours in my mouth.
I listen for the unspoken. I keep note. I bide. I track. I feel to my core the impending change.
Each jangle of the phone nettles me. I answer warily. It won't be long. I am short and dismissive. I am abrupt and irritable. I drink more to feel less.
It is a countdown.
I've been told it won't be long, not to expect that she will last till Christmas. I've been informed that she is already gone, that I wouldn't recognize her, that she is not the Gran I knew.
The children are sleeping. The dog is in his crate. The din of the TV hums from the other room. I type. And delete. And type.
Tomorow, the sun will rise and the it will begin again. The dishes will still need to be washed, the paper will be spread out on the kitchen table, the dog will need to be walked, the litter will need to be changed. Who knows how many things will remain the same? Who knows if the unimaginable will come to fruition? Will she leave me? Will the sun set upon her face again? Will the night fall without her heartbeat? I spend these days waiting, wondering...
I am short. I am tender. Touch me lightly. I cannot bear the weight. The wait. I cannot bear.
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