6.20.2006
I was married to my first husband 20 years ago this past February. It was a short marriage, just long enough for me to birth Patrick and Matt Henry and then we parted ways. We were young, naïve and truly believed the Captain and Tenille song “Love will keep us together.” His family detested me. I mean hating me was a family hobby, speaking ill of me and my family to my children was their favorite sport. When he married me, it was in secret-a quick trip to the courthouse on a Monday morning, with him all but looking over his shoulder during the vows to make sure his family wasn’t in hot pursuit. There were midnight phone calls, cards in the mail from his mother with long written prayers asking God to bring her son back to her and away from “that trash”. We went on, trying to make a life as a family on our own, notwithstanding the background of his family’s hostility always looming over us.
Even after the inevitable divorce (immaturity + financial trouble + little family support = nasty breakup), the hurt and anger didn’t diminish, it escalated tremendously. He moved home with his mother and there he has remained for the past 18 years. I was hurt, the children were hurt and even he was hurt. All by his family and their words and behavior regarding me-it was giving me tremendous power in their lives if they had only known it. I went on with my life, remarrying, going to college, having more children while they remained stuck in the morass of their anger and hatred. I couldn’t ever find out exactly why they hated me, they wouldn’t ever give a concrete or clear answer aside from “she’s trash, she’s not good enough for him” diatribe that they trotted out every time they were confronted by friends, extended family or even lawyers and family court judges.
2 weeks ago, he came down to Florida with his girlfriend. It was the first and only time he’s ever been down to see the boys since we moved back here in 1992. It had been almost 9 years since he and I had squared off in court and I had only once briefly seen his girlfriend. This past visit was grand-we talked, we laughed, we cried and we hugged our son with enormous pride when he wore his cap and gown that rainy Friday night. He spent a week here, getting to know his sons and their lives, seeing Patrick’s first apartment, meeting their friends, going to their favorite places. His girlfriend was wonderful, I love her and can’t imagine a more perfect step mother for my sons, the love they have for each other is obvious and the pride she has in my sons is made of a mother’s love.
His mother died this past Saturday. Matt Henry woke me up around midnight to tell me. He didn’t have tears in his eyes or a quaver in his voice. He was very matter of fact about it. I called him on Sunday, just to see how he was doing, without his anchor. His health is poor and he isn’t able to live alone, the 2 of them together were a sad lot that caused a huge amount of worry to his family and girlfriend. He was himself, laughing, telling me in detail how it had happened “so I says, Ma! Ma! Wake up! And when she didn’t wake up I went in the kitchen and called Jeff and I says Jeff! Ma won’t wake up!”. He didn’t really say much other than his sister in law was making arrangements for the boys to fly up for the funeral. It was no different than if he had told me that it was snowing in June up there, just a hint of surprise and amazement but that was it, no grief and no sorrow.
I wondered for years how I would react to her death. I sometimes pictured myself as the mysterious lady in the broad brimmed black hat at the back of the church. Wearing a red dress and a tiara maybe. Dancing a fabulous tango on her grave to the horror of her family. How are you supposed to react to the death of someone who has caused you so much pain? Someone who until her dying day truly believed that you were a terrible person with not even one redeeming quality? What’s the proper protocol-springy cheerful daisies with a banner saying “Oh happy day!” on them or a singing telegram from a midget singing “ding dong the witch is dead!”.
As it turns out, none of the above. I was quiet for a period of time, and then I thanked God that she was who she was. She gave birth to the man who gave me my perfect oldest sons. She was a cantankerous, demanding and judgemental old woman who did everything she could to make me and everyone else who came in contact with her as miserable as she was. I’ll never know her life story and what experiences she had that made her the way she was. In the end, it doesn’t matter. She’s at peace now and I do owe her for what she gave me in her own way-sons, courage, the knowledge that I could survive someone hating me for just being alive, teaching me to never judge someone harshly, to take time to look beyond the obvious.
Rest in Peace Roberta-and thank you.
posted by Keriann at 6/20/2006 11:10:00 AM comment(s) made:
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6.16.2006
It’s hot. I’m baking. Actually, I’m smothering. Summer in north Florida is one of Dante’s Seven Circles of Hell. I leave my house every morning at 8:15 to drive 15 minutes to work. According to the thermometer in my new car, it’s already between 85 and 87 degrees outside. When I get to work it’s about 90 or so and not even 9 am. After I do my 1st half hour of stuff (opening the model, putting balloons outside) I’m literally dripping-oh wait, I’m southern so I don’t drip, I “glow”. So I’m glowing wet and my hair is curling up into puffballs beside my ears.
At times like this I really have to give thanks to God that I wasn’t born 100 years ago. I cannot even imagine my life if I had to wear a corset, crinoline, long dress with a high neck and a bonnet. Now, image having your monthly in August while dressed like that. Whenever we tour the Castillo de San Marcos in St Augustine I always wonder how those women survived a summer here without air conditioning, cooking over an open fire 3 times a day, many times they were pregnant and caring for several children while trying to make a home in a new world very different from their homeland. Even 50 years ago, things were so very different for wives and mothers, when my grandmother was pregnant in the 40s, after she began to show she didn’t leave the house, her family and friends as well as her church didn’t believe it was “decent” to show yourself as obviously pregnant. There wasn’t any air conditioning in Florida and my mother had to work the tobacco fields as a young teenager. My grandmother cooked 3 meals a day over a gas stove in a small cracker house to feed her 4 children and husband. They didn’t have an electric refrigerator, they had an icebox that couldn’t always keep up in the hot summers of Tampa. My mother’s first air conditioner was when she was 24 years old, and pregnant with me.
So, thank you to all the wives and mothers that came before me. You are all much better women than I could ever hope to be.
posted by Keriann at 6/16/2006 09:49:00 AM comment(s) made:
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