WRITING - MY ADDICTION, MY TORMENT

I have talked to a number of people about writing lately - mainly much younger people who like to write.  I appreciate this love, sometimes obsession, and will do everything to encourage it.  However, if you ask me to critique your writing or give you advice, I will be honest.  And I expect those who read my scribblings to be honest, too.  It does me no favor to tell me that you like something that you sincerely believe is flawed. 

As I said in the title of this entry, writing has always been an addiction for me.  I can always remember writing stories, poems, bad song lyrics, and I have started countless novels.  I also say that it torments me because it is a demanding addiction.  It wants so much from you.  It wants your memories, your dreams, your very soul.  And it wants your time.  It is far from happy when you ignore it...so much so that it becomes elusive and difficult sometimes when you want to spend time with it.

With all that being said, I am listening to one of these young people who said I should share the short stories I have entered in a local magazine's annual writing contest.  I had a taste of glory the first year I entered when my story was selected in a vote by the readers and was published.  And I have had lots of doses of disappointment when my stories have lost in the first round each year after that.  But, even if they may be homely to others, they are still my children, and they have a place in my heart.  That being said, here is one of my losing stories.  Feel free to be honest....

MARY’S COPING SKILLS

Mary Chauvin had always known how to cope.  She could cope with a child with a stomach virus in the middle of the night.  Mary could cope with a science project that was due the next day but had not been started until the last possible moment.  She could cope with a house full of hungry teenagers who had landed at her house at suppertime.

            Mary wore many hats in her house.  She was cook, nurse, chauffeur, maid, and tutor.  Mary didn’t begrudge these duties.  After all, she did give up her career to stay at home when the first of the two kids was born.  Mary loved every moment of being a mother, even when racing from picking up Todd at soccer practice on one side of Lafourche Parish to pick Katie up from band practice on the other side of the parish in order to get home to make supper and get homework done before bedtime.  Sometimes she imagined she was a racecar driver as she navigated all the hairpin twists and turns around the bayou.  But she didn’t need yet another hat – or helmet – to add to the mix.

            Mary was also a good housewife.  She felt that since she did not work outside the home that she needed to do everything in the home.  There was never a dirty dish in the sink.  Mary was constantly doing laundry, vacuuming or dusting.  Her house was always neat and clean.  She had dinner on the table every night at 6:30.  Carl probably took this for granted, but he never once complained about Mary’s cooking.  His stomach flopping over his belt proved that he never missed a meal.

            Mary stayed busy outside the home, too.  She was a somewhat accomplished piano player.  At every service, wedding or funeral, Mary was there to provide musical accompaniment.  In fact, Carl always referred to Mary as “the Church Lady.”  Whenever she wasn’t doing something for him or the kids, she was seated at that piano.

            Everyone viewed the Chauvins as the very definition of a perfect family.  Carl had a good job as an operator at the nuclear power plant.  In fact, he had been there for over twenty years and he made a good living.  It was good enough that Mary had the luxury to be the housewife and mother that she wanted to be.

            No one else knew the Carl that Mary knew though.  In front of the rest of the world, Carl was the hard-working family man who loved and his wife and kids above all else.  That was his public persona.  But in truth, as good a wife and mother as Mary was, that was how bad a husband and father Carl was.

            Carl was never at a soccer game or a band concert.  In fact, Mary wasn’t even sure that Carl realized that he even had kids.  He paid little or no attention to them.  In many ways, Mary thought the kids were lucky.  She wished sometimes that he would forget he had a wife.

            By 7:00 almost every night, Carl was laid out in his recliner in front of the TV, swilling down one beer after another.  The more he drank, the meaner he got.  On a good night, he was “just” verbally abusive.

            “Everybody loves St. Mary,” he would slur.  “The Church Lady is perfect – the best freaking mother, the best freaking piano player…too bad she can’t be the best freaking wife!”  That would go on and on.  Mary would just bite her lip and take it.  She knew she didn’t deserve this kind of treatment, but she also knew enough not to add fuel to the fire.  And she had years of experience coping with Carl, too.  Mary always breathed a little easier after Carl passed out.  She knew he was out cold by the loud snoring.

            There were a number of not so easy to cope with nights.  Sometimes Carl was ready for a fight.  Mary never knew what triggered these episodes, whether it was something at the nuclear plant or what.  On those nights, Carl didn’t go to sleep until he took a swing or two at Mary.  He was a lot bigger and a lot stronger.  Mary would cover up the bruises and would never mention what happened to anyone.  She prayed that the kids hadn’t heard anything.  Mary didn’t want to call attention to what had happened.  She didn’t want the kids to know that their father was capable of this kind of behavior.  It was hard enough on them knowing that Carl showed no interest in the things they were passionate about.

            Mary had proven that she could cope with anything – well, almost anything.  One Sunday morning, after a particularly rough Saturday night, Mary went into the bathroom to start getting ready for church.  There on the toilet sat Carl with his pants down around his ankles.  It didn’t take long for Mary to realize that Carl was dead.  Mary was able to cope with everything else in her life.  Now she had to learn to cope with widowhood.

            When Mary didn’t show up at church, everyone at St. John’s assumed she was sick, or maybe one of the kids was.  In no time at all, word to start to get around that the Lafourche Parish Coroner had been at Mary’s house and that Carl was dead.  News was that it looked like he had a massive stroke while doing his business.

            “Oh, my!” said Tessie Bourgeois, the secretary at the church.  “Carl went the same way as Elvis!”

            “Well, not exactly,” said Carol Landry.  “First of all, Carl was no rock star!  And I don’t think Carl had lots of drugs in his system.”  That was true – with the exception of all of the alcohol that Carl had consumed.

            Mary began to cope with each day as it came.  She handled the funeral arrangements.  She contacted the nuclear plant about getting Carl’s last paycheck and inquired about his company insurance policy.  Mary fielded Todd and Katie’s questions and tried not to let them see that she was disappointed that they were not sadder about their father’s passing.  But she really was not surprised.  The air in the house seemed a little lighter now.

            Mary coped with the funeral by playing the part of the grieving widow.  In a small way, she was grieving…but not for this Carl.  She grieved the death of the Carl she first met back in high school.  She missed the Carl who played first base on the school’s baseball team.  Mary missed the Carl who had an easy smile, loved a good joke, and enjoyed going to the movies.  She missed the Carl who would attend church with her every Sunday and take her to lunch afterward.  Mary missed the Carl who got down on one knee to propose to her, the Carl who looked so dapper in the tuxedo at their wedding, the Carl who was over the moon with joy when Mary told him she was pregnant with Katie.  But that Carl died a long time ago.  She felt as if she really didn’t know the Carl lying in the coffin.  She had no idea when he slipped into their lives, killing the Carl that she loved.

            “Mary, I am so sorry for your loss!”

            “I know it’s tough now, Mary, but it will get a little easier each day.”

            “I’ll be praying for you and the kids, Mary!”

            “Just remember, Mary, that Carl has gone to be with God and you will be with him again one day.”

            Mary knew that the parishioners all meant well, but she knew there was no way that this monster had gone to Heaven.  And she sure didn’t want to ever be with him again!  Mary endured all of the condolences and accepted the hugs that were offered.  She coped with all of the mourners who descended on her house with plates of food.

            “I know you won’t feel like cooking, so here’s a little something for you and the kids.”

            One well-wisher was right – each day did get a little easier.  The very first day after the funeral, Mary woke up and just lay in bed for a while.  She didn’t spring out of bed to get coffee on and make breakfast, but just reveled in the cool sheets and stared at the clouds out the window.  There was nothing left to fear.

            Each day, the kids came a little further out of their shells.  Mary had never seen them so happy and talkative.  In a way, nothing had changed for them.  They didn’t have a father to attend the important events in their lives – but they had never had that.  The difference was that they didn’t have to endure dinner every night with sullen Carl, who only wanted to get to his recliner, TV and beer.  Mary was sad that they didn’t know the young Carl who had won her heart.

            What could make a person change from a sweet, fun-loving young man into an old, abusive drunk?  Mary couldn’t answer that question.  She was there for Carl every day of their lives together.  It must have been gradual or she was sure she would have seen it happening.  Mary couldn’t put her finger on a turning point.  She wished she at least had that for closure.  Since she didn’t, she just coped with each day as it came.

            The insurance policy from the nuclear plant and the one that Mary and Carl had taken out on their own paid out.  The money made life a little easier for Mary and the kids.  She might go back to work – after all, she did work before the kids were born.  But there was no hurry now.  Mary just wanted to keep the kids in their routine.  She figured that was best for them.  There had been enough change in their lives recently without adding to it.

            Mary went back to playing piano for services at the church.  Todd and Katie were more comfortable bringing friends home now and Mary enjoyed cooking for them and hearing the chatter and laughter throughout the house.  In some ways, nothing had changed for Mary – but in other ways, everything had changed.  Mary was still the cook, maid, nurse, chauffeur, and tutor, but she took even more joy in it now.

            Mary went to the animal shelter and got a dog for the family.  She had always wanted a dog, but Carl wouldn’t stand for it. 

“You are not bringing a stinking, filthy beast in this house!  We have kids – we don’t need any more creatures to eat all of our food and lay round here not doing a damn thing!”  Mary couldn’t understand thinking about a dog – or her kids – that way. 

Sparky settled right into the household.  The dog, the kids and Mary fit perfectly together.

Mary planted a garden.  She had always wanted rose bushes and a vegetable garden, but Carl thought that “nonsense” was a waste of time.  Mary loved digging in the soil, and under her green thumb, it wasn’t long before she had one of the most envied gardens in the neighborhood.

Yes, life was good for Mary now.  And maybe she would go back to work one day in the not-too-distant future.  It probably wouldn’t take her too long to get back up to speed and get current on her licenses.  She had heard that there was a shortage of nurses at Lafourche General Hospital.  Mary may have forgotten a few things, but she remembered many more.  For instance, Mary had not forgotten that injecting an air bubble into an artery can cause death.  Since the coroner never noticed the needle mark, Mary knew she hadn’t lost her touch.

STRESS & DISTRESS - THEN REPEAT

Is every mother stressed, worried, nervous, overwhelmed, concerned, and overworked - or is it just me?  Every day, I think I am trying my best to get done what needs to be done, but then at the end of the day, I feel like I have not been productive at all.  I put in 8+ hours a day at work, but only scratch the surface of what needs to be done.  I take work home on the weekends, but then feel guilty that I am not spending time with my family - or doing housework that has gone undone all week.  If I do the housework, I feel guilty for not getting my work done for the office.  And if I do work or housework, I feel cheated for not getting to work on my still unfinished novel.  There just isn't enough time in the day...week...month...year...life!

I feel guilty for not cooking from scratch more.  It seems that we live off the same frozen foods week after week.  Yes, I have a very busy teenage daughter.  No, we have not allowed her to drive to school, etc., just yet.  That will come soon enough.  So now, time is at a premium.  When she does start driving herself everywhere, I really will miss our conversations in the car - though never in the morning - and listening to the radio with her.  I really like her taste in music, and she has begun to appreciate some of mine.

I know that, once upon a time, I had tons of free time.  In fact, I remember many a Sunday when I was downright bored.  I remember taking naps, and doing cross-stitch, and reading books.  Now it seems that I do a lot of dishes and laundry, and spend a lot of times looking for lost or misplaced items.  (And yes, I usually get the blame.)  I have visions of getting bedrooms painted, landscaping the backyard, planting roses in every color, making all kinds of crafts, and starting a business on the side.  But year in and year out, those things never seem to get done.

Don't get me wrong - I love my family!  I could do without the stress and arguments and feelings of guilt every morning and every night.  Did I do enough?  Did I do it well?  Could I have done more - or at least have done it better?  And that applies to my job, my husband, my kids, my house, my pets....  Sometimes I feel like the weight of the world is on my shoulders...and they are starting to sag.

I know - rub some dirt on it and walk it off, as my husband would say.  I know that a lot of my stress and guilt is self-inflicted.  But the bottom line is that I will keep going...doing my best sometimes...not so much other times.  I will fail; I will make mistakes; I will worry and stress and feel guilt.  But maybe one day, my kids will look back and appreciate all that I have at least tried to do with and for them.  It took me a long time to see what a warrior my mother was.  If I am half the mother she was, I am doing pretty good.

How Do You Grieve for Someone You Didn't Really Know?

It has been a rather strange couple of weeks....  I have always known that I had a half-brother and a half-sister from my father's first marriage, but, since they were grown when I was born, I was raised as an only child.

For reasons I will not go into here, my half-sister cut all ties to my father when I was an infant, so when asked about siblings, I would say that I had a half-brother, plus a half-sister I had never met.  Sadly, she and my father never mended fences.  (Yes, that is where I got the ability to hold grudges.)  Happily, when her sons grew up, they visited my father a few times.  He was so happy and proud of them.

My half-brother Jim made few and far between appearances in my life.  He would occasionally call and upset my father by asking to speak to "the old fart."  A few times, he came to our house, but I grew to dread these visits.  He always smelled like beer and would have a hefty supply with him.  That may be why I hate the smell of beer so much.  Jim and my father both had prickly personalities, so it was oil and water - or maybe gasoline and fire - at times.

One of the main stories about Jim that I remember is that he attended LSU at the same time the famous Jim Taylor did.  My brother, Jim Taylor, was in the band while the famous one made a name for himself playing football.  From what I understand, their mail was often mixed up. 

Jim did appreciate my mother and all the things my parents did to help him when he was younger.  My parents adored Jim's first wife and their son.

I can't say that I felt I really knew Jim. I remember his second wife and his stepdaughters.  I don't think I ever met his third or fourth wives.  (I don't even remember #3's name!)  Jim was the "distant" relative who would breeze in and out of my life.  He was good at making promises, but not good at keeping any of them.  When I was in high school, I was contemplating becoming a social worker.  Jim told me that when the time came, he was going to pay to put me through Newcomb College, a private college in New Orleans.  It wasn't until I started college at Loyola (and no, I didn't become a social worker!) that I realized that it was just hot air.

After my father passed away in 1986, Jim didn't write my mother and me off as other members of my father's family did.  Jim would call my mother every now and then to see how she was.  I do believe that he truly loved and respected her.  

About five years ago, my mother had physical and mental issues that required nursing home care.  Since her house was in her name, my name and Jim's name, I had to track him down when we decided to sell it.  I found out that he had serious health problems of his own.  The last time I spoke to him on the phone, he was in a rehab hospital and I could barely understand him.

I was contacted last week by Jim's son, my "half-nephew."  He wanted to let me know that Jim was in hospice and would not live much longer.  He and I spoke a few days later and he let me know that Jim's condition had deteriorated.  He was now in and out of consciousness.  I just asked him - if Jim had a lucid moment - to please just tell him that I loved him.  He contacted me a couple of days later to let me know that Jim had passed away.  Before he died, my nephew gave him my message and he felt that Jim understood.

I was very sad to hear of his death.  I don't know that I was grieving for Jim, but for that side of the family that I never really knew.  If there is a silver lining, it's that I have reconnected with Jim's son and have "spoken" with his daughter via Facebook.  I have also connected with one of my half-sister's sons.  I think we all would like to become more like family.  That would be a good legacy for Jim and my father.

My prayer has been that you now have peace, Jim.

THE POST HOLIDAY LET DOWN

Anyone who really knows me know that I am not a big Christmas person.  Yes, I have been called Grinch and Scrooge numerous times.  I am definitely not the kind to listen to Christmas carols, watch Christmas television specials, or decorate my whole house.  I'm doing good of I get my Christmas village - "Tiny Town" - set up, and put some ornaments on the tree.

I do love Christmas lights.  It makes me happy when my husband puts lights on our house.  We like to drive around and see other festive displays, too.  That is one of the best parts of Christmas to me.

I don't like the extra traffic.  I hate the crowds at the mall.  I can't take all the sales ads and commercials, always making you wonder if you got the best deal.  I hate trying to figure if I got enough presents for the kids - and if I got them something they will really like.  I hate wrapping gifts.  I hate the mess after they are unwrapped.  Yes, I am a Grinch.

I'm not much of a New Year's Eve person either.  Even when I was younger and single, I didn't really care for going out that night.  I don't mind watching fireworks - in my own neighborhood - and as long as it isn't too cold outside.

There are a couple of people in our neighborhood who must have way too much expendable income because they shoot off a lot of the expensive, pretty fireworks.  This year, since there was a light rain falling in addition to the chilly temp, my husband and I - being alone at home this year - sat on the front porch with a fire in his new fire pit (my Christmas gift to him), watching the fireworks display.  At midnight, we toasted with chamomile tea.  I guess we really are getting old.

In years past, my husband would buy a lot of fireworks because our daughter liked them.  I always saw them as money being set on fire....  (Can you be a New Year's Scrooge?)  My son would be up in his room with the door closed, refusing to come out to see the fireworks.  My daughter would usually have on or two friends over and they would be in and out of the house, shooting fireworks, drinking sparkling grape juice, and generally making a huge mess inside and out.  I miss those days though.  This year, our son was with his girlfriend at his apartment near the university he attends.  Our daughter went to a party with a friend.  It was a pretty quiet end to 2013 and start to 2014.  The best thing about not buying fireworks - in addition to the money you save - is not having a mess to clean up the next day!

Even though I lack holiday spirit - a trait my aunt says I got from my mother, who she reminded me was very fond of the term, "Bah, Humbug!" - I still feel a post holiday let down.  Life is getting back to "normal," i.e. hectic.  The house is slowly getting back to its pre-holiday look, i.e. messy.  I feel a little empty...a little sad...and a lot broke.  

Don't get me started on Valentines Day!