Tag Archives: love

When the time comes…

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He had shown up on our kitty cams years before he joined our family–usually when the ones who ‘had’ him decided to go out of town and he was left fending for himself. The first time I thought, because of his size, that ‘she’ was a very pregnant kitty and did ‘she’ belong to anyone? That was in 2020. He showed up again over the next few years seeking dinner, or lunch, or breakfast, or all of the above. He had a scraggly meow, buckshot in his left side and took up permanent residency the day we brought our dog, Lila, home from rescue. It was January 27, 2024.

He had been named Jerry by those people up the mountain, but we called him Jerry Garcia as he was so chill and acted like he didn’t have a care in the world. He had an affection for warding off raccoons from his area on the lower back deck, could chase a bear in a moment’s notice or find you the “prettiest” snake on the mountain. He made morning walks with Lila and taught her the importance of boundaries. He loved a good brushing and lived for belly rubs. We were not certain of his age exactly, but felt he was about 13 or 14. We were certain his life would have meaning.

When we made the decision to move to the coast, Jerry was with the other six kitties, with myself and MIL, looking towards a new adventure. The always outside Jerry became inside Jerry and with the exception of the rudeness of two, he fit right in the clowder. I would find him sunning in the dining room, stretched out as “tres” in the Three Amigos of himself, Sailor and Henry. He was a beautifully kind cat–never the troublemaker–but extremely thankful for his surroundings and staff–especially with his Grandma. Jerry took up residency on her lap daily with an ample supply of love and belly rubs.

A few months ago, Jerry was diagnosed with kidney disease. We made sure he had the best care, all of the love in the world and we took the responsibility of giving him sub-Q IVs to ensure his fluid levels were maintained. He didn’t miss a beat during his treatment. The girls at Lillian Vet always greeted him with an astounding “Hello, Jerry Garcia!”, and today they held my hand and hugged me through our last goodbye.

It is a very hard choice of knowing when to let go, but when Jerry was not watching the Alabama game with us on Saturday night and refused dinner, I knew he had declined. We were fighting a horrible game with time and kidney disease–neither which were being forgiving at this point. He wanted to find peace in the back of his Grandma’s closet, but I placed him on her bed. We doubled up on IVs to make sure he stayed hydrated, but his breath was becoming short and I just knew…

I hated that I knew.

I have heard it said that if love could have saved him, he would have lived forever. I know, in my heart, he is curled up in my Momma’s lap with Hannah, Kelty and Cassidy at her feet. Daddy is watching heaven’s ESPN and Jerry looks up to acknowledge there is a game to watch, even though it was not Alabama.

I prayed over him in the minutes before and after Dr. Beth sent him to them. I told him to run free, to finally catch that bear and to know we could not have loved him any more than we did.

But he knew that–

I loved that he knew.

Before he was ours…

Again it is Mary Alice stealing my sleep!

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I have been an avid reader for years. I prefer Southern based authors who can fluidly place me into the familiar world of my South Carolina Lowcountry through their words. I have always found this through Mary Alice Monroe. She can transport me to the beach, the Spanish moss covered Lowcountry or, in the case of Where The Rivers Merge , into decades of a strong Southern woman who is not without faults and sometimes, without limits.

My mistake for thinking I could pick this book up and continue with my ‘normal’ life. I literally rearranged my marketing and media schedule, as well as my sleep, in order to finish my obsession with Eliza and her life. Mary Alice Monroe’s depictions of the characters had me thinking, laughing and crying. They also had me comparing the centuries as sometimes it is not time that is the thief of things we love, but covetousness.

Where The Rivers Merge clearly brings forward the meaning of ‘you cannot know the present or future until you clearly understand the past’. You are immersed within the dysfunction of family on so many levels. Whether it is due to tradition, prejudice or greed, you are able to see and feel each level of trauma and drama in this multigenerational and multi year piece.

If you have never experienced her writing, I hope you will pick up this great work of historical fiction, even if you are not from the Lowcountry. Be prepared to immerse yourself in a war with the past, a struggle with the present and prayers for the future.

And speaking of prayers, you will need those when you close the last chapter and realize you will be needing the strength of Eliza in waiting for the second book in this two part series. I personally am hoping for a trilogy.

It cannot come too soon…I need rest!

(Where The Rivers Merge releases next week on May 13. I was blessed to receive a copy at the end of April.)

There’s somethin’ to be said about freshly ironed sheets and house dresses…

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granny and granddaddy

I miss my Granny Kinne.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I miss my Granny Baylor, my Momma’s mother, but I do not have the memories or the smiles imbedded in my soul of her the way I do of Granny Kinne.  Maybe it is the redheaded Irish tie that binds us or the love of the written word, but I see so much of her here in my everyday life.

Mary Ann Connelly Kinne was a spitfire little Irish lady, only 4 foot 11 inches tall, but every inch, every area of her amplified a life of love and a life of giving.  She was born in 1899 in Roxbury, Massachusetts after her father, Michael and her mother, Bridget, left Galway, Ireland to come to the United States. The States proved to be a lonely place for Bridget. She left May (as she was called)  & her brother, Bill,  with Michael. She took their brothers, Michael  & John,  back to Ireland. 

I cannot imagine a mother leaving her children 

I cannot imagine the effects it had on all involved. 

I can only think it made Granny the strong woman she became later in life.

She met my Grandfather in Miami in 1925, married him there and moved to Springfield, Massachusetts where my father was born in 1927. She had a very close life with my Grandfather and Daddy.  She diligently documented their lives in multiple scrapbooks and photographs. She stood by her husband as he drove as an Indy relief driver, worked as the Southeastern parts manager for Rolls Royce during the great depression and as he lost everything due to his alcoholism . His drinking affected their lives in many ways including never being able to lay down roots long enough to be settled.  They spent their lives in Atlanta, Georgia, Columbia, South Carolina and multiple small towns in South Carolina until he found his sobriety.  They found their way to Charleston in 1940 where they both became involved with AA. She spent her days volunteering at Stark General Hospital where she would script articles and send them to  the families of the wounded soldiers.  These were the things I read about in the Post and Courier and were handed down to me through Momma and Daddy, not the things I remembered. 

Those were all of their memories. 

Mine affected me so much more.

Mine were walking with my Mother to the front of Ashley Hall Manor each Thursday where we would wait with smiles and laughter for Granny to step off the steps of the Charleston city bus.  She came every week in her freshly pressed housedress, pocketbook in hand and spent the day with us.  I remember the smells of the iron hitting the line dried sheets and how she sang songs and told little Irish quips.  I remember going to Sunday School at the Baptist church and being reprimanded for asking about Jesus, Mary and Joseph and the 15 cops! 

I remember every word to Freckles, a very distinct Irish song about a mischievous little boy:

Freckles was his name. He always used to get the blame. For every broken window pane, oh, how they told him they’d scold him. And when he’d tease the girls, when in school, he’d pull their curls. He wasn’t much of a scholar, but fight, oh, buddy! The other fellows nose was always bloody. People used to coax, young Freckles to not to play his jokes, but how he teased the village folks, it was a shame.  But when the cat had kittens up in the hay, one was black and seven were grey. Everybody yelled FRECKLES! He always got the blame.

I remember her joke about Don’t make love by the garden gate. Love may be blind, but the neighbor’s ain’t. I remember how she would take us, along with the neighborhood kids, downtown to the Riviera Theatre to see the latest Disney film release by city bus, of course.  Not just once, but whenever there was something new.  She made my favorite dolls their clothes, carefully pressed each and every pillow case and crocheted beautiful doilies for my Momma’s tables.

Granny Kinne has been gone now for 33 years. 

She spent the last eight years of her life in an Alzheimer’s hold. 

She didn’t know me or my siblings.

She didn’t know her own son.

In her head, she was a young girl on the arm of a handsome race care driver sitting on the steps of an antebellum home. 

She was a shell of the woman I knew. 

Gone the city bus, the singing,  the spry little Irish lady.

I don’t think I ever really grieved her loss until I was in my forties. Maybe because when she died we had already lost her years before, maybe it was my own selfishness of youth. It has taken my own years to begin to catch up with me to see how much of her resides in my soul. 

I have an affinity for freshly ironed sheets. 

I sing Freckles whenever I have a child on my lap and hope that song lives on with them and is passed along. 

I will occasionally wear a hat that will have my sister shout out “love your Granny Kinne hat!” I know my sister knows I picked that hat purely out of love and memories. 

I guess my black yoga pants are my Granny’s housedress. I always carry a pocketbook –never a purse. I hold close the lovely works she crocheted close to heart and in my home. Her Apostleship of Prayer tag which is pasted on felt resides in my camera bag.  Her Saint Anne laminated card stays in my wallet reminding me that my Granny is in heaven watching over me daily.  

I know she is smiling that I have become the Catholic she always prayed I would be.

I can still get a rise from her little Irish ways! 

She gave me so much more than I ever realized.

I can only hope I leave the same impression on someone’s soul.

Of paws and bobtails…

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Calli and her first born
The happy 5 babies
Sailor and Lil Man
Kelty and Cassisy

There is something to be said about cats and the enduring effect they have on your heart.  It would be impossible to think of my life without having a cat in it.  They have always been there.  From being a small child and dressing them in my baby doll clothes while riding them around in my dolly carriage to the harrowing feeling in my gut when Kelty died in my arms last year, a cat, to me, has always been as present as air.

I came by it organically.  My Momma was affectionately known as the CatLady when I was growing up.  We always had a cat and it seems our house was also a drop off point for the unwanted ones as we always took them in.  We had smart cats–Teedle who could open the door by placing her paws over the knob and moving it, Sunshine & her kitten Sunny who both used the bathroom on the toilet.  We had mischievous cats–Frosty, a stray Maine Coon who liked to “comb” my brother’s curly hair.  We had them all, all breeds, all shapes, all colors, all sizes.  They all enchanted our lives in different ways.  They all found their final resting place in my family’s back yard except for Sunny and we instead buried his collar that the nice man who found him hit on the road had brought us.  We each always mumbled “No more, this is the last”, well, at least until the next one showed up.

As I grew up I remember thinking if I were to die I wanted to come back as one of my Momma’s cats as she took care of them the same way she took care of us–with all of the love and patience in the world.  I also saw the same trait develop with both myself and my sister.  Our animals became family.  We sheltered and made them our own.  We talked to them like they were children and included them in adult conversations. We made sure they were taken care of in the best way possible.

I met my husband in 2002.  He had never been owned by a cat.  I know, I, too, was shocked by this.  We all know there are cat people and there are dog people, but there are just some people who miss so much by not having had the experience so during the halftime of an Alabama football game  in 2003 we went out and adopted Kelty, a long haired tortie from an abandoned litter of nine.  She adapted well and soon my husband was smitten.  She was named after a camping gear brand since she was quite the adventurous one.  She rode in the car on top of his head  resting her paws on the bill of his baseball cap during trips.  She was smart and loving.  She made us a family of three.  We adopted number 2 in 2006.  Cassidy, a beautiful Tabby who attached herself to Jay from day one.  She was very protective of him, perhaps because I was with Momma when she fell ill for three months, but she made sure I knew he was hers.  In 2011 she fell victim to kidney disease and the vet suggested we put her down.  We found another vet. We lived with  daily IV bags and injections, but we had her with us, playful and vibrant for another year.  When she came to the point of failing health we made the decision to have her put to sleep.  We blessed her with holy water and slept on the floor with her throughout the night.  Even Kelty licked her head as to say it would all be okay…Blessedly she passed in her sleep in the night.

Fast forward to 2015 and a move to the mountains with Kelty in tow as an only “child”.  It seems it is easy to become so used to your life as is that when things change rapidly it is sometimes so hard for your heart to catch up. Sailor came to us on July 16 at 4 weeks old, abandoned at my sister’s seafood restaurant in the middle of a storm and found seeking shelter under the Captain statue on the back deck.  She was tiny, fluffy and no short of love.  Kelty found her as an annoying, hissable piece of fur, an intruder in her home.  Toleration came four weeks later, but so did tragedy–we lost Kelty.  I still cannot talk about how she passed, it was unnecessary. Time has taught me it was to open our house and hearts to all we have now.  I think Cassidy needed her more in heaven.

Upon Kelty’s passing I knew we needed to find Sailor “a friend”.  It was off to the local shelter and making the point of saying we weren’t just coming home with a cat.  We needed a connection.  We walked in and out of the cat room to no avail.  We were about to leave when they took us to a room with the quarantined babies, some sick, some needing medication and some needing to be spade/neutered. And there he was–actually reaching out and grabbing my husband by the sleeve–a sleek, strong Mackerel Tabby kitten. The bond between Sailor and Lil’ Man took only  36 hours.  They began to do everything in tandem–eating, playing, sleeping, even sharing the litter box at the same time.  I felt God had placed them into our lives to help us heal.

Come November we had really settled into our home and were getting ready for the holidays.  We all know as soon as you say settled things become unsettled.  I was at the restaurant and watched as a Calico was darting between cars in the parking lot.  You know what happened next–I was up the mountain, new kitty in tow with a mission to find her family.   I posted with the shelters and after we had no response we had a new family member and a vet appointment where we were told she was pregnant!  After passing the gestational period with no babies we figured we were given a wrong diagnosis so the holidays went as planned, glass ornaments remained boxed and we all settled in as what our normal would be.  We had become a family of 5, three with paws, but still our family.

We rang in the new year with our new normal.  Cat toys everywhere, cat paws on the counter (which makes me cringe) and teaching manners along with new tricks.  Sailor became the quiet, docile one with a hidden bad streak.  Lil’ Man learned to sit, fetch and play catch with an outspoken streak of menace.  Calli got out of the house the week before she was scheduled to be spade.  She came home with a smile.

I did the things my Momma did when we had kittens when I was little.  I planted boxes with soft blankets throughout the house in closets. I placed a calendar on the fridge with her potential due dates. I watched her food intake and I could not help but laugh when my husband dubbed her “The Hindenburg”.  When the time came she ignored all of my planning and decided to have her babies in a box a placed next to my desk as I worked on company spreadsheets.  She wouldn’t let me leave her side.  It seemed she was telling me since I had no children of my own (without paws) she wanted me to be able to experience the wonder with her.  Calli delivered her kittens on April 20 during a labor lasting over 4 hours.  The first was a dark orange Tabby, the second a Calico and the third a bobtailed blonde Tabby. Two hours later, another orange Tabby with a bobtail, one hour after that the last one arrived, a blonde Tabby with a stump tail.  Momma and babies all healthy, myself and Jay in awe of the births and proud grandparents.

I can’t imagine a life without the “babies” as we call them and now, the additional 5 real babies downstairs.  They each have brought us laughter and joy just as the ones who were here before them. They teach us that a little claw mark doesn’t ruin your day it just enhances texture. They show us it doesn’t take much space for your heart to be moved in the right direction. They remind us that taking a leap doesn’t always have to involve fear and that in the long run, you don’t have to be a dog or cat person.  You just have to be able to love and make room in your heart.

 

IMG_6153.JPGFootnote:  The children turn one on the 20th of April.  All have wonderful homes!  Two are here with us (1 & 3), the orange bobtail as well as a 2nd kitten our Calli fostered are with my sister, the calico, Tipper, is in Charleston with a dear friend & my insurance agent has the last, the stumped tail named Tupelo. Always room for one more cat!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Filed away with some kind of memory

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I have spent the weekend purging our house, compiling piles of household goods for charity, looking over old photos and finally addressing the size two and four formal dresses in my spare closet. I had to be flat out honest with myself that this ass was not going to see two again unless it’s from too much wine. I looked through old cards Jay and I had given one another and laughed a lot. It is a good feeling to look through the what was when you are looking to the what will be.

But the purple file, yes, that one got to me. Writings from years ago spoke of teenage heartbreak and a girl who to the outside world was crazy and confident, but inside held a fire of hurt and disappointment. It was like reading a book and trying to connect to the main character, but knowing the ending at the beginning and wondering how she did the things she did, how she felt the way she did and how did she grow into a truly confident, spirited woman when she held such angst in her heart.

Mangione on a Sunday

I think of yesterday and I remember
Mangione, Riunite and a love I never knew.
I looked into the wine and I remember
A cool wind that swept the hurt from my mind.

You, like the wind, took away my hurt and
left a new impression of love.
Like Mangione on a Sunday and Riunite on the beach
You eased my mind.

Yesterdays slip away and
Though I can only hold onto the thoughts
I still recall that new impression…
It may be today or a far away tomorrow
But I will always remember Mangione on a Sunday.

Sometimes I sit and open up the memories
Like your love it was my security
But once you let go
I was lost.
In a new world I looked for others,
But not for love.
The tune had faded and I had lost.

So, I sat back and read this and realized I did not remember.The ironic thing is this was written sometime back in 1982 and I have no idea who this was about and why it was Riunite. Thank goodness my wine tastes have changed! Even more, thankful for today and that I have come back to writing again. For years I put my thoughts to paper and then one day I just walked away. I was challenging my own heart by stopping. I found the last poem I wrote, no date, just a scrawling series of words that said:

I sit, I cry.
I’ve turned away from the person I dreamed I would be,
From all of my dreams–
From my heart.
I sit. I laugh.
I’ve turned away for the truth,
The truth of what I believed, the fact
You weren’t meant for always.
And I laugh at my heart.
I walk. I think.
I think I have lost all feeling.
Love can’t be found.
It’s only a menagerie in my mind,
Just as you are
In my heart.
I write. I hurt.
I call. You’ve gone away.
And I’ve turned away with no one
To turn to.