Barbie Perkins-Cooper, Author

Category: Chattahoochee Child

  • Chattahoochee Child — Chapter Two

    Chattahoochee Child — Chapter Two


    CHAPTER TWO – ROOTS

    Dearest Rebecca:

    Sometimes in life, we must write a letter to ourselves for us to heal. Writing the message gets the words down…opening the mind to what happened, how we coped, and, most of all, how we learned to love again. For years, I lived without love. Why? Simple. I thought I was unworthy of love. After all, no one in this world would ever love someone so outspoken, independent, and threatening as I was. At least those were the words I grew up hearing over…and over…and over again! I believed I was a monster. I stood alone; after all, no one loves me! And so today, Dear Rebecca, I address this letter to you, after all – no one knows you better than you know yourself. You are Rebecca!

    Sitting here in the early morning light, I reminisce about my childhood, and I am thankful. So thankful I had a strong-willed grandmother teaching me faith. Grateful, I found guidance woven within the fingertips of her hands. I watched her with a critical, curious eye when she folded her hands in prayer. I listened to her. When she whispered ever so softly praying for God to guide her and give her strength to cope with these burdens. I learned so much just by watching her actions — the beliefs and values she taught me are priceless.

    My grandmother influenced my life by guiding me as she practiced the values, philosophies, and standards she shared in her actions and prayers. Without her guidance, I would not be the woman I am today.

    I am thankful that I got to know and improve my relationship with my father. As a child, I overlooked his indiscretions. When my mother criticized him for his quick temper, I looked to see a different person. In my innocent eyes, I saw a caring man who adored singing with me. He taught me how to harmonize and to sing from the pit of my stomach. He taught me to believe in the power of God’s words, and when he rarely spoke about his identical twin brother who died too young, I saw the pain on my father’s face. I wanted him to love me like he loved his twin brother. I wanted to learn more about their dreams of harmonizing and preaching the gospel to others. When my father lost his temper, beating my mother, I was the five-year-old little girl who ran between them, pushing my hands on their hot bodies to move them apart. I was the one who strove to see the good and not the bad in relationships. I am grateful that I overlooked the sadness of a volatile man who only showed his anger behind the closed doors of our home. Singing and preaching in church, no one knew the secrets of our family. When Dad was diagnosed with esophageal cancer, I am grateful that I was the daughter to step up and care for him. Due to his terminal illness, I learned to reach out to other family members while praying they would respond to Dad and me. I am thankful we had a small amount of time to heal childhood wounds while we developed a closer relationship before we said goodbye.

    As a woman, I am thankful I found the courage to survive when the storms of life threaten me. I am grateful that I have an inner strength that helps me find the courage to survive.

    Reflecting on my childhood, now I recognize how painful it was. Yes, as I look back on my life as a child, I could dwell on the heartache and pain, the many episodes of family abuse, and the hatred that appeared to dance inside our family. However, as my father said to me during his torrential battle with esophageal cancer, I chose to move forward. I do want to move forward, to wash all of the hurt and anger away. While it still dances inside my mind at times, I wish to bid the rage and abuse goodbye permanently.

    As a young child, I lived in fear. Fear of my parents and their habitual demeanor of shouting angry, hateful words to each other. Never did I hear my mother or father say, “I love you,” to each other or the children of their marriage. Most households awaken to children laughing with excitement for the events of the day. Morning hugs are shared. I hungered to have just one morning where my mother would hug me before I left the house. Monsters appeared inside our household, inside the cantankerous voice of my mother and the boisterous shouting of my father. My mother taught me to be seen, not heard. Relatives described me as shy. I haven’t addressed our household as a home because it wasn’t home. A home is where a family goes to receive love, attention, and a feeling of belonging. Home is a place to share life’s events and life’s tragedies, a place where children come for comfort and guidance. As a child, I was a stranger trapped within four walls. We moved like drifters, never establishing roots or cherished memories. Never did I feel a sense of belonging, except for school.

    Deep inside my heart, I struggled to find positive, happy thoughts, seeing them only in the energy, happiness, and pride I found whenever I sang or wrote. For years, I kept a diary, hiding it underneath my mattress, and that is where I slowly learned to feed positive energy to myself. “A home is where the heart is,” only my heart never felt comfortable within my birth family, except for the wisdom and knowledge I received from my maternal grandmother and my father – on his good days.

    Once I heard the quote, “Turn a negative into a positive,” I asked my teacher how someone could do that. She smiled at me, saying, “By applying positive feedback and believing in yourself. Don’t allow others to discourage your dreams.”

    My teacher’s encouragement remained with me. I recognized that my home situation was venomous. The toxic words I heard so often felt as poisonous as the stings from a yellow jacket or a snake, burning inside my brain and body. Hurting. Demolishing. I realized that to survive, I had to build myself up by feeding positive brain thoughts. Although I was a child, I could not permit negative thoughts to destroy what I desired in my life. My life was up to me. Slowly, ever so slowly, I applied the newfound knowledge of turning a negative into a positive. Whenever I heard my mother tell me I was a stupid child, I visualized being smart. I read books. I studied. I did everything within my power not to be a foolish child, and before the age of thirteen, I realized I was not stupid. In school, I made all A’s. I sang in the choir, and whenever a project was assigned, I worked hard to make the best grade in the class. Teachers complimented me on my writing and researching talents. The choir director told me I had a lovely voice, and when the words of destruction from my mother’s voice echoed in my head, I fed myself positive thoughts. After all, I wasn’t stupid.

    Although I was young, the struggles of my life taught me courage. I was on a journey to find the young girl who would become the woman I am today. Many people have told me that as adults, we are a reflection of our parents. I was determined to break the toxic, backbiting habits of my mother. Yes, I watched her actions, making mental notes to make my life different. Observing her manipulations, I chose to do things in a different style.

     Life is so precious, and we must cherish every breath we take, every moment we live. The only regret I have now is the reality that my mother and I never made peace. Repeatedly, I tried. My mother allowed negativity to feed anger within her. Now, she was in the twilight years of her life, struggling to become stronger after a stroke. Before this, she allowed the many storms of her life to destroy her. Filled with anger and resentment, she rarely shared compliments or encouragement. Instead, she spat back with a toxic attitude, telling me I would never amount to nothing but a hill of beans. I grew to hate her attitude towards me. Perhaps her resentment was a reflection of her innermost desires. Maybe she considered herself a failure, and now, in the twilight years, she realized her life was circumscribed. Mortality was knocking at her door, and there was nothing she could do to fight it.

    Or – maybe – my mother was jealous of me and the relationship I developed with my father. I overlooked his temper as a child, and when he sang “You Are My Sunshine” to me, I melted. Just maybe…just maybe I was lovable, after all!

    During her struggle to survive, I challenged myself to look at my mother’s life. Although she never shared her childhood stories, or the romance and marriage, I realized there had to be pain intertwined within the core of her persona. The only time I recall her showing any emotion was on the day she and Dad separated. Arriving at home, I found her in tears. When I ask her what was wrong, she replied, “Your damned daddy has left me. It’s all your fault. You’re the one who told him to leave yesterday. I hope you are happy now, you stupid bitch.” Her hand slammed hard on my face, leaving a fiery redness I felt for hours. Rubbing my face, I tugged at her apron strings. “But you said you wanted him to die. Over and over, you said you hoped Daddy would die soon. Don’t you remember saying that to me when I was little?”

    “You shut up. Death is different…You have time to mourn. Divorce…Why Divorce is something shameful, especially for a Southern woman.”

    Regardless of how cruel she was, I learned to accept her as a lost woman. A woman who never achieved her own goals. A woman angry that the man she married chose to divorce her instead of standing by her. Angry. So enraged at how she could be so hypocritical. Infuriated that her children grew up, refusing to remain by her side. Angry that no one else wanted to be her friend or companion. The red-eyed monster of anger captivated her. She could not see the deceptions she created, blaming him for the thunderstorms in her life, nor could she accept responsibility for her actions.

    Still, to this day, I regret how my mother would not allow me to be close, but now that I am older and wiser, I recognize that she behaved in the same hateful, malicious demeanor to others, especially to my dad.

    After my mother’s death, I have recognized that our relationship is now a closed matter. We cannot sit down together to attempt another open discussion of why we were so estranged. She is gone.

    On the night of her death, I did not receive a phone call from the nursing home or hospital. Later, I found out why.

    My alienated sister phoned me 16 hours after her death, letting me know the funeral would be a graveside service. She inhaled and slurred her words. “Do you think they’ll do an autopsy?”

    I didn’t answer. Maybe I was in shock, or perhaps I was uncomfortable talking to this woman who was a distant family member I did not know. I hadn’t seen her in years; nevertheless, spoken to her. The last time I saw her was when I visited my mother’s home alone, and this deranged woman known as my sister slapped me three times, leaving bruises.

    Later that evening, while sleeping in my bed, I awoke to the words, “Do you think they’ll do an autopsy,” rushing through my brain. Nothing I could do or say could bring my mother back. I had to find peace. I needed to come to terms with what happened on the night of her death. Although she was an embittered woman with a poisonous tongue, I loved her. She gave me life. Watching her actions, I learned that I was the one responsible for my character, my values, and my beliefs. My life was up to me to build, and I did not wish to allow others to destroy me. I have realized that I am the woman I am today, thanks to all that I’ve survived. I found strength and purpose inside an unhappy home that should’ve taught me obliteration. Instead of walking in the shadows of my mother, I chose to walk alone. I suppose I have finally found my way home.

    Sincerely,

    Rebecca

  • The Saga Continues – Notes About Chattahoochee Child

    The Saga Continues – Notes About Chattahoochee Child


    Dearest Readers:

    Today is Memorial Day. I’ve written about it, posting it on my blog. Now that hubby and I have spent a quiet day together; I chose to post something here. A few weeks ago, I lost an acquaintance/friend who battled cancer during the Pandemic. Since I was in significant pain from a broken back and I have asthma, I could not visit her. I was still wearing a cumbersome back brace. When she died, I couldn’t attend the funeral since asthma was causing me to cough violently. Another friend and I sent flowers to her funeral. I’m still hoping they were received.

    This week, another acquaintance passed away. Well, I believe it was last week. She had a heart attack at the age of 46-years-old. Never did I meet her in person, but I do feel her loss. Occasionally, she would ask me questions about writing since she desired to write. I told her to ‘write from the heart.’ When she posted some of her stories on FB, I enjoyed reading them, along with her fans.

    These two losses are talking to me, just like the voice would speak to me after losing my father. After his death, I spent days and nights working diligently to finish the story, CONDITION OF LIMBO. One year later, it was published. 

    In 2005, I became a travel writer, targeting the Eastern and Southern states, focusing on hospitality, travel, and food. During this time, in the middle of the night, I thought of a title for a book. CHATTAHOOCHEE CHILD. When I mentioned the title in my writer’s group, I discovered the story’s plot was missing. Yes. I had characters I could quickly develop, but what was the story? 

    I placed the title in my Works-in-Progress file, keeping it tucked away. After losing two friends, I’ve realized again just how short life is. I’ve found myself saying I don’t want to write, or I’m too tired to write. My writing sucks. I hate writing, and of course, I’ve procrastinated, telling myself I can write tomorrow.

    But wait. What if I don’t have a tomorrow, and what if CHATTAHOOCHEE CHILD remains as an outline. Nothing more? I feel it must be told, shared with my reading public. I must share this poignant story about the relationships of mothers and daughters who cannot make peace with one another. 

    So, tonight while I sit at my computer writing, I am making another commitment to:

    1. Revise and submit the book proposal I began many years ago.
    2. I must stop listening to those dreams I constantly have telling me a) You are not a writer; b) What makes you think you can write? c) If you complete CHATTAHOOCHEE CHILD, everyone who reads it will know. d) I told you many times you couldn’t write or sing, and now you see I was right!
    3. I will complete the story of CHATTAHOOCHEE CHILD while submitting the book proposal to agents and publishers.
  • CHATTAHOOCHEE CHILD

    CHATTAHOOCHEE CHILD


    copyright: Barbie Perkins-Cooper

    Childhood is a time of great joy and remembrance for most people. The carefree days of laughter, hope, freedom and pride is only a glimpse into what the future holds. Most people can reflect on childhood by looking back at preserved photographs captured during birth, a first haircut, loss of the first tooth, taking that most important first step, birthday parties, and so many innocent events during the journey of life. For me, that is not the case. My childhood snapshots were tossed away by my mother when I left her home.

                I have no idea why she tossed me away, like yesterday’s spoiled, rotten trash. One of my cousins said she grabbed all of my pictures and threw them away in a fit of anger when I left home. She yanked my senior picture off the wall, throwing it into the trash. “I never want to hear her name again in this house. She’s gone – forever,” my mother shouted in a fit of rage. I pictured my mother, rushing about, rummaging through my empty dresser drawers, and closet, while she swept photographs and all memories of me away, like yesterday’s trash. “Out of sight, out of mind,” she said, tossing the images of me into the trash.

                The only picture I salvaged is a tattered black and white 8 x 10 photograph of me as a five-year-old. My hair was long, golden blonde locks of ringlet curls. I wore a lace dress with a ruffled collar. A pink bow was in my hair. My eyes glistened with brightness for what the future held for me. Little did I know this picture, preserved for many years in my father’s scrapbook collection, was the only image illustrating my existence.

                The lukewarm water of the Atlantic Ocean tickles my toes as it rushes to reach high tide. I inhale the scent of ocean air, salt and sea delicacies, crabs, shrimp, sea turtles and the humid dampness of the ocean.

                Later, as the sun is setting, I stroll along the shore, watching the warm salt water cover my toes and I am so thankful to be here, along the shores of Sullivan’s Island, South Carolina. Station 27 oceanfront is the place where I feel home. I have love and acceptance and such pride to be alive and accepted. Although people speak to me while I saunter along the shore, they recognize me as ‘one of the regulars here,’ but they do not know me. Yes, they know my name and they know I live nearby, but they do not know who I am or what I believe in. Nor do they know I came from the shores of the Chattahoochee River and the mill town of Bibb City. They see a reflection of success and envy in me and I must laugh when I hear them whisper my name. She’s a travel writer, they whisper.

                Continuing my stroll, the Sullivan’s Island lighthouse is only a stone’s throw away. Standing over 140 feet tall, in the shape of a triangle, the lighthouse is a signature landmark for the community and was designed by the Coast Guard in 1962. Stopping to gaze at this amazing concrete structure, I recognize this is where my roots are planted. My foundation for home and life are here, along the shores of the Atlantic Ocean. Here, I feel safe, bonded in the arms of God along the shores of Sullivan’s Island at the beach at Station 27. The lighthouse stands as a beacon of light to guide me home, and that is when I realize, I have finally found home, here where my heart and soul are one.

                “Home is where the heart is,” my mother said to me as a child and as a newly married woman. “I’ve never had a home,” I spat back at her, realizing I held my love back, protecting it because my life was always filled with ridicule and criticism. No one had really loved me until my husband came into my life.

    I said goodbye to my mother in 1988, the morning after my high school class reunion. On that morning, my son interrupted my sleep by asking me what a whore was. I rubbed my eyes, stumbling awake to ask where he had heard the word.

    “Granny called you a whore. What’s a whore, Mommy? It’s something bad, isn’t it.”

    “It’s not a nice name and it’s a word you should not speak again, at least until you’re grown.”

    “Why would she call you that word?”

    “That’s a good question, and I will ask her in a minute. You go back to sleep.” I kissed Michael on the cheek, tucking him in with his father. I slipped on my robe, and headed to my mother’s room.

    I knocked three times. She opened her eyes. “Why did you call me a whore?” I shouted.

    “I did no such a thing.”

    “Yes, you did.” Michael stood next to me. “You said my mommy was a whore and a drunk.”

    The argument continued for an hour. Garrett awoke to the shouting. Recognizing this conversation would be an eternal shouting match of two stubborn women who butted heads all the time, he said we were leaving. I grabbed our luggage and stormed out of the house, refusing to look back. I cried an endless ocean of tears from Columbus, Georgia to Charleston, South Carolina. Michael apologized for starting the argument. I responded that he was not the problem. My life as a child of the Chattahoochee, the daughter to a woman who could not show love at all, was the problem. The only solution was to build my life with my family, Garrett and Michael.

    I made the decision to leave Bibb City after my marriage to Garrett. I never looked back when we drove away. My head remained high, a happy smile on my face, my husband squeezing my hand. 

    Although I felt compelled to look back, to wave goodbye to my mother and the city of my childhood, I remained strong. I would not cry. I would not glance back one last time. I was taking one final giant step to freedom and my journey as a woman, laying a corner stone to a new life built with love, strength, and a solid foundation. I did not want to unlock the door to my skeletons, nor did I want the ghosts to follow me. If I weakened, if my face quivered, or if a tear slipped down my cheek, my new world would crumble. I wanted to grasp that new world, to build a solid groundwork to a new and better life. The decisions I made were the right decisions for me. Yes, I was paying a price. My mother would never forgive me for leaving her, and if I allowed her to, she would manipulate me, finding a way to destroy everything good in my new life.

    When new friends asked about my mother, I changed the subject, afraid to express the bitterness she demonstrated by her actions. Once at a dinner engagement, a lanky auburn haired woman inquired about my family.

    “They’re in Georgia,” I said.

    “You never speak of them.”

    “Did you cut your hair?” I asked.

    “You’re avoiding the question, aren’t you?”

    “There are some things in life better left unsaid.” I excused myself and walked away.

    I realized home is where the heart is. My heart was in Charleston, not Bibb City, or the Chattahoochee. My life in Charleston was filled with suburban roots, and a solid brick foundation, not a detour route of housing projects, endless moves from one place to another during the school year, mill villages, hatred, physical and sexual abuse, and nothing to refer to as home. The windows to my world reflected love, pride, and ambition. I pinched myself to bring myself back to reality. I did not wish to remember the disturbing disconnections I shared with my mother.

  • Storms. Lightning. Thunder…

    Storms. Lightning. Thunder…


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    Dearest Readers:

    Did you hear the storms last night? Did the lightning and thunder keep you
    awake? Certainly affected me!  I walked around the house, glancing out the windows, only to discover the lightning and sheets of rain. My body jumped with each horrific lightning crash. All I could do was pray for God to keep me, the Bratty Boys,and my hubby safe.

    I rushed back to the covers, covering my eyes with my sleep mask and quilt.
    Rubbing Little Benjamin’s fur soothed me. He moved a bit closer. I suppose he
    could fear the tension at my fingertips.

    I turned the TV on and watched recorded episodes of MY LOTTERY DREAM HOME.
    Funny. I always enjoy watching David Bromstad along with his Bubbly
    personality. He has such a great demeanor. On this episode (an hour edition) he
    was quarantined like the rest of the world due to the Corona Virus, so he discussed his fashions, furs, and bling. Oh, how I can relate!

    One hour later, I am still unable to sleep or unwind. Finally, my body relaxed and I slept fitfully.

    Now that I’ve mentioned MY LOTTERY DREAM HOME, I confess, I was hesitant to
    watch it; however, the first episode I watched hooked me! I’ve had some people
    say they would never watch his shows because he is “gay.” I say – so what! Some of my dearest friends are gay, and when I was a teenager, one of the guys I dated was gay — behind closed doors. Sad to say, Charles committed suicide when I was 16. I was devastated. I had no idea he was so lost within himself, he chose to end his life.

    I suppose the fears I experienced last night during the storms reminded me how we must open our minds and lives to all journeys of life. Storms. Lightning. Thunder! The fears created.

    Storms! Why do storms such as the ones in the middle of the night and at early dawn always torment me? Maybe it’s because I hear the words of my mother during my childhood – haunting me. Laughing at me while I shivered with fear.

    “You stupid girl. I hope God lets that lightning strike you dead!” My mother said. Never did I tell my father. I was too ashamed and afraid he might laugh at me.

    Years later, while he battled terminal esophageal cancer, I stood by his bedside. His eyes stared at me. He reached to touch my face, wiping the tears. Quickly, I turned away. I did not want him to see me crying. What if he thought I was weak and a crybaby when I cried?

    “Don’t turn away,” he said. I moved closer, holding his hand. “Don’t think I didn’t notice how your mother treated you. I noticed how she laughed at you. Made fun of you and always called you a cry baby whenever you cried. She tried to turn everyone against you. Oh. The lies. She said. I knew you were different. I was proud of you. You always made a grand entrance. Yes. I noticed. Your mother bullied you!”

    I squeezed his hand. “I didn’t know you heard her. Did you hear her when she said she hoped God would strike me dead with lightning?”

    Dad shook his head yes. “I heard. God would never strike you dead. God is always there to protect us. I never said anything to her or you, but I heard every word she said to you.” He coughed, inhaled then said: “I’ve always been proud of you. You are my shining star. Don’t allow others to pull you down. Walk tall! Move forward in life. Don’t look back with pain!”

    “I’ve never said this to you, until now, Dad but I’m so glad you divorced her.”

    “It was the only thing to do.”

    That afternoon, leaving the hospital, I thanked God for the discussion my father and I had on that date. After his death, his words remained with me. How I miss him. Now, whenever storms fire inside of my head, I try to remember the conversations with Dad. I can still hear his voice. His words remain tightly
    bound within my heart where no one else can threaten me with storms. Thunder.
    And. Lightning!

    “Hold your head high. Don’t allow others to bring you down. Move forward with life. Don’t look back with pain!”

    I am thankful I had such a wise and caring father. He is still inside of me and always shall remain!

     

  • Stupid Girl

    Stupid Girl


    “Unlovable.” That’s what my mother described. “She said I was a stupid girl. She said I’d never amount to nothing but a hill of beans. Stupid. Stupid. Just stupid.”

    I’ve walked in these shoes even before my mother had a stroke and was released from life while her youngest daughter smothered life from her body. Never was she charged with murder, or any crime. I grew up believing I would NEVER be loved by a man. My mother would send me on a walk – to the grocery store — without any money. Her request/order for me was, and I quote: “I need you to walk to the grocery store. See the manager. He really likes you. Flirt with him and tell him he must let you get some things for supper. A loaf of bread. Pork n’ Beans. I ain’t got no money, so I need you to work it well. I know he’ll allow you to get something good for supper. Don’t tell your daddy I ask you to do this. I asked you cause I know you have a way with men. They like looking at you, when you smile those men melt. Get what you can out of them. Men like you.”


    Little did I know my good ole Southern mama was training me. Training me to get men to treat me well. She wasn’t training or teaching me LOVE. She thought I could use my looks, personality, charm and sexuality to get what I wanted in life. She said, “Men like you, Barbara Jean. They always have. Now is the time for payback. I produced a pretty girl. Maybe an actress with Southern charm. They’ll pay you lots, just to get what you want. Don’t you forget that you stupid child, Barbara Jean.”

    I was 15-years-old at the time. Mama would give me old clothes and hand-me-downs from one of my cousins. The cousin who never wore the same outfit twice. Mama told me to wear the off-shoulder blouses and shorts. “You got some nice-looking shoulders and legs, Barbara Jean, and you’ve got the right amount of boobs. Men like that!”

    Funny, I never realized my mother was encouraging me to become a hooker and I cringe, refusing to respond to anyone who calls me Barbara Jean.

    When I was 30, my marriage to Garrett was choking me. Depression left me so unhappy I thought my entire world was crumbling. My therapist, a lovely, tiny woman who always wore her hair in a twisted bun with a sparkling comb, and a bright red rose tucked inside her blazer pocket, wanted to know about my childhood.

    Looking at her, my mouth quivered. “My childhood? It was awful. Never did I feel loved.”

    “What about your mother? Didn’t she embrace you and tell you she loved you?

    “No. All she did was tell me to flirt with men. They liked me. I could get anything I wanted from a man, if I ‘worked it.’ She said if I dressed nice and showed my cleavage, men would follow me to the ends of the earth.”

    “Interesting.”

    “What’s interesting?” I asked.

    “Your mother was encouraging you to become a hooker.”

    “No. She wouldn’t do that. Good mothers do not teach their daughters to hook.”

    Covering my mouth while choking back tears, I realized something I never thought as a young girl. My hands were shaking. “Oh, my God. You’re right. My mother thought I could become a hooker.”

    My therapist scribbled on a pad. “I find it interesting you never think of your mother as abusive, cruel, or a bad mother.”

    “She said she wanted the best from me. Only her best was not what I wanted to become.”

    “It sounds to me like your mother wanted you to dress like a hooker. I always see you dressed as a lady wearing cultured pearl necklaces and earrings. Your hair and makeup immaculate. You don’t show cleavage. When you sit, you keep your legs together. Like a lady, or royalty.”

    Glancing at my posture, I realized she was correct. My legs were together, not exposed. Sitting with my ankles crossed, I realized she was right. I’m sitting like a lady. Funny. I’ve never considered myself a lady.

    “Can you share more of what your mother taught you?”

    Covering my face momentarily with my hands, I mumbled yes, sharing the stories my mother taught me. Sharing how she wanted me to use my sexuality to get what I wanted from men. “She said men would want to be with me, and she said I would never find love from any man. She said Barbara Jean was unlovable and a stupid girl. Nothing more than yesterday’s trash. Never to be loved. Never!”

  • CHATTAHOOCHEE CHILD – EXCERPT


     Dearest Readers:

    Listed below is a bit of Chattahoochee Child:

    PROLOGUE – Rhythms

    October 2003

    There is a rhythm to life, moving us at a pace we control by the decisions we make. When I was lost, and alone, I embraced the Chattahoochee River while listening to the melody of rhythms created by the symphony of dancing waters. As a child, I was fearful of the rushing waters of the Chattahoochee. Once, while standing on the banks of the murky waters, my mother shoved me, laughing deviously, reminding me of a witch.

    “Mom,” I shouted. “You pushed me. I could’ve fallen into the waters. You know I can’t swim. I could drown.”

    Her laughter reminded me of Boris Karloff. Evil. Cruel. Conniving.

    “Well, if you drowned, I’d have one less child to worry about. Not that I worry about you, ever. You’re so independent. You seem to love being alone. But I know. You’re a stupid girl. Stupid girls cause trouble. You’re the thorn in my side.”

    I crossed my arms and walked away while listening to mother’s hateful laughter.

    Water has always held my passion. On the shores of the Atlantic Ocean, I feel embraced in the hands of God when I slowly allow my body to enter the sanctity of water in Sullivan’s Island, South Carolina. While the water soothes me, I dare to find the courage to allow my body to float in the water so I can travel with the current to faraway places.

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    It feels a bit strange to breathe oxygen into my lungs after my mother’s lungs no longer needed the breath of life. A part of my being was swimming in the waters, drowning, anxious to touch the bottom depths of the riverbed, to find the grief missing from her death. My mother failed to share her life with me. Now with her death, I realized we could never make amends. Although I made many attempts to bury our emancipation, she refused to move forward. Over 20 years ago, I cried from the loss and rejection of my mother. I did not feel a wall of grief pounding down on me after her death. Instead, I felt an incredible need to confront my sister and embrace the shores of the Chattahoochee River in Columbus, Georgia.

    Now that she is gone, I’ve discovered I loved my mother, not because she was a good mother. I loved her for giving me life. Never did I approve of her mind control strategies, or for the emotional guilt she used to punish me by being so cruel. She was quick to remind me that I ‘wasn’t a good girl…I behaved badly…I asked too many questions, defying her authority.’

    When she was angry at me, she called me ‘Little Miss Goody Two Shoes.’

    ’ She twisted her words and actions, making me believe I was worthless of love from anyone. I loved her because I wanted to love her. She was my birth mother. Without her bearing the pain of childbirth, I would not have life, and I am thankful for the precious gift of life she bestowed to me. As a child, I dreamed of her returning a mother’s love; instead of sharing it, she tortured me with the supremacy of her dependence. Once, she stated to me that actions meant more than words. Without a doubt, the actions of my mother spoke volumes! The more I grew up, the more she pushed to control me and never let me go. I retaliated in the manner safest for my sanity. I broke away from her web of destruction. As a grown woman, I lived with ‘survivor’s guilt,’ the guilt of surviving and escaping the misfortunes that were due to me just by being born.

    “Life’s never a bed of roses,” Mom said to me as a child. “You and your silly big girl dreams ain’t nothing but a joke. You ain’t never gonna find no one to love you…NEVER!”

    Before her death, I chose not to reopen the cycle of bitterness delivered by the hands and poisonous tongue of my mother. Rehashing my childhood would do nothing to help our situation. She was a melancholic, unkind woman who lived life in the dark shadows of her past. I wanted to move forward with her, to make peace with her, regardless. My fondest wish was for Mom to learn to love me. Most of all, I wanted her to learn to love herself.

    The true test of life is how we educate ourselves to forgive our parents for the trials and tribulations of life’s disappointments. As children, we are born into the life we live. As adults, it is our decision how we choose to mold ourselves into the person we desire. We can take a step forward, to build our life into productive, respectable individuals, or we can reflect on prejudices of the past, living our lives in a shell as a mirrored imitation of our parents. I chose to break the mold, refusing to look back with regret.

  • REFLECTIONS ON MOTHER’S DAY


    Dearest Readers, tomorrow, May 9, 2021 is Mother's Day. Like every Mother's Day, I reflect on my mother and the estranged history we shared. I am so envious of those who had such wonderful, caring mothers. Never did I. As much as I tried to make peace, we could not. In 1978, I visited my mother, only to be shunned by her once again. She told my son I was a drunk and a whore. Such a nice, pleasant fabrication for a grandmother to tell her grandchild. When I approached her, she screamed at me. In 1988, another attempt was made for us to make peace. Arriving at her apartment, I hoped she would hug me, like I've seen other mothers hug their child. I opened my arms anxious for her embrace, instead her toxic tongue started shouting again. She was angry that we arrived in a camper, not staying with her. In all honesty, when I saw how filthy her house was, I knew we could not stay there. During the fall of 1992, I visited her again, finally tracking her down in Warm Springs, Georgia. My youngest sister, Savannah, was staying with her after becoming homeless. Savannah glared at me.
 
"You think you're something, don't you," she shouted. "Walking in here just like you own the world. Just look at you. You bitch." Her right hand slapped my face hard, stinging and leaving a bruise.

Mom watched. Never did she reprimand Savannah.

"I think it's time I left," I whispered. "I didn't come here to be mistreated or abused."

"Oh. That's right, Rebecca Sue. You go ahead and run away from a fight. I reckon you do think you're better than us. Ain't you? Just go. I never want to see you again." Mama turned away.

Yes. I walked away, refusing to lower my standards to Savannah or my mother. I wanted to make peace. All they wanted was a repeat of the history we shared. The fights. Verbal attacks and intolerance we shared. I chose to stay away, recognizing the reality that some families can never make peace.

    Perhaps this essay will be another chapter in “CHATTAHOOCHEE CHILD.” [My latest work-in-progress]:

    Mama wore her best house dresses when she was in a good mood, which wasn’t often enough. Those days, it felt as if the sunshine from the window kissed the living room with colors of the rainbow, at least for me. 

    Mama would smile at me and say, “Honey, can you curl my hair?”

    After I shampooed her hair, I curled it with jumbo rollers. My fingers shook as I rolled her hair. If the curl was too tight, she’d get a headache.  She screamed in pain while her hands slapped my face. If it was too loose, the curl would flop and she’d remind me I had no talent to style hair, or do anything right. Her actions spoke volumes about her lack of love for me.

    Sometimes, she smiled into the mirror, nodding with delight when finished. During those special moments with her, I took the time to make my Mama up with makeup. Her skin was olive, as smooth as a baby’s behind. No wrinkles or age spots. When I lined her eyes with black velvet eyeliner, she could equal the beauty of Cleopatra or Elizabeth Taylor. I never understood why Mama failed to make skin care and make up part of her daily routine. 

    Mama never believed in routines. She lived her life only for the moment and the next handout from someone else. 

    “It don’t matter to me or to your daddy if I fix myself up,” she said. “He don’t care about me. Why should I?”

    Never did Mama hug or kiss me with her acceptance. I dare not ask if she liked her hair or makeup. I knew better. The sting of her palm on my face told me when I was not meeting her approval. I prayed she wouldn’t notice my anxiety, or my trembling hands. When I asked how she wanted her hair styled this time, she looked in the mirror, scratched her head, pulling the gray strands out. 

    “Stupid girl, you should know how I like my hair styled! Cover the gray roots,” she said. “Tease it high. Don’t let nobody see how gray I’m getting. I don’t care how it looks, as long as the gray roots ain’t showing.”

    She refused to get her hair colored, afraid the chemicals would do something to her brain. She said, “Cancer runs in our family. We can’t take a chance to get that disease ‘cause it kills. My great grandmother had head cancer. She had such bad headaches her mind was gone. Don’t you put no chemicals in my hair.  I don’t want my brain, or my head fried with cancer. You listen to me, Rebecca Sue. Don’t let nothing fry my head.”

    May, 2002 was the last Mother’s Day I shared with my mother. Reportedly, she suffered a fall at Savannah’s apartment in early April. Savannah shouted at her, shoving her down the stairs. She was in a hurry, and she was tired of taking care of her ‘old lady,’ so she chose to leave our mother suffering on the floor. That afternoon a home health nurse came to check on our mother, discovering her lying face down, her clothing soiled from body fluids and feces. Her face was pulled down to the left side, left lip bruised and battered. When she struggled to move, she could not. The nurse documented her condition, diagnosing a possible stroke.

    The home health nurse phoned me. “I suspect your mother has suffered a stroke. She’s at E-R now.”

    “I’ll make arrangements and leave later this afternoon. It will take at least eight hours before I can be there,” I said. “Where’s Savannah?”

    The nurse hesitated, suggesting I should speak to the doctor on call when I arrived.

    I knew something was questionable. This was not the first time my mother had injuries while under Savannah’s care.

    On Mother’s Day, Mom was still in the hospital. On that morning, I arrived early, placing a pale blue gift bag on her bed. Her eyes opened. She glanced at the bag, struggling to speak.

    “B-Blue skies,” she muttered. Her right arm moved to touch the bag. I reached inside the bag, removing a blue gift box. I opened the box slowly. Mom’s eyes blinked as she struggled to smile, admiring the cultured pearl earrings inside the box.

    A few minutes later, I placed the pierced earrings in her ears. Mom sighed, touching the right ear with her right hand. She slurred ‘thank you’ and fell back to sleep.

    I stayed with my mother all of that Mother’s Day, feeding her and making her comfortable. That Mother’s Day was the last Mother’s Day we shared.

    On September 11, 2002, my mother died under ‘questionable circumstances.’ Savannah spent that night with her at the hospital. When Savannah phoned me in the late evening of September 12, she appeared intoxicated. Her last slurring words to me were, “Do you think they’ll do an autopsy?”

    Two years after her death Garrett and I drove to Columbus. We dropped by the cemetery to see my mother’s grave. The years of mental and physical abuse from my mother were buried with her. I placed a bouquet of red roses on her headstone, kissed it and whispered, “I know we were never close, but I hope you’ve found peace now. May you rest in peace, Mom. I loved you.”

    Thinking about my childhood, the physical and mental abuse, I found it strange that Savannah was repeating the vicious cycle of physical abuse while I found peace, refusing to allow violence or abuse of any kind within my family.

    On Mother’s Day, 2015 I reflect on my mother, our estranged history together and the questionable circumstances of her death. Savannah buried her in a closed casket. Due to another bout of acute bronchial asthma, I was unable to get to the funeral. Perhaps there was a reason for an autopsy to be performed, but now, my mother rests in peace. I hope and pray she died peacefully. Mother’s Day is always a day of reflection, sadness and curiosity and I pray that all mothers will have a wonderful day enjoying motherhood.

  • Chattahoochee Child – Excerpt


    Dearest Readers:

    Posting a bit of the story I’ve had dancing inside my heart and soul for many years. Too many years to mention. Yesterday, I realized I have to let go and write this. I hope you enjoy.

     

    Yesterday, my husband and I went to the theatre to see “I CAN ONLY IMAGINE.” Based on the song, “I CAN ONLY IMAGINE,” recorded by Mercy Me in 1999, I remembered when I first heard this song and how the lyrics affected me. My dad passed away in July, 1999. I was in such a severe depression after losing him, I prayed to die, realizing I was being selfish. I still had life to live. People to care for and love. Visiting with my doctor, she asked if I was suicidal. I laughed, realizing she knew me better than I knew myself.
    How can a song affect someone so passionately? Writing this question out, I recognized I failed to have an answer. Kneeling at my special window, I looked up into the Heavens and prayed, only this time, my prayer was different. I asked God to help me live and to learn to forgive.
    My mother and I were alienated since 1988. After my high school class reunion, I discovered my mother told our little boy his mother was a whore and a drunk. The morning after the reunion, little Michael David rushed to me asking me what was a whore. “I know what a drunk is since Grandpa in Charleston is a drunk, but I’ve never heard the word whore. What is it, Mommy?”

    I scooped his tiny body into my arms and bear hugged him. “Mommy is not a whore. A whore is someone who goes out with other men and sleeps in the bed with them. I’m not a whore, Michael David.”

    “Granny called you a whore. But you only sleep in the bed with my daddy, Mommy.”

    “It’s not a nice name and it’s a word you should not speak again, at least until you’re grown.”

    “Why would she call you that word?”

    “Granny doesn’t love Mommy the way you and Daddy love me. That’s a good question, and I will ask her in a minute. You go back to sleep.” I kissed Michael on the cheek, tucking him in with his father. I slipped on my robe, walking toward my mother’s room.

    I knocked three times. She opened her eyes. “Why did you call me a whore?” I shouted.

    “I did no such a thing.”

    “Yes, you did.” Michael stood next to me. “You said my mommy was a whore and a drunk.”

    The argument continued for an hour. Garrett awoke to the shouting. Recognizing this conversation would be an eternal shouting match of two stubborn women who butted heads all the time, he said we were leaving. I grabbed our luggage and stormed out of the house, refusing to look back.

    I cried an endless ocean of tears from Columbus, Georgia to Charleston, South Carolina. Michael David apologized for starting the argument. I responded that he was not the problem. My life as a child of the Chattahoochee, the daughter of a woman who could not show love at all, was the problem. The only solution was to build my life with my family, Garrett, and Michael.

    In 1988, I realized home is where the heart is. My heart was in Charleston, not Bibb City, or the Chattahoochee. My life in Charleston was filled with suburban roots, and a solid brick foundation, not a detour route of housing projects, mill villages, shouting matches and nothing to refer to as home. The windows to my world reflected love, pride, and ambition. I pinched myself to bring myself back to reality. I did not wish to remember the annoying disconnections I shared with my mother, nor did I want to walk in her footsteps.

    I lost my mother on September 11, 2002. She died a ‘questionable death,’ after battling to survive a stroke. Since that time, I’ve discovered she choked to death by inhaling nuts. My mother was allergic to nuts. Her body was paralyzed on the right side. How she was able to inhale nuts and choke to death is a question I need answering. When my sister phoned me telling me of her passing, the one question she repeated to me was: Do you think they’ll do an autopsy?

    Interesting question I failed to understand since I was ill with acute bronchial asthma at the time and failed to comprehend what my sister was asking.

    Do you think they’ll do an autopsy? Interesting question…

    I can only imagine!DSC_0061
     

  • When the Lightning From Storms Frighten Me

    When the Lightning From Storms Frighten Me


    Dearest Readers:

    Although someone might say it isn’t early morning, for me it is since I slept fairly well last night. Crawling out of bed just before 9:00 am, I yawned, stretched and was thankful for a bit of sleep.

    Today Phil and I will go shopping. Seems he wants to go to Tanger Outlet. So, I suppose I’ll drink another cup of coffee, just to get me going!

    Last night, we had another band of those dreadful storms we’ve been having lately. Driving in my car, every time I saw the lightning flash, my body jumped.

    Why am I so frightened of lightning, you might ask? Allow me to explain. When I was a child, I recall my mother telling me if I did not behave…IF I wasn’t a “good girl,” God would send the lightning after me. I remember her saying, and I quote: “If you don’t behave God is gonna strike you dead with that lightning.”

    Every time there was a storm with lightning, I would jump. Mama would laugh at me and say: “You’re such a stupid girl. God don’t love ugly and that’s why He sends the lightning to you. He wants the lightning to hit you. God don’t love ugly and you are one ugly thing. I hope God strikes you dead!”

    I was the middle child. One of my sisters was quiet. Timid. She never questioned authority. The other two – I’m still not certain. Let’s just say, our childhood was not the typical childhood of four daughters.

    As for me, I was boisterous. When I entered a room, I made an impression. Good or bad…I’m still not certain. I loved to hop on stage and let the world know I was around!

    Once, while walking home from the library in Atlanta, Georgia, a summer storm horrified me. I saw the lightning flashing. I remember rushing. Running. I had to get home to get inside my closet so the lightning could not find me. I was horrified!

    Arriving home, I grabbed a towel to dry my hair and face and I rushed into my closet, shutting the door tightly.

    Stopping at a red light last night, Phil saw me jumping when the lightning flashed. He asked me why I was so afraid.

    “Haven’t I told you what my mother did to me as a child and as a teenager?”

    “What?” He asked, turning the radio down so he could hear me.

    “When I was a child, my mother told me I must always be a ‘good girl.’ She said IF I wasn’t a good girl, God would send the lightning down to strike me dead.”

    “Did she do that to your sisters?”

    “I don’t know. We never discussed it.”

    Although I have three sisters, I do not recall if we ever discussed the cruelties of our mother’s poisoned, venomous tongue.

    I suppose even though I am now grown and smart enough to know her words were cruel, I should also know God isn’t a mean power. He is my strength. My faith. He is the power who made me what I am today.

    God would never want anyone to be struck by lightning. Storms are simply storms, filled with energy, rain and power — but of a different kind.

    How I wish I could get over my fear of lightning, but I suppose I will never accomplish that. All of my childhood, I was frantic. When friends would say they love to see the flash of lightning, I cringed. My body shook. My hands and legs trembled. I gasped. Sometimes I screamed. Lightning is bad. It’s gonna strike you dead!

    As a newlywed, and years later, each time the lightning flashed at night, it would awaken me and scare me half to death. I wear a sleep mask now, to help keep the lightning away. Sometimes, I wear two sleeping masks, just to keep me safe. Yes. I know. It’s silly. After all, the lightning is only lightning. It reminds me of a mad, vicious animal, growling, searching for its next prey — ME!

    Once I asked my mother why she said such cruel things to me about the lightning. She laughed, a cruel, vindictive laughter. I left the room. I knew she would never explain.

    Today, more storms are forecast. If they occur, I will close my eyes and try to tell myself: this is only a storm. It will not hurt me. I will be fine.

    Looking out the window, while writing this, the skies are thick with a blanket of gray. Treetops are moving, dancing the breath of an approaching storm. I do not hear thunder, nor do I see lightning. I’m hopeful we will have a rain storm. Nothing more.

    Although I will see more lightning when these torrential storms arrive, I will remind myself that the approaching storms are not to harm me. The rains water our gardens. The breezing winds give us a bit of coolness after we’ve had such a hot summer, filled with sauna like temperatures. As for the lightning, for me, all it creates is a VIOLENT  energy. Sometimes a wicked energy. I can still hear my mother’s sharp tongue. Her cruel words. “You’re such a bad girl, and God don’t love bad girls. He’ll send the lightning to get you. You better be a good girl.”

    Maybe I should’ve asked my mother: Just what do you think a good girl is? I’m a good girl. I obey you. I do as I am told. I don’t do drugs. I go to church and in school, I get good grades and I behave. Why can’t you see I am a GOOD GIRL! I’ve never gotten into any trouble – EVER! I’m a GOOD GIRL!!!

    The winds are blowing harder now. My mimosa trees are dancing a soft ballet of motion, swaying ever so elegantly to the left and right. The grass is so tall it needs cutting again, and we cut earlier this week. No doubt there will be another storm today. I suppose I shall pray once again: Dear God. Please don’t let the lightning strike me dead like my mother wished when I was a child. Please keep me safe.

    Glancing out the window again, the breeze is still. The mimosa trees are hardly moving. The skies still thick with the blanket of storms anticipated. Another day of ‘the calm BEFORE the storms.’

    Dear God. It’s me again. Barbie. Please. When the storms arrive, and the lightning flashes, please remind me that you will keep me safe. Please don’t let the lightning strike me dead.

     

     

  • Lightning…Thunder…and The Roar Of Chattahoochee Child…


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    Dearest Readers:
    It is early on a beautiful Sunday morning in Charleston, SC. The weather forecast for today is H-O-T — AGAIN! Reportedly, it is supposed to get to 85. No doubt, it will be another steamy hot day. Stepping outside in the heat of the day is like stepping into a sauna. Yesterday, we had a late storm brewing after we went to bed. I suppose I slept through it, which is something I do not normally do.
    Whenever I see lightning, I jump out of my skin, almost. My husband says even when sleeping, I will hear the thunder and lightning and jump or tremble. I do not remember doing it. Just a few days ago, we had a summer storm in the afternoon. I was in route to get my doggies from the groomer. Every time I saw the lightning flash, I jumped, while driving. It isn’t a pretty sight. Just how can a grown woman be so frightened by lightning?
    I suppose I should share my story here. If you follow my blog and read a bit of the “Chattahoochee Child” stories I’ve posted, you will understand. During my childhood, I was always the child with an opinion. In my dad’s diary, he wrote, and I quote since he is deceased now: “Barbara is really a child with opinions. She likes to get noticed, and even though she is only five-years-old, she does vocalize her thoughts, rather well.”
    Humph! I cannot imagine what he was referring to, but after high school graduation, I have learned to ‘vocalize my thoughts and opinions…’ AND — I DO question authority. I suppose it is the journalist deep inside me. I suppose you could say, during high school I was quiet. I confess I went to six high schools during eighth grade thru graduation. What? Might you say? Most people only go to one high school. It is simple. My family and I moved a lot — like gypsies. So, just when I got comfortable in one high school, off we go to another, so no one really got a chance to get to know me until we moved to Columbus, Georgia. Finally, I was able to attend only one high school for two-and-a-half years until graduation. Figure that out, if you can! Let’s just say, during high school I was considered shy and a wallflower. Heck. I was afraid to get to know anyone and forget the high school boys. All they wanted to get to know was —! Never did I date high school boys. They always had ‘rushing hands,’ and I did not want to have a battle with them. Their libido and testosterone were quite active, so I decided I would not date them.
    Since I’m free writing, it is back to my fears of thunder and lightning.
    When I was a child, my mother disciplined me constantly. “You ask too many questions,” she said. “Just do what I tell you to do and stop being so opinionated… “You stupid girl. One day I hope you’re struck by lightning…just so you’ll know you shouldn’t say so much or ask so much.”
    My mother loved to call me her ‘stupid girl.’ How I hate that description!
    I suppose it is easy to say, as a child, I probably had too many opinions, but when lightning occurred, I remember my mother saying, “I hope you get struck by lightning soon.”
    Each time I saw lightning, I cringed, sometimes rushing to hide in the closet of my bedroom so I would not see the lightning. When thunder roared, I screamed. Still, to this day, when we have storms I do my best to hide under covers, close the blinds, or stay in a room where I will not notice the roaring sounds and sights of thunder and lightning.
    I still hear my mother’s cruel words. If my memory is correct, and I do believe it is when she would say, “Girl, I hope that lightning strikes you down,” I felt as if she had no love within her body for me. The other girls in the family never heard those words, only me. All of my three sisters did whatever our mother ask them to do. As for me, you guessed it. I placed my hands on my hips and I would say, “Why must I do that? Why is it only me that cooks and cleans?”
    My mother’s reply: “Stupid girl. Just shut your mouth and do it before I get a switch.”
    One of my sisters could not even boil water when she married. The other two, expected the men to do everything. I suppose they got a real ‘wake-up call’ in marriage, and maybe that’s why their marriages did not work out. I haven’t a clue. I do not pry into their lives. Marriage is truly a work-in-progress, every day!
    I do know one of my sisters had a brutal marriage. Her husband loved to hit on her, leaving bruises and scratches she attempted to cover up with makeup. In 2002 we drove to Michigan to rescue her and her son from a safe house.
    It is easy to observe I was the Cinderella of our family, or maybe I was the ugly stepchild. Regardless, I was the one who did the cleaning, cooking, and housework. My mother continued her verbal and physical abuse after my parent’s divorce. As for me, I could not wait to leave the family. Growing up where abuse is shared like daily activities, I vowed to myself I would break the mold and never behave in such a manner. My children would not grow up afraid of lightning and thunder.
    Last night, I woke myself up listening to a voice speaking. Recognizing this was my ‘sleeping voice,’ I heard myself saying:
    “Your mama is a whore and a drunk. Just look at that dress she wore tonight to her reunion. A long black dress with a plunging neckline and a low back. Only a whore would wear that.”
    My son was seven-years-old when he heard his grandmother describing me. Just like me, he was opinionated. Reportedly, he did not appreciate what his grandmother was saying about me, so he chose to speak up and defend me.
    “My mommy is not a whore and she only drinks wine. She is not a drunk. I’ve never seen my mommy drunk. Don’t say those things about her.”
    My mother was caring for my son on that night. She promised him they would have a good time. I should’ve known she would pull some of her stunts, but I was hoping I could give her a second chance.
    Awakening from the Nightmare, I sat up in bed, remembering the scenario like it was yesterday. I remember when we arrived to pick him up, he was sound asleep. The next morning, a bit early after a night of partying at a high school reunion, my son rushed to me. “Mommy,” he said. “Granny said you were a whore and a drunk. You’re not a whore and a drunk, are you Mommy?”
    “No,” I said, scooping him up in my arms. “Mommy is not a whore or a drunk. Please don’t say the word whore.”
    “It’s a bad word?” He asked.
    “Yes. Whore is a bad word. A very bad word.”
    He looked into my eyes.
    “Whore is a woman who sleeps with lots of men, and that is not your mommy. I sleep with your daddy only. And I am not a drunk.”
    Later, we drove to my mother’s house to confront her and say goodbye. When we arrived, my mother was still in bed. I knocked on her door, then I opened it and let the words fly. I warned my husband to let me handle the situation.
    “How could you call me a whore and a drunk?” I asked. “Especially in front of my son. Your grandchild. Just what kind of grandmother are you?”
    My mother opened her eyes and struggled to sit up. “I did no such of a thing.”
    My son burst into the room. “Yes, you did,” he said, tears falling down his face. “You called my mommy a whore and a drunk. Sorry for saying that word, Mommy, but she did say it!”
    I rushed him out of the room. I knew this scenario was getting ugly.
    After a verbal battle, I knew I was defeated. My mother would never admit she said those words, nor would she apologize. My husband knocked on the door.
    “We’re leaving,” I said. “I cannot tolerate this abuse anymore. It’s bad enough I tolerated her abuse all of my childhood, but to say those things in front of my child is something I will never tolerate. How could you, Mom? How could you be so cruel to him?”
    On that morning, as we drove home to Charleston, I decided I would not see my mother again. Arriving home, I had several messages on the answering machine from my mother. I erased them all, not wanting to listen to her cruelties anymore. There comes a time in life when we must cut the cords of abuse. My time was now. I had to protect my child.
    Motherhood is never easy. We all have regrets of things we would change, if only we could. We would be more patient and kind. We would not shout, nor would we lose our temper. One rule I kept is the rule of if I am angry, I will walk away. I certainly had times when I saw my mother inside me, and when that occurred, I would go to a window and pray. Just like my maternal grandmother taught me.
    As for my mother and I? Rarely did I go back to Columbus, Georgia. I attempted another reunion, stopping by to see my mother. A surprise visit. We stayed for a few minutes and left. We had hotel reservations and another reunion to attend. Neither of us felt welcomed. My mother did not rush to hug me, like other mothers do, nor did she show any affections. Her health was deteriorating and she limped when she walked. Four years later, I phoned her telling her I was coming to Columbus to attempt to ‘bury the hatchet.’
    On that visit, we had another shouting match, so I left, in tears. My mother always had a way of getting to me, bringing me down. Making me feel worthless and unlovable. Was I really such a horrible person? After a bit of soul-searching while driving, I recognized I was a good person. My mother refusing to love me was her problem, but as a child and a grown woman, I still craved a mother’s love.
    How I wanted and prayed my mother would change, but she did not. In 2000, she suffered a stroke. Her left side was virtually paralyzed. I drove to see her on Mother’s Day, bringing her a gift wrapped box of pearl earrings. She attempted to speak, but only slurred her words. When I opened the box of pearl earrings, she gasped and touched her right ear. I placed the earrings in her ears, and she attempted to smile, her face wrinkling with a scrunched lip and new wrinkles I did not remember.
    I never saw her again. She lived in a nursing home for the remainder of her days. I sent letters to her, gifts and when her dentures got broken, I paid for a new set of dentures. On September 11, 2002, she died. A questionable death, to say the least. When my sister phoned in the late afternoon of September 12, her question to me was: “Do you think they’ll do an autopsy?”
    Dreadfully ill with bronchial asthma, I did not attend the funeral. The question of “Do you think they’ll do an autopsy?” played in my mind. I made a few phone calls, including a phone call to the coroner’s office, and the nursing home. Never were those calls returned. I suspect the reason for my question was a simple my mother died under questionable circumstances.
    Did I want to stir the pot and get these answers? Since I was so ill and weak, I chose to take care of myself since my husband was away on business in Italy. I needed to rest and get well.
    Those years and those nightmares of my mother still play in my mind as the dreams did last night. Although my mother was a difficult woman and not exactly mother of the year, she was my mother. I did not hate her. I lost respect for her over the years, and I worked diligently to improve our relationship, but it wasn’t meant to be; nevertheless, the way she died is questionable and I suspect my sister knows the real story. She will not share it. I’ve done enough research to complete my story, “Chattahoochee Child.” I pray my mother is at peace.
    I pray I will not have any more nightmares about my mother. They always leave me shaken and heartbroken but today is a new day. Maybe last night’s nightmare was a result of the lightning and thunder? The sun is shining today. Clouds are overcast, but it is another beautiful day and I am certain it will be another steamy day of perspiration (or is it glitter that women release in the heat) while I attempt another day of yard work.
    My husband and I plan to work in the back yard of our home today, moving the debris of weeds, tree branches and dead limbs he worked on yesterday. I must say, I’m not looking forward to being in the heat, but once I am outside, I will work hard to get everything thrown away, and if a storm brews, or if I hear lightning, just watch me run to the back door to get to safety. I cannot get over my fear of lightning, regardless what I do or tell myself. After all, it is only lightning. It hasn’t struck me down — YET!