family – beckycochrane.com

Keep on truckin’…

“Dear Three-Sport Letterman: Despite that it all ended, I have good memories of you and the times we were together. I always thought you were one of the smartest people I’d ever known. You were very Southern: good manners, slow talking, love of sports, wry humor, easygoing. I remember every one of the cars and trucks we rode in along the way, and I knew exactly when we made a wrong turn even as we took it. I tried to warn you. Tried to persuade you to take a different road. But you knew where you wanted to be, so I tried to find a place for myself there with you. But most of the time I felt smothered by all that came with that place, and as time passed, my discontent grew. No matter how I tried to adjust, or how right a choice it was for you, it never was right for me. It never could have been.

I regret any pain that I caused you, but we were young and resilient, and you showed all signs of a quick recovery. I remember the last time I saw you in person. My father had died and you came to the funeral home. That meant everything to me, and I was glad to meet your wife and first son. Then you came with another of our friends to Daddy’s graveside service, and that, too, was a touching surprise. Daddy thought a lot of the two of you, both as boys and young men.

If I think about it, I’m saddened that the final time we spoke–(by phone–your mother had asked me to call you and share some news with you)–one of the last things you said, maybe meant to be a joke?–was a little hurtful. In all the years after our parting, I’ve tried to say only kind things about you or to you.

I do think some things have changed, and you and I probably aren’t as likeminded as we once were. It happens. Instead of regretting that or anything else, I’ll share a photo you once took of me when we were young and goofing around with the new camera I’d gotten from Bruce and April for high school graduation. You’re in the photos on the wall behind me. May you choose to remember the days we were young and I smiled at you. Thank you for everything we learned together before we went our separate ways. ‘Just Passin’ thru,’–Becky.”

Ghost

“Dear Mystery Man: We became friends in the summer of 1981 when we worked at the same place. The ex I wrote about on my birthday a couple of days ago also worked there. In fact, the three of us, all students at Bama, became friends. When he was robbed at gunpoint in our workplace one night, we starting hanging out there during one another’s shifts so nobody felt alone and vulnerable. One Thanksgiving, I was going to make us all a big holiday dinner, and for some weird reason, I developed excruciating pain in my right elbow. The two of you got in the kitchen with me and let me give you orders on what physical labor needed doing and how to do it. We worked well together there, just as we did at the business where we met.

In time, the friendship between the two of you faded, but you and I stayed close, especially after something bad happened with you. You ended up dropping out of school and moving north to where your parents were living at the time. That’s when we began our writing correspondence. We were both avid readers and letter writers. You one time told me, ‘You make the best analogies in your writing that I’ve ever read.’ From you, that compliment was high praise.

You became a sportswriter and moved to a city where I’d previously lived for a while with my mother after my father died. My nephew and his mother still lived there. My nephew was a teenager then, and he liked sports, so one time when I was there to visit him and his mom, you took him and me to a basketball game you were covering. I think he had fun, and I was just happy to spend time with my him and my buddy.

We lived about three hours apart, but we no longer wrote letters. We talked on the phone. We were still doing that the year I married Tom. One night you and I were talking and something prompted me to ask you if you wanted to come spend a couple of days with us. You seemed to have something on your mind that was bothering you. You accepted the invitation, so Tom and I got the guest room ready, bought groceries and whatever else we might need for meals and snacks, and waited. And waited. And waited.

You never showed. I called and left messages on your machine. You didn’t return them. I knew your parents’ names and where they lived (another state), and your brother’s name (and had a vague sense of where he lived, yet another state), but I didn’t want to hunt you down. I figured you had a good reason for the silence and you knew how to reach me when you were ready to talk.

You never made that call before Tom and I moved to Houston. I never heard from you again. We didn’t have the term ‘ghosting’ yet, but you ghosted me. Once the Internet came along, I tried to find details about you that way. I was never sure whether I’d reach out if I did find you, but probably not. I’d be reassured knowing you’re out there, doing okay, living your life. Unfortunately, you share a name with an actor who was once on a popular TV series, and I got tired of always seeing his photo and details in my searches.

Through the years, I’ve found variations of your name on decades of obituaries and always breathe with relief when those names are never you. My own online presence, social media, publishing, etc., are all under the name you’d recognize. You’ve always been able to find me if you wanted to. In case you ever do find this, leave the comment. Send the email. There’s even a PO box connected to my author name if you want to write another of your excellent letters. I don’t want to reproach you or bitch at you or demand answers. A hello, how are you, I’m fine–I’d be great with that.–Becky”

The time I moved the dial for future improved birthdays

I’ve spoken on here before about how I was once in an emotionally and physically abusive relationship. It’s not anything I’m proud of, but I’m not ashamed of it, either. You don’t go into a relationship knowing it will happen. When the situation becomes apparent, in my case, slowly, and then chronically, getting free can be complicated and filled with risks.

I think in the context I’ve discussed it previously (here, I mean), once was because I knew someone else who read here still struggled with her memories on the same topic (the dial comes with added features like guilt and self-blame). The other was because someone I trusted, who sometimes showed a tendency to criticize me under the guise of humor, once directed hauntingly familiar language from my former abuser at me during a conversation. I unplugged that “friendship.” I don’t need to learn a uniquely hard lesson more than once.

I’ve never used the abuser’s name on this site. I never will. To be clear, this was not my first husband, who was a good human being, as a number of people (including family members) who visit this site can confirm. This was my first post-divorce relationship. There’s no connection between the abuser and anyone else in my life.

Today’s my birthday. I’ve received texts and messages from across the States, north to south, east to west, and (so far) two European countries. I never take friendship, love, and kindness for granted. The distance I’ve traveled since that bad relationship, including geographical along with emotional and mental distance, are compelling reasons to be grateful for everyone and everything good in my life.

Today’s paisley letter harks back to a long-ago birthday when I was with the abuser. I’m writing this letter to my younger self. I have nothing to say to him.

“Dear Becky, it’s okay to remember the good things you saw when you met him. He was hardworking, sometimes holding down two or three jobs simultaneously (so were you at that time), to put himself through college in your small town. He lived very simply, frugally, to be able to afford tuition, rent, and the books he needed for his classes. He could be funny. He was smart. He was even handsome. He shared some of your musical interests, and when times were a little easier financially, you saw good concerts together.

He transferred to your alma mater (about a three-hour drive away), and you’d visit him there sometimes. It reminded you how much you missed Tuscaloosa. You still had friends there. After your divorce, you’d floated other possibilities (for places to move, careers to pursue) for your own future, some that included friends, but those didn’t pan out. You applied to graduate school, got accepted, and you moved to Tuscaloosa and shared an apartment with him.

There’s no reason to go into grim details about how the relationship devolved. It lasted longer than it should have. You made a lot of concessions and put in a lot of effort to keep things going and to remove pressures. You altered your behaviors around his temper and your fear. You made sacrifices you shouldn’t have, but you long ago realized that hindsight and regrets can be traps, too.

Some good things happened. Your parents sold their house in your small town and moved to Tuscaloosa for a while. The city was full of happy memories for them (your brother and sister were born there while your father was in college). Some of their old friends still lived there. Your brother also moved to Tuscaloosa. You didn’t feel so isolated.

And then… you had a birthday. He didn’t say a thing that morning. He never handed you a card, or even the simplest of gifts like a flower or cupcake. You had an all-day meeting and told yourself he had something planned for the night. Nope. The birthday was never mentioned or acknowledged in any way… Except by your family.

You made changes slowly and carefully. You had options and relied on them. A friend you met in graduate school wanted to rent a small house and invited you to be her roommate. A woman you met at a place where you worked became a friend and mentor. Later, Debbie, your old roommate from your undergraduate years, who was working on her doctorate, made her place available to you as needed.

The leaving process wasn’t easy, and you never knew when there might be an explosion. Even when you finally lived separately, he was always a presence. Then he graduated and got a job in a different Alabama town (close to where you’d first met him). He finally seemed happier, more in control of his moods. Of his anger. One weekend, you agreed to visit him there and shop with him to help pick out things for his apartment. He bought drapes that day to hang in his living room. You offered to iron out the wrinkles, and you set up the ironing board near the living room windows.

That’s what you were doing when something triggered him, and the verbal abuse started. It seemed to go on forever, and you knew sooner or later, it would become physical. You kept ironing. Then you looked at the iron and you realized it could actually be an effective weapon. It was hot, had weight, and was in your hands, not his. You had the briefest vision of slamming the hot iron against him.

You turned the dial to off. You went into the other room, where your overnight bag was still packed. You found your keys and walked through the living room with purse and luggage. All you said was, “Goodbye.” It’s easy to remember the fear you felt when you walked out the door and to your car. You kept expecting him to come up behind you, to grab you, but you had one thing in your favor. He didn’t believe you were strong enough to leave. You were.

It was over. Sometimes he’d show up in Tuscaloosa at the place you now shared with Debbie, but you’d learned the hard way never to let him inside. You’d sit on the front porch, in full view of the elderly next door neighbor, who always seemed to be outside on those days. On one of those surprise visits, he left a small box with you before he went to his car.

They were similar to these. You never wore them. Not even once. Several years later, in fact, the same year you married Tom in June, you inexplicably packed the earrings when you drove your widowed mother north to your sister’s third wedding in December. (Debby always managed to stay one marriage ahead of you.) She needed ‘something borrowed’ to wear. You offered the earrings. The two of you laughingly agreed there was no ‘curse’ on them.

On her honeymoon, she took off the earrings and left them next to the bathroom sink. Then she forgot them when they checked out. For the sake of someone from hotel housekeeping, you hoped they really weren’t cursed. The earrings had no value to you at all. You never regretted their disappearance. As always, someone in your family did you a solid.

And no matter what struggles might have gone on in your life, even losses of people and pets you loved and cherished, you’ve never again had a miserable birthday.”

Mindful Monday

A letter to the one who gave me the “going steady” ring shown on my Sunday Sundries post.

“Hello to you. That isn’t a photo of my ring, only a similar one. When I decided to write you, I went to get the ring you gave me when I was fifteen so I could make a photo. It wasn’t where it should have been. It wasn’t in the only other place it could have been. It makes me really sad that I can’t find it. It’s something I’ve cherished for decades.

I remember the first time I saw you. We were at school. Seventh grade for me. Eighth grade for you. You were with an eighth grade girl, your girlfriend, and she stopped to talk to me because she knew me from church. I was so shy and trying to navigate being in junior high, but I do remember thinking how nice both of you were to talk to me, a younger kid. Seventh graders were on the lowest rung of a school that had grades seven through twelve. My sister was a senior that year, maybe the first time we’d attended the same school.

In time, you and [name redacted] broke up, and maybe you had another girlfriend or two before you turned your attention on me. It was the way of things at that age–people pairing up and breaking up as we explored this boy-girl thing being modeled for us by older kids. It wasn’t too serious, and I don’t even remember when or why it ended. I didn’t have a broken heart as we both continued the dating rituals of two people who really didn’t understand we were still children.

The summer after eighth grade, Lynne and I were out one night ‘ratting the streets’ as my mother called it, when we ran into you and one of your guy friends. Somehow, over time, we coalesced into a group with several other people (including another of your friends, Riley). I don’t think any of us were ‘dating.’ Some of us were reading The Hobbit, and that’s when Riley began to refer to himself as Frodo and imagined adventures for all of us readers. In order for me to be eligible to go on summer night adventures with ‘hobbits,’ he changed Merry into a female. From then on, it remained one of his names for me.

I’m sure you and I flirted–everybody flirted with everyone. Over time, you and I became an official couple, definitely a while before my fifteenth birthday party at Lynne’s house. There’s a poster hanging on the wall of the room where I’m writing this, signed by all of you, yours in big sloping letters that say, ‘Love always’ and your name.

We began a kind of dance that would take us through at least three years together. We would break up, usually because some other girl caught your eye. Our friends couldn’t understand why I always agreed to get back together. It drove Riley nuts, and probably Lynne, too. I’m sure I cried plenty of tears over you–I was a moody teenager!–but I also knew this, even then. I preferred to go through an honest breakup than be cheated on and lied to. You gave me that much respect.

I’m not sure how many times that pattern repeated, but I remember at least two of your girlfriends contacted me. One said in a phone call, ‘He’s still hung up on you. He always talks about you. Please stay away from him.’ Which was funny, because by then, my parents had enrolled me in a different school (sophomore year, and yes, it was to get me away from you and friends they thought were a bad influence–I was really just being an adolescent girl) and I wasn’t old enough to drive, though you were. I had no way to pursue you, even if I’d been so inclined. I was going through a lot–I hadn’t wanted to change schools. I missed my friends, whose lives were going on without me. I missed you–you, Riley, Lynne, and I had been in the same English class the first six weeks of sophomore year before I transferred. I felt sick inside almost every day about the pending separation from all of you.

I was rebellious and unhappy in our new house, different small town, different school. So when you were between girlfriends and came to hang out with me, I was glad of the company. Another of your ex-girlfriends took me on a drive one night. She talked about how much she loved you and asked me how she could hang on to you. I seemed like the wrong person to advise her. As we were driving around–she was probably taking roads where she thought we might run into you–that actually happened. You and Riley ended up in your car behind us, and Riley said, ‘That’s Becky with [her name],’ and you argued there was no way; we didn’t know each other. When Riley told me this later, I asked how he could possibly have guessed I was in the passenger seat. ‘You propped your arm on the back of your seat and buried your hand in your hair. You always ride that way.’

Oh, that endless year. You came back. Left. Came back. Then there was a night I’ve written about on this site before, when Riley and his girlfriend took care of me after a football game when you stood me up. That wasn’t the last time I cried over you, but it was when I knew I had to make changes. I needed to accept that I had two more years before graduation. I needed to adapt to my new school, make friends, and find some kind of life for myself that wasn’t so lonely. (I must add here, because I think we’ve both been teachers at different times in our lives, that the teachers at my new school were the people who kept me from going crazy. I had some great ones.)

And so… you continued your serial girl-friending. And my junior year, I finally began dating someone else. Four years later I would marry him when we were college juniors. I’m not really sure when you married your first wife.

I remember the last time I saw you. It was maybe twenty years later, and Lynne, her son, and I were flying from Houston to Alabama for some family thing (her family). I was on my second marriage (to Tom–still married!), and I think you were divorced by then, but I can’t remember if you’d already remarried (I think you’re married now and assume she’s your second wife).

We were flying Southwest, and touched down in New Orleans for some people to disembark, others to board, before we resumed the flight to Birmingham. I looked up and saw you walking down the aisle toward me. Our eyes met. Yours widened. We both smiled. Seating was rearranged so that you and I could sit together for the flight. I can’t think of any way it could have gone better. We caught each other up. We talked about politics (we were aligned). I’m sure we talked about our jobs and shared details about our personal lives, but I can’t remember all the conversation. Just that I couldn’t have written one that made me happier. It was comfortable, friendly, sweet. I had then, and continue to have, only the greatest affection for you. You’re a good memory. I have so many visual memories of your expressions, the way you looked at me, the ways you made me feel special. I’m glad you were my first love. I hope you’ve been happy in your work (I think you’re retired now) and your personal life. I wish you all the best. Always.–Becky”

Easy Day

Looking forward to more visitors near the end of this month, and there are still things we need to do around here. But a big project that was way overdue was getting help with our yard and flowerbeds (we don’t actually grow many flowers except in pots, unless Tim plants any around our large tree in the front yard), but we do have shrubbery and we have the Mexican petunias (aka ruellias or wild petunias) that grow outside the kitchen window, as shown in this photo from last September:

Looking back, here are a few shots of the back of the property, including this one from 2023.

And later in 2023, when we had a large, dead tree removed.

Even with January’s snow, you can see it became a kind of jungle back there. The dogs thoroughly love it that way, but it was a problem for me. It was so overgrown that I couldn’t easily follow them and clean up behind them. Also, Anime loved the stump of that removed dead tree and was eating the bark and the mushrooms that grew under the bark.

Last week, we called back the yard crew to have the stump ground down, and then, as well as cleaning out that part of the yard, they worked on all the beds, front, back, and sides, and everything looks so much better. We still need to finish mulching that back bed, and we have plans for filling in spaces back there with pots/potted plants currently scattered elsewhere on the property to get color and texture. We’ll see how it looks compared to today’s photo when I take another at summer’s end.

Along with finishing the short series I watched on Netflix, I’ve finished one little project today related to future hospitality. I’ve also handled paperwork for a license I hold. Other than cleaning out refrigerator leftovers and organizing others for lunches and dinners until the leftovers are gone (a couple of days), I’m planning on reading a recently published book by a favorite author and thinking a lot about something I found on social media in the last couple of weeks.

In relation to that, this is the writing I do: occasional commentary on (mostly) strangers’ social media; rare emails, usually short though sometimes longer; this website, which often includes poetry, occasionally flash fiction, but is mostly exposition of one type or another; and fiction. What I guess I must evaluate is what of the above points are true, because some are; some are with qualifications; and some are not at all.

Hump Day

Jim left for the airport before dawn this morning for the second leg of his vacation. I missed him instantly. After he left, I ate breakfast, napped, and spent time outside with the dogs. Then I continued this week’s house and home theme by removing everything from the breakfast room cabinets pictured above, cleaning all the contents and dusting the shelves, then Windexing the glass doors. And POLISHING THE SILVER, as That Old Woman™ (Tim’s trademarked name for my mother) would have wanted. I also cleaned bathrooms, did a load of dishes (the dishwasher is probably in shock over all this attention), and a load of laundry.

It’s a LOT more fun to hang out with Jim and the Houndstoothers than do housework. I need the staff of Downton Abbey.

Me and two of my writing partners on the night Jim cooked stroganoff for us.

Tiny Tuesday!

From The Tiny Book of Tiny Pleasures:

It was the last night of Jim’s visit, so we did Thanksgiving in March for fun!

On the menu: turkey breast, cornbread dressing, fresh green beans, fresh squash casserole, mashed potatoes and gravy, cranberry sauce, and rolls.

I also prepared a dessert table for the pies we’ve been eating since Saturday that included apple, peach, and Key Lime, but we forgot all about dessert because of the lively conversation. Family and friends: what it’s all about.

One of my house and home projects is to clean the display cabinets in the breakfast room, including the glass shelves and doors, but especially because I’m way overdue to polish the silver. I got a tiny head start today by polishing the butter dish given to my parents on their 25th wedding anniversary by Aunt Lola and Uncle Gerald.

Sunday Sundries

Jim is visiting, and Saturday night, after a game of cards, he retired to his guest room, Tim went home to bed, and Tom and I were almost finished washing dishes (he washed; I dried and put away) when I noticed some water leaking out under the dishwasher door. We almost never use the dishwasher, because when I cook, I wash as I go; other times, we take shifts washing up afterward depending on who cooks. It’s recommended that you DO use your dishwasher, at least once a week, but with only the two of us, it seems like a waste of water. Plus I’m one of those people who finds dishwashing relaxing.

Apparently, for some reason, water was pooling in the bottom of the dishwasher. We hadn’t had any backup into our sink and no problem with the garbage disposal, so we weren’t sure where the water came from or how long it had been there. Tom and I together used two of the small cups I save from our laundry detergent (to use as water cups when I paint) to bail water from the dishwasher into a tub, which we emptied outside twice. Then he used towels to soak up the rest and dry out the dishwasher, then threw the towels into the washing machine. And we crossed our fingers, hoped for the best, and went to bed.

This morning, I woke up to find he’d moved about half of the contents under our sink onto the kitchen counter. The rest of that stuff was in a movable rack we keep under the sink. We’d cleaned out a couple of filters inside the dishwasher Saturday night, and he cleaned out a hose that had some gunk in it this morning. Then I cleaned and partly reorganized under the sink.

Tonight after dinner, we had the real test: doing a load in the dishwasher. All went as it should normally, so we’re hoping that’s the end of the drama. I’ll finish organizing the cabinet under the sink Monday.

I suppose my theme for the week will be house and home projects: cleaning, maybe some organizing, and a few other things that have been on my to-do list for a while.

Saturday’s Crafty Wrap-up

Current sketchbook used for saving coloring pages; cover collaged by me.

Because of Photo Friday, I didn’t post anything about crafting yesterday, but I did work on something. As I’ve mentioned, the large sketch book where I collect my completed coloring pages will be full soon, even though when I got to the back of the book, I began putting colored pages on the backs of used pages. I wondered if I had another sketchbook as large as that one, and I do, but the front cover isn’t made of reinforced paper or cardboard, so I don’t know if it will hold up to collaging and a lot of use, like the current one.

It’s an old sketch book of our late friend Steve’s. It only has a couple of sketches he started it in, but I’d forgotten I used it back in June of 2012, when I did the 30 Days of Creativity challenge. If you were around then, you might remember that I’d sketch something on a page, then use it for a backdrop with my wee plastic ram being a director of dolls or action figures, etc., doing scenes from different movies. Like, for example, one I did for the movie The Secret Life of Bees. On Friday, after running errands, including having photos printed from those 2012 challenges, I added the photos and explanations to the original sketches. Like this.

After a visit to Texas Art Supply on Thursday, I also started something else that I finished today. I’d found sticker books there with words and phrases that could be turned into poetry (like Magnetic Poetry, but more permanent).

I love these and put together a poem in my Inspire journal (all its pages are related in some way to the Neverending Saga and its characters). I finished that page today. I’m glad I did something creative to end the week, because today (March 8) is Riley’s birthday. One of the ways to resist, overcome, and stay steady when the world is full of chaos, confusion, conflict, and catastrophe, is a far more important “C” word: CREATE. I know Riley would be the first to agree with this. His life was often a series of struggles, and that’s when he sat at the piano or picked up a guitar and turned it all into music and lyrics. And even if the world, or at least some part of the world, will never acknowledge this, humanity does need art and find it healing. Sometimes it feels like the real division in the world is between haters and healers. I’ve learned a lot about that in the last couple of months.

One more thing I did today, in recognition of International Women’s Day, is post this composite to Instagram, described as “just a few of the women who nurtured, mentored, and taught me over the years, expanding my heart, mind, and soul. I thank them and all the others whose photos I don’t have.”

Something for me

A bunch of assorted flowers, marked down to $4.99 at the grocery store, became my mood-elevating craft project for today, with assistance from antique half-pint milk bottles, a tiny antique vase (lower left) from Debby, and a recycled liqueur bottle (front and center) from Timothy. I might also have been inspired by the Netflix series I’m watching.

I send those flowers with birthday memories for my mother (born March 4), and birthday wishes for Timmy, born March 4, and my never-let-me-down-once-since-we-met-at-age-eighteen friend Debbie, born March 5.

Plus I never slept last night–maybe a couple of hours from 9:30 to 11:30 this morning–and if I choose to continue work on Book 7, it’s suddenly going to turn radically different from what I thought.