Are You My Father?

by Margo Walter

  I had been missing the wild side of my mother, her eccentric personality since I left her house in Switzerland and moved to the States. Not only does she live in exotic places, she takes on fascinating roles that influence all those who come into her company. Let me give an example. Most of the belonger homes on Middle Caicos are concrete brick, unpainted, unfinished, and unkempt. No problem. Dottie, my mother, decides to have a contest. She contacts and contracts with Sherwin Williams to furnish free paint to the island. She orchestrates a contest and offers a monetary prize for any belonger who can paint his house (wild pastels included) and do so within two weeks. The competition begins, and the outcome is still evident today. Wild-pink, fluorescent-yellow, sky-blue, and passionate-purple homes stand proudly. We have no idea who won, but back to our first visit.

  By this time, Chris and I had been breeding Labrador Retrievers for twenty years. It is incredibly hard work, pays poorly, and is the most satisfying, rewarding career that I have ever had. In any case, my mother had asked us to bring her a puppy to the islands on our first visit. We chose a six-month-old yellow Labrador to fly down with us. No one expected any problems until we landed in Miami to change planes. We had a two-hour layover and were assured that our puppy would be in the air-conditioned cargo hold. After touch-down in Miami, we taxied up to the gate, and there was an announcement by the flight attendant: “Is anyone traveling with a large dog? If so, please come forward immediately.” We had only a puppy, but being super concerned, Chris and I made our way to the front of the plane and conjured up the worst possible situation. We were led out of the plane, down a ramp, and finally, a member of the flight crew told us that our dog, “big dog,” had broken out of her crate and was running loose in the cargo hold. The baggage crew was so afraid that no one volunteered to catch the vicious, unclaimed predator. Chris climbed up a ramp, called our puppy, and helped her exit within five minutes. There was applause from the ground crew, and they gave us permission to take the puppy into the terminal. The rest of the flight was uneventful until we had to fly in a small tin can, called a Cessna, to our final destination. We had the plane to ourselves except for a rather stout female belonger who was trying to get back to her home. She was petrified of dogs and would only fly if she got in the seat furthest in the back, and puppy dog rode way up front next to the pilot. Fortunately, the captain was a dog-lover and had no trouble with his new canine copilot.

  Safe delivery of the puppy preceded a safe visit with mother and my brother. There were no sibling fights, no mother–daughter altercations, and even Chris had a great time. The island is very flat, built on coral rock, and has views of the Atlantic that are breathtaking. Several coral reefs create a snorkeler’s paradise. The local fishing guide is called “Cappie,” and he is an interesting character. Born in Haiti, he has been on the island for fourteen years. When he was not taking us fishing, he hunted for conch and guided bone fishermen who came from England to this sacred spot. Nothing is cheap in the islands because every building material, food purchase, and housing supply needs to be imported from the States or England. It is often shipped to Provo, the central tourist attraction town, and ferried out to the other islands, like Middle Caicos. Eventually, a causeway will be built between North Caicos and Middle Caicos. It will improve the transfer of goods and services until any major hurricane washes it away. What a life!

  We spent ten days playing backgammon, exploring the local caves, diving on all the reefs, and eating the local fare of lobsters and conch. Edward had become an excellent general contractor for other tourists who wanted to build there and my mother and sister-in-law, Terri, sold lots and argued about whatever. They did not really fight with each other. They just stayed pissed off at each other and my mother was very bitchy. It was kind of curious and uncomfortable to watch. They continued doing this dance for the next twelve years, and everyone was careful not to get in the middle.

  The days went by quickly. The puppy was named Daisy and started following my mother everywhere, which is precisely what she wanted and needed. It felt like I had finally done something agreeable for my mother in bringing her new friend, Daisy, to the island. Both Chris and I got our sunburns and climbed into the Cessna to start our journey home. On this vacation there had been no talk about mental illness, jobs, future trips, grandchildren, or money. It was rather odd. I am not sure what we talked about. Something magical happened. You know when you have a nightmare, and you wake up to discover it was all fantasy and just a bad dream. There is a satisfied sigh of relief, and you feel like you are ready for a new day. I felt refreshed after our trip and all the bad anticipated exchanges with my mother never happened. Mostly, I was grateful that the visit to Middle Caicos did not bring out the worst in me or my mother. The vacation to the islands taught me that as dreadful as my past life had been, especially my relationship with my mother, it was time to get rid of all that baggage and start a fresh new life from a brand-new perspective. After all, I had it good compared to most. It was exciting to see what the future brought our way with or without my family of origin. Who is fooling whom? It really was time to put away the resentments, get on that spiritual journey, and see what I could bring to the world instead of taking away from it. No one was keeping score.

  Chapter 12: Practicing an Attitude of Gratitude

  Living on a small farm in Appalachian rural America is indeed a divine blessing. With our gorgeous views of the mountains, a small creek running through the rear of our property, and beautiful woods and pastures completely surrounding our home, it is a paradise we call home. Growing up on the ocean with breathtaking views of the dunes, I do occasionally miss the beach. I traded the long stretches of sand for rolling mountains and spectacular sunrises and sunsets. Our house is situated between two national forests and explains the lack of homes or other building structures to be seen. We have six acres of hay in the back, five acres of pasture in the front, and our nearest neighbor is over a thousand feet away. Why would anyone want to leave this private park? That is the question that I asked myself when we returned from our island vacation. I was seeing familiar things in a much more gratifying, enlightened way. I needed to hang on to this attitude of gratitude and do a personal inventory immediately. Let’s get started.

  ***

  This personal audit at this point in my life has nothing to do with having a father or not. It stands alone without blame, fear, or resentment. I need to own up to those old character defects once and for all. A sagacious person, a previous AA sponsor, told me that it was counterproductive to look at my parents’ flaws. She suggested that I look at the seven deadly sins: sloth, pride, envy, jealousy, gluttony, lust, and anger. In writing, identify how I relate to this world-renowned list. What are my shortcomings? My sponsor suggested that I look at my assets to balance the ledger sheet and not be too self-deprecating during the process. Liabilities on one side of the ledger and assets on the other. It was an epic task, but I was ready to do it.

  The details became very cumbersome, but I stuck with it, and the conclusions were very enlightening. I am not a terrible, selfish individual and I am more giving than most. On the other hand, I can still be an egomaniac with prideful tendencies that get in my way and others’. Most people have not had their personalities dissected like I have or been diagnosed down to their hair type. During this inventory, I realized that being honest with myself as to who I am could be extremely helpful. And heeeere’s Janet!

  After taking a deep breath and slowly exhaling, I admit that I am my mother’s daughter. Owning up to that was a huge step forward. Since I never really knew my father intimately, even after I found him, there was still one parent who kept going in and out of my life and left her genetic footprint all over the place. What did I pick up from my mother? I don’t mean physically or intellectually inherit. I am talking more like a sweater that picks up lint. She rubbed off on me, and it was time that I admit the similarities between us and examine the characteristics that separate the tw
o of us. I am sure every adult child engages in this process at some time during their life. We all look at our parents with disappointment from time to time, maybe even disgust. The irony is that too often we become who they are. Thank God that you do not have to like acceptance—you just accept it.

  The personal inventory process does take rigorous honesty. So, I am going to tell you my perception of who I am to the best of my ability. Keep in mind that I am describing a person “becoming” and not a finished product.

  I watched my mother evolve over the years, and I recognized that what I saw as her faults were in many ways her attributes. This was good for the asset side of my inventory.

  When I enter a room, the conversation usually stops, and every individual usually greets me warmly and pulls me into their social circle. When I was drinking, people called this “the life of the party,” and now I hear “you light up the room.” In fact, in any social situation, I am the one that initiates conversations and keeps them going. My husband says that I have never met a stranger. It is true. I can strike up a discussion with anybody, anywhere, anytime. The introverts that I know often envy this talent and ask how I do it. I do not know the answer, except maybe that I was born that way, and it is very recognizable in my mother. We all acknowledge that there are “doers” and “thinkers.” Well, I inherited both genes and almost always inspire others to create meaningful endeavors that transform the current status. I am extremely competitive and have a driving force to be the best in anything. Wanting to be number one often puts me in a leadership role, and I am highly successful in executing the procedure or plan to almost everyone’s satisfaction, including my own.

  Here is an example. Three years after joining my current church, I was asked to run for President of our congregation. I would have a practice year as President-Elect, serve as President, and then continue to lead as Past President for one more year. It was an awesome responsibility, and I jumped in with both feet for the opportunity to lead. I was hugely successful all three years. Not because of my brilliance, but for the ability to bring the best out of other people, I met the challenge head on. I was able to organize my life and bring others along the same path. Not only create a vision but strategize, so the whole congregation went the best direction possible. Does this sound egotistical? Probably. It is a gift, and I can thank my mother and my father for passing it on to me.

  Few people can say they are a born leader, and I am one of them. The challenge is not to get so focused that I have blinders on. You can pay a hefty price in a leadership role and forget how important balance is for you and others, especially those you love. My assets sometimes cross over into my liabilities. When I was younger and working in the world of real estate, my production goals were over the top. I was the best and had many awards to prove it. However, I had no idea of the price that I was paying for that success. My marriage suffered, and my children were becoming orphans. My work life became my identity, and my family life began to disintegrate. Forty years separate my recent church experience from my real estate climb. Today I can tame the dragon and teach him to balance my life with family, friends, church, and travel. It is a process and not an event.

  I do have an incredible adventuresome spirit and love to learn new stuff. I use that word because I remain very teachable and my new endeavors are so varied. I do canoe or kayak every week; I am still an avid golfer (can outdrive most men my age); I love to discover new things in my gardens; I love to embrace change in my relationships; and I am pretty eager when it comes to learning something new. This week, my head was wrapped around the current politics (ugh!). I am like a sponge soaking up the procedures for the state legislature and trying to follow a divided national crisis. We can only guess what lies ahead.

  ***

  My mother, myself. There are so many similarities. My mother also had a full life and was continually moving locations. Her need for change, any kind of change, was not only recognizable in her life, but in mine. I have described this as running away, seeking a geographical cure, or bailing out on her family. Maybe I have gained a new perspective and do see that her need for adventure and change motivated her actions. Seeking new goals was a good thing.

  How many teenagers can say that they captained a forty-two-foot yacht to the Caribbean? It was my mother’s keen sense of adventure that sparked this trip and created a sixteen-year-old captain—me.

  Recently I was complimented for my ability to organize a dinner and presentation for all the Past Presidents of our church. There were sixty-two on record: several were deceased and some had moved out of the area. Since this had not been done for many years, I was met with an extremely negative attitude by some. “You will never get that group together.” “Why would they want to meet anyhow?” “It’s too much work.” The more criticism that I received, the more challenge I felt. I just wanted to create an evening with all that talent in one room, celebrating and commemorating a job well done. Perseverance is the asset that I am describing, and I have a big dose of it. Do not tell me that it cannot be done. I will persist and make it happen. Again, I did not do this alone. I was able to convince others to help, sell the concept, and the results were fantastic. Thirty-two Past Presidents dined, shared war stories, laughed, and gave valuable insight into the direction the church should go. A good time was had by all.

  The last character trait that I would like to take credit for is courage. It is in my genes. It is not something that I was taught in college, and I did not pick it up at the corner market. My mother was very courageous, and she showed me what she knew.

  It seems appropriate to talk about humility at this juncture. The Saint Francis of Assisi prayer reminds us to stay right sized. “It is better to be understood rather than to understand. Where there is hatred, let me sow love.” And so on. Unveiling my assets and my liabilities demonstrated to me that I have a long way to go in my quest to be a better person. Humility is the cornerstone that I wish to use to build my new life. I am getting better, but I am not there yet. I must keep learning and keep my ego in check. Over the years, I have discovered that I am just not that important and the world does not revolve around me.

  There was never a question in my mind, Are you my mother? In fact, I am my mother, and I am proud of it. That took years of rebuilding, forgiveness, and lots of acceptance. She died at the age of ninety-five and spent the last seven-and-a-half years of her life in a nursing home with advanced Alzheimer’s. No one should have to live like that. I visited my mother almost every week with her favorite Labrador Retriever, Sugar, by my side. The visit always began with me trying to relax her hands. Her fingers were in a vice grip that kept her unable to hold anyone else’s hand, specifically mine. I would pull her fingers apart until she could relax them. You could slice the air with tension, partly because I was fearful a nurse would catch me trying to make my mother do something she could not or be someone she was not. I wanted to hold her hand and pretend that she was the nurturing, sensitive, caring mother that she never was. Sometimes it took me eight minutes to fix her fingers so that my hand could hold hers. What was this all about?

  I thought of my marriage vows, “Till death does us part, in sickness and in health.” Even with her devastating disease, my mother had control, and I begged her to be someone that she could not be. Eventually, I gave up. I let Sugar lick her hands, and I just tried to be present. By bringing the dog, I learned to let go of those sad feelings, visit with other patients, and go to the parking lot less depressed than when I arrived.

  I went to see her at the nursing home on a typical Tuesday morning at 10:15. I spent an hour before the visit shoring up my courage, practicing in my mind what I would say, and knowing that this could be the last visit. None of my siblings, Mother’s other daughter or two sons, had seen her for years. She was my responsibility, and I owed her my love. I do not know precisely why I felt this huge obligation, but I did. Put the dog in the car, get Sugar some water, make sure that I had
her leash, and drive the twenty-two minutes to the assisted-living facility. It was like any other Tuesday. I regretted going but knew that I needed to visit for my sake and hers. I had learned to love her and gave up trying to make my mother someone that she was not. There was a sense of peace, and this visit was different. As soon as we got to her room, Sugar jumped up on her bed and lay across her chest. Sugar knew. We both said goodbye. There were no tears but a profound feeling of sadness to let her go.

  There was no funeral, and my daughter made all the obligatory phone calls to those that had long ago taken my mother out of their lives. We decide to do a memorial service in the Turks and Caicos later in the spring. My husband, my daughter, and I visited the local funeral home to select an urn for her ashes. We viewed her body lying in the casket, and she did look at peace. I touched her cheek, and it was freezing. Someone had fixed her hair neatly as she liked it. She was gone.

  Instead of an urn, she stayed in a cardboard box which was sealed and certified by the funeral director so that we could fly her ashes to the islands. Even in death, my mother got her way. No big fuss and no false words at the funeral which was organized for the living. There was a big stone patio built over Dragon Cay in the Turks with a statue of the Praying Hands overlooking the sea. That is where we gathered with the local preacher, the schoolteacher, and several belongers that wanted to say a few words about Momma Dottie, which is what they called her. It was interesting that strangers, to me, were able to call her Momma when I never could. I never got past “Mother.” My older brother and his wife; my daughter, her husband, and her son; and Chris and I joined the group to say goodbye. The biggest gift that my mother ever gave to me was my “real” father. I was grateful.