Catherine Sevenau

Opener of doors, teller of tales, family scribe.

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3.46 Sin and Prayer

By

Babe and Carl Clemens, 1947

Epilogue ~ My parents were like black and white, oil and water, sin and prayer. My father, not one to boil over, married a kettle of emotions. If he could have loosened his grip and if my mother hadn’t completely unraveled, perhaps my childhood would have been different. But it was what it was. Look, we all have moments of grace and we all experience unfortunate events, I simply happened to have been inoculated early. Babe was not the mother I wanted, but she was the one I got. Was she a good mother? No. Did I love her? No, I can’t say I did; I’m not that big. But as life would have it, having Babe as a mother turned out to be in my best interest, though it took me a long time to see that, and though she may not have been “good enough,” I’ve had many stand-ins who were.

Writing this memoir introduced me to my mother. It also introduced me to who I am. In addition, it connected me to my ancestors and living relatives about whom I knew little or nothing. Through the unions and reunions, through the phone calls and e-mails, and through the writing and reading and weaving of our stories, I’ve come to know us, to see our strands are woven in the same translucent web. There are striking physical resemblances. I look at my brother’s wedding photo and I am startled to see my younger son staring back at me. I study my father’s baby picture and I see my grandson. Sitting next to my Uncle Joe, I sense my dad. Joe looks so much like my father, stands and walks and talks like him. I sit close so I can feel that father energy I miss so much. Aunt Agnes and Sister Ann have Dad’s laugh and his same twinkle in their blue eyes. I look a lot like my brother and some of my cousins. My female cousins on Mom’s side are younger versions of their mothers. When I search for my mother’s face in theirs I can’t find her—I see my sisters’ faces instead. My cousins remembered Mom and liked her. They thought she was honest, humorous, and hip. And smart. They said she held her own on just about any subject, was well-read in history and well-versed in sports, rattling off team stats and scores with the best of them. Until I’d met the cousins, I’d never come across anybody that liked my mother. Now that I write this, I think it’s not true. I only know four people who didn’t like Mom: my father and my sisters (my brother somehow managed to steer clear of her). They were the ones who had issues with her, and I think Claudia simply went along for the ride. Even my brothers-in-law liked Mom, well, sort of. I was glad to find she had people in her court. My mother wasn’t as “out there” as I thought. She was just like the rest of her family; who, compared to my father’s family, were all a little out there. It’s all relative.

My sisters and I are much like her, likely to have fall out of our mouths whatever flies into our minds. I’m a hardheaded woman like my grandmothers, Barbara and Nellie, who were two peas of the same pod. I live in that pod too, that place of righteousness and rightness, of rules and regulations, of stubbornness and inflexibility. I just don’t take myself quite as seriously as they did. I also appreciate my flip side; my will and willingness, my doggedness and determination, my trust and persistence.

Cathy, Aug 1974, age 24

I got the best of my father and the worst of my mother. I have his frame and posture. I have her moles and droopy eyelids. I have his sense of rightness and fairness and goodness, which get me through. I have her vanity, her stinginess and mouthiness, which get me in trouble. I have Dad’s common sense, work ethic, and reliability; I have Mom’s foolishness, self-absorption, and pride. I have his manners, his conduct and character; her resentment, her entitlement and disdain. I have my father’s sociability, my mother’s sarcasm, his loyalty, her indifference, his modesty, her arrogance. I carry his confidence and live with her self-doubt. I have his good intentions and her unattended sorrows. I suppose I turned out as well as I have because I had other good mothers throughout my life: sisters and friends and lovers who filled that mothering gap for me. It pays to be adoptable. Besides, if it’s not one thing—it’s your mother.

I survived my childhood. I raised two sons as a single mom (I got by with a little help from my friends). I’ve gone from welfare to two successful businesses and a longtime career in real estate, I learned to dance, no small feat for someone with two left ones, and I wrote this book. I thank God I’m a hardheaded woman. I’m not so sure my sons would agree, but they’re entitled to my opinion, too.

I’ve fallen in love with this family, this huge, funny, strange, interesting and odd assortment of kith and kin scattered about the country. I’m part of this lineage, my roots deep in their soil. I’m not alone. I’m not the waif I thought I was as a child. I’m not lost. Okay, so maybe a little dazed and confused, but not lost. I have found redemption. I belong.

© 2018. Catherine Sevenau.
All rights reserved.

Comments

  1. I am a child of that kind of mother as well. I’m in my mid 70s and I’ll bet there are a lot more of us, just undiagnosed parents. I am lucky to be alive but glad I made it–if nothing else, to meet Cathy and find out I’m not alone and have a soul spirit.

  3. Cathy, here at the end of this journey that you have generously shared with us, your friends and fans, I am unsure how to respond. Certainly, a huge thank you for your bravery and honesty, for your insightful view of life, for how your struggles help us all deal with our own problems. Mostly though, I am just grateful to know the complex and beautiful human that you have become. Keep dancing!

  4. With all you have gone thru you’ve turned out to be quite a beautiful, intelligent, and charming writer and woman. You should be proud of all you have accomplished.

  6. I loved reading your family story in this serial format, Catherine, and found lots of similar threads along the way. It’s such a powerful reminder of the strength and resilience of the human spirit, and how you came to know and appreciate your true self. Who knows what the next chapters will be like….maybe an epilogue will be forthcoming in a decade or so? I was inspired to buy a copy of “Ancestral Medicine” by Daniel Foor, PhD, to do some connecting with mine. Anyway, I’ll miss your stories and hope you’ll keep writing. Thanks for the memories!

  7. Congratulations on all that you have done and over come, Cathy!!! I want to buy some copies of this to send to friends. My local bookstore said it was privately published so they could not help me. Can you send me a link to your publisher? Maybe more than me would like this info. Thanks, Susie

    • Hi Susie, I’m self-published, however, THROUGH ANY GIVEN DOOR is only published on my blog. I don’t know that I’ll go through the effort and expense to publish to make it available on online book sites or in bookstores. Maybe a conventional publisher will trip over me and want to take it on. I’ll combine all the stories in Part III and get that out, and then I’ll send you the link for all three Sections. You can forward them in an email. Thanks for wanting to share my writings. That means a lot to me.

  8. Thanks for sharing your journey with us. I doubt that any of your Minnesota family knew much of what you were going through at the time. You are a true survivor.

    • Nobody knew, other than my mother. Things were better when I was with my dad, and I imagine he suspected things weren’t good as I suppose he paid the hospital bills. What saved me was Carleen taking me in. Until I wrote this book, I knew nothing of what everyone had gone through until they told me their stories, and they about me. Healing the family and healing the planet, one story at a time.

  9. I can relate to your epilogue. Everyone saw my narcissistic, bipolar mother the same way as others saw yours. So frustrating!

  10. So Catherine. How long ago was it I came up to your Thornsberry listing. You in your flowing gown gently blowing in the wind. So beautiful. Me begging to work at your office. To survive in this business. You… come on down. I did. Thank you goddess.

  11. Your epilogue describes closely my experiences with my parents and those who knew my mother. Is this typical of one who was the child of a bipolar, narcissistic mother? I don’t know, but I know you and I have much in common with our pasts.