That’s All Folks

Through Any Given Door/A Family Memoir has come to a close. Some of you have expressed disappointment that it’s ended. I imagine others are as happy to be done with it as I am. Though I’ve been asked to continue our story, I can’t (or won’t) for the following reasons:

• Many of my sources have died, and the remaining refuse to give me any new stories as they fear I’ll write them down.
• It’s bad form to throw your ex under the bus, and though my extended family hands me plenty of material by behaving badly, most are sins of the past. I’ve also collected enough of my own ill behavior I’d rather not splash around town.
• At the moment I’m on good terms with my sons and I’d like to keep it that way.
• But the truth is, I’ve run out of desire. I’m happy to have accomplished what I have, but I possess no urge to continue.

The inspiration to write this book came to me unbidden, and it changed the course of my life. I got my money’s worth right there. I had work to do with my relationship with my mother, and I was able to put most of it to bed with this journey. Not that I don’t continue to create or be involved in relationships that activate those old wounds, but the feelings don’t last as long or cut as deep. I also see my part in those alliances, choosing to live inside some of those old habits and patterns. We get trapped in what is familiar.

Jon and my dad, 1986

I posted 10 stories in a wrap-up which also included a few pieces I’d written over time, but here is a quick overview of my father, my siblings, and me. My father died in 1986 in the early morning, nine days before his 81st birthday. My younger son kept vigil over his body in the small dining room, absorbed with the phenomena that when he pressed on Dad’s arm, my father’s skin didn’t bounce back. Liz passed by on her way to the kitchen and ordered Jon to, “Stop denting your grandfather.” Thirteen-year-old boys find the oddest things fascinating.

Family gathering at Dad’s funeral in front yard at Fair Oaks, Santa Rosa

Liz (Betty) and Claudia both died from lung cancer, Liz in 2004, Claudia in 2011. My step-mother Marie passed away four months before Claudia. Carleen lives in Iowa with her youngest daughter; Gordon (Larry) and Marian are retired and live in Carmel. They’ve been supportive of my writing, though with a few pieces I can still feel my brother’s arms crossed and lips pursed in silent disapproval. I’ve lived in Sonoma since 1973, raised my sons here as a single mom, cleaned houses, worked at Old Healthy’s, had a carrot juice company for five years while I was also the bookkeeper and helped run Moon Valley School, then went into real estate in 1982. I’ve co-owned a Century 21 franchise since 1996, the last privately owned and operated brick and mortar real estate company in the valley. My first significant memory was being dropped off at my mother’s doorstep and not knowing how I got there. Now I do that for a living. The tagline on my business website? “Moving You in the Right Direction!”

Bob, Rebecca, Jon, Cath and Matt in Bob’s 1960 Impala

My marriage to Bob lasted five years. Our values conflicted, and like those five years of being with my mom, we ended up living alone together. We spent our married life repeating our past: I married my mother—it didn’t matter to him if I was there or not—and he married his father; he could never do it right for me either. We both came from wounded childhoods and carried a boatload of unexamined baggage, so trying to have our marriage work was like trying to fix the sink when the stove was broken. But we’ve remained friendly over the years and shared many a holiday dinner that included his second wife of 18 years (Rebecca, Matt and Jon’s other mother) and her family, along with whomever he’s married to at the moment. It’s quite the fiesta. I prefer to be single and Bob prefers to not be alone. I mentioned to him that because he slept with a woman didn’t mean he had to marry her, though I won’t admit to how many times I’d have been married if that were the case. In hindsight, I learned a lot about myself from our relationship that I may not have otherwise, and I thank him for that. I’ll also be forever grateful to him for our two sons, for imparting to me the mettle to run a business, and for handing me the hard-earned lesson of “fool’s trust,” to assume someone will be fair when their record proves them otherwise, though I went on to be burned a couple more times with others I trusted. Oh well, some lessons are more expensive than others.

Stay tuned, there will be other poems, stories, and barrages of rude awakenings, though not quite as often. I’ll also return to working on our family genealogy; with so many dead and so little time, I’ve a bit of catching up to do. Happy New Year, Catherine

Clemens Ancestor/Descendent collage, from Gordon and Marian Clemens

Me, my mother, her mother, and her mother, younger and then older, all at similar ages

Soul Musings
What cares for my soul?
Lavender fields. Weeping willows. Poppies.
The moon as it hangs full saffron over the valley.
Those Oreo cows in the pasture on the road to Petaluma.
What else? The duck pond, the plaza chickens, and the beautiful
Chinook that have returned to Nathanson Creek.
That bewildered baby-blue tree on Highway 121,
guarded in winter by a regiment of plastic snowmen.
Not only does that funny blue tree feed my soul, it boggles my mind.
What else nourishes me?
The glory of Sonoma, my beloved home for some thirty-odd years.
My contented roots are entwined with this valley’s—snaking under Broadway,
twisting about the plaza, creeping and crawling and climbing through
hillside vineyards and valley oaks. I’m so grateful to live here.

Photo credits: upper vineyard painting by Ray Jacobsen, Snowmen by J. David Gray

© 2018. Catherine Sevenau.
All rights reserved.