Tag Archives: family

Postcards Credit: MorgueFile by Cohdra

Heaven-Sent Message in a Postcard from Nova Scotia


Postcards Credit: MorgueFile by CohdraNo one sends postcards anymore. That’s a shame. A postcard may prove someday to be a humble but emotional link to a loved one.

This may come long after they’ve left their earthly existence.

Did you know there’s a National Postcard Week? This year it’s May 4–10.

Recently, I received a message from heaven. It came via a tattered postcard from Nova Scotia. The heaven-sent note is obviously from my mother. She passed over eight years ago.

You see, it’s an effective way for her to say “hello” because Nova Scotia and my mom were as one. Truthfully, she had a lifelong sizzling love affair with Nova Scotia.

Let me explain:

Crying and Closet Demolition

My husband, and I, are renovating one part of our old home. My mom brought me home from the hospital to this house. I grew up here then left for years.

Eventually, I returned to raise my daughters in the same house. Life would whisk me away again, but I’ve been back in this home for six years now.

Anyway, we tore down a huge closet in a room which was at one time my mother’s bedroom.

Renovating my family home triggered a cauldron of schmaltziness to bubble. I believe it was the result of hundreds of distinct and just as many hazy, memories.

When the old closet came down I experienced a weird emotional reaction of heavy sadness. It pitched me into an uncontrollable outburst of weeping. Every day I still miss my mother.

Enter the Message from Heaven

I began sorting all the gobbledygook we removed from the closet. Some of the boxes, baskets and trash bags belonged to my mother. Some were mine.

OK, time to distract myself from mushiness. Armed with Kleenex, I thought it best to start by digging in to a couple of my boxes instead of moms.

In the first box I open, on top of all the other stuff, there it sits: a postcard my mother sent me 19 years ago from Cape Breton, Nova Scotia. I barely remembered it.

Schooner Adventure Lives On

On a beautiful June day, she wrote me a note to say one of her dreams came true: She went out on the Schooner Amoeba.

In her stunning handwriting, she squeezed in all the details she could possibly fit on the little postcard. She covered every available inch with her giddy excitement.

I have no doubt that my mother reached out to put her arms around me at that moment.

Physically, my mother isn’t here with me. However, I’ve now received immeasurable comfort to feel her spirit still radiating within an old postcard from Nova Scotia.

Sources:

NationalPostcardWeek.com

Amoeba Sailing Tours – Roy’s Dream

Image Credit: MorgueFile by Cohdra

Cathy with a “C” – Blah to Yeah!


 Wikimedia Commons Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported license byMy name is Cathy. No, it’s not short for one of the silkier-sounding names like Cathleen or Catherine. I’m just Cathy.

My name is spelled with a “C,” though, not a “K.” My mother said that was special, so it must be, right?

Forever, I believed that “C” somehow provided me the right to step ahead of the pack when it came to ordinary names.

Sacred No More

Well, that was until the birth of the Internet. Everything you didn’t want to know the truth about is just a “search” away.

The fantastical “information highway” steamrolled right over and tamped down my lifelong reverie of Cathy with a “C” is special.

Unique My Foot

Sad, but true, according to the U.S. Social Security Administration, I’m one of 82,698 Cathy’s born between 1950 and 1959.

You’re probably wondering what my reaction was to this piece of knowledge. It went like this:

What? Oh, that just can’t be correct. Mom said my Cathy with a “C” name was distinctive. Honestly, I’ve run across a few Cathy’s with a “C” but come on … how could there be 82,697 besides me? How many more are there now?

Wuthering Heights and My Name

Somewhere in time, my mother told me another “name” story: She claimed she named me after Cathy, of Wuthering Heights fame.

She is, of course, the daughter of Edgar and Catherine Linton. You know, Emily Bronte’s classic literature tale Wuthering Heights … yeah, that Cathy.

That was rousing news and all but it came out of left field when I was in my twenties. So, was it true? It was Mom’s favorite book.

After reading Bronte’s novel myself, I felt an odd kinship with Cathy’s perky, although at times, disturbingly selfish character. Hm.

It’s All Good

Because my mom is no longer here, it’s likely I’ll never know the truth about the Wuthering Heights connection to my name.

I do know that while my name is not unique and far from fancy …  it’s who I am. I’m just Cathy with a “C” and that’s OK with me.

*The Daily Post at WordPress.com – Weekly Writing Challenge: Power of Names

 Sources:

Social Security Administration – Top Names of the 1950s

Literature.org – Wuthering Heights – Emily Bronte

 Image Credit: Wikimedia Commons Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported license by Bequw

My Crazy, Beautiful Mom


mother and daughter Wikimedia Commons Public Domain United States Library of CongressUm, yeah, that’s my mother

My mother had it in her mind that she was special; not better than others, mind you, just, well special. She never felt she owed anyone an explanation for her actions.

When she did something ridiculous, and I questioned her, she simply shrugged her shoulders and said, “Oh well.”

Typical behavior for my mom included doing everything she should not do. For instance, she always parked in an area that was specifically zoned no parking. She could not stop herself from loading up ten items in a five-item only checkout.

Never did she consider using one cap full of laundry detergent – it had to be three or four. When it was a huge fashion blunder, Mom dared anyone to question her wearing white pants after Labor Day. Driving 50 mph in a 35-mph zone was also the norm for my mother.

Mom ripped articles and recipes out of the magazines in her doctor’s office and pinched off pieces of plants which she stuck in her purse.

Without an ounce of uneasiness, my mother would say aloud, “Do I look as old as her?” as we passed by another elderly woman. “Lord, give me strength,” was my typical reply.

This was one of my mother’s favorite stories, which she loved to recount every chance she could: My mother couldn’t find a parking spot at the local grocery store. Even the “no parking” spaces were gone; of course, those were taken over by people just like her.

On her third swing through the lot, she eyed an empty space. So, she dashed her car into the spot, which was right in front of the store. I’m sure she was thinking, bingo it’s my lucky day.

When she made her way to the front of her car, there was a woman standing there glaring at her. She barked at my mother, “Can you read?” My mother said, “Of course I can read I went to college. I’m not stupid.” The lady pointed to the sign, and waited for my mom to respond.

The sign read, parking for expectant mothers only. Without hesitation, my special mother said, “Listen to me lady; I gave birth to four kids and that should count for something at 72-years-old.”

Off my mom went to get her grocery shopping done. Um, yeah … that was my wonderful, crazy, beautiful mom.

©Cathy A Montville