TODAY IS A SPECIAL DAY.
Today is hugely special. Tinto's youngest daughter has a birthday 'YAY!' ~ Happy Birthday, Strong AND Beautiful Woman! We send heaps of love and kisses and Henry does, too.
The 7th of April is our 17th wedding anniversary and it's thrilling, humbling, fabulous, outstanding, and brilliant that Tinto and I have been through so many severe and daunting changes yet we are stronger than ever.
That is what makes a marriage - a good marriage - the ability to change and adapt to new and sometimes scary situations. Each of us had to do some bending...like a big, strong tree...or we would have cracked into pieces.
Whenever I meet someone new or in everyday conversation, I am always asked how Tinto and I met. My pat answer: 'Well, that's a very long story and involves a bottle of French Champagne and YOU'RE buying.' We have a good giggle then I am pushed to make the story smaller because they really want to know. I don't know HOW to make the story short. That capacity, that angle is not in my genetic makeup. Seriously.
So, I'll commit this story to paper. In 2000...remember...the Millennium? Computers were supposed to stop, people were predicting the world would end and crazy stuff was happening all over the planet. The media was hyping up the turn of the century and you could almost feel electricity in the air. Some people were truly scared. Others excited. A few, perhaps, didn't really care either way. I cared. I thought it was absolutely enchanting and well worth the effort of a good celebration - large or small. I knew I would never see a century change again!
My dear Mother rang me from Memphis and announced she was going to travel to Australia to visit my only sister, Constance, for sixty (60) days. Got that? Count it. 60 days. I said, 'No, Mom; we are flying you to Atlanta and you're going to spend the Millennium with us. We'll go to the club, there will be a big, live band, an enormous, glamorous ice sculpture, cocktails, fine food and we'll bring in the century the right way.' I distinctly remember this entire conversation. My Mom said, 'No, Pat, perhaps you didn't hear me. I have already purchased my ticket and I am flying to be with Constance.' The tone of her voice was more like: 'Get over it. You're a big girl now.' Well, damn, I was pissed and I mean really pissed off and jealous on top of it. I wanted Mom to feel like a true queen for an evening and although I had been making plans in my head I had never actually invited her to Atlanta...yet. But, now, it was clearly too late. I remember feeling red-faced, shocked, and stunned. And, once again, left out of the picture. It is true. Always and forever I was jealous of the time my older sister and Mom got together; I wanted so badly to be a part of their private conversations. Little sister syndrome stuff, you know?
Mom flew away. I was in the middle of a break up with an extremely distinctive man whom I shall always appreciate, but I knew in my heart of hearts I would never love him the right way and it was not fair to him for me to stay. It felt wicked. I had come to depend on this man...he was my safe haven. He was a huge, looming sort of a guy with a shaved head, really tall, super smile, and extremely intimidating (to others) - gentle as a lovable dog, but no one sensed that when they met him; no one. We had been broken up for a while yet he insisted that I live in the upstairs portion of his home until I got myself sorted with a new flat. That gesture was more than kind. He called me 'Precious Patti' and had me featured on the top part of his arm in a black and gray tattoo. Yep. Yes, he did. Unbelievable.
Like yesterday, I remember I was upstairs packing and sorting personal things and I heard these lumbering, loud steps coming up the stairway and the steps sounded rushed. 'Precious Patti, Precious Patti...it's your sweet Mother on the phone and I think you need to take this now.' Something was wrong with his voice and his eyes looked strange - nothing I had ever seen before. He grabbed my hand, held the phone tightly in his while I was reaching for it and he said, 'No, Precious Patti; I want you to sit down on the steps first.' Well, now I was completely unsure of what was happening. My Mother was ringing me from Australia. Her voice was weak and she said, 'Oh, Pat, Constance was in a car accident.' I swallowed and asked her if Constance was okay. Mom could not speak. I don't remember the exact next words, but I finally got, 'No, no she is not. She's been killed.' Well, words can be absolutely shocking to a system. Words can feel like a punch in the gut or a kick in the head. I could not think.
I knew at that moment that my Mother had been exactly where she needed to be on this earth and at the right time. Never was I more pleased that Mom was in Australia instead of the States.
When I began to gather my senses I remember, too, feeling forever grateful that my Mom had not been in my sister's Jackaroo (which is like a Cherokee jeep). IF Mom had been travelling with my sister; no doubt, I would have lost both of these amazing women.
Shock sets in as it always does with an emergency and adrenalin revs up the system, too. Pacing. I did heaps of pacing and Mom and I made many phone calls back and forth to each other. First, Mother told me she was okay and did not need me there. Then...other phone calls came in from my Mom's friends urging me to get my butt to Australia. Later, my Mom rang me again and very shyly asked if I could fly over. Always wanting to be strong, Mom wanted to deal with this on her own, but realized it was far too much. Plus, I wanted and needed to see my Mom, too.
Delay after delay after delay. I was a mess travelling. There was a snow storm in Northern California and unbeknownst to me the Delta Atlanta flight I was on was going to be decidedly late into San Francisco. I could not believe it. Now I never care what happens travelling because most times you find a way around or through any issue. Not this time. I was livid and about to come out of my skin. I wanted to get to Mom as soon as I could, but it felt like forces were keeping me from her. It felt personal. The airport looked deserted when I arrived. I did not have the much needed boarding pass to get on my San Fran flight to Adelaide and guess what? The reservation desk was CLOSED. Lights off. NO one there. I convinced a security agent to let me go down to the gate because the boarding sign was flashing repeatedly. He escorted me, but he was very aggressive and was not happy with me. I get to the gate. I rush to the boarding area and as I approached the plane door closed. I screamed. Well, even though this was the year 2000 you still do not yell at an airport. I'm not dramatic. I promise. I am emotional. But, I do not want to bring unwanted attention to myself. Simply I had reached my point. I dropped to my knees and wailed. I had let my Mother down again. Gheeeez-friggin'-Louise. Agents came running towards me and scooped me and my belongings up in their arms. I shared my story of sadness. They listened. I was given a hotel room and boarding passes to return early the next morning and when I did I was taken to the executive lounge. I think the airline wanted to keep me away from the rest of their passengers. I was placed in a sweet, dark corner. All I could do was breathe and nod my head.
Upon reaching the other side, in Adelaide's airport, I saw a sun tanned man with blonde hair standing in reception with my name on a sign. There had been no communication on how I would get to my sister's home which was over an hour away from Adelaide in Allendale North. Again, I didn't really care how I got there as long as I was with my Mother soon. This wonderful man happened to be American and I remember thinking that Australians sounded just like Americans. Ha. They do not. I was very sleep deprived and in a constant adrenalin rush. Anyway, this person knew my sister very well and we had a nice, long trip ahead of us which was filled with good and funny stories about my sister. By the time we got all the way to Kapunda, my new friend stopped at the funeral home and sheepishly asked if I would like to go in and see Constance. I did not sense this question coming. He was awkward. I was feeling strange and he told me, 'Hold on a minute, I want to go in and speak with the funeral director first.' When he hopped back in the car he said, 'Pat, I'm so sorry, but Constance has already been cremated.' I did not miss a beat. I needed to feel ANY way other than the way I/we were feeling so, I stared straight ahead and asked, 'Well, do you think they could put her back together this one time for me?' I swear. I didn't dare look to my right; kept still as long as possible, but...I could not let the silence go on any longer. I turned my head to look at him in his eyes and he just looked down with his shoulders rising up and down, laughing. Then he said, 'I swear you are SO much like your sister.' We were fine for the rest of the very short way we had to travel.
After a long, difficult, and sensitive journey we pull up to my sister's home. I looked around and felt like I was on another planet. I'm not sure why. I had seen Australian landscape before. Yes, it was pretty, but everything felt really foreign and raw this time. Plus, jet lag does a number on your brain. And, then...there was this guy. There was this man whom had a wiry, well-tanned body, dark sunglasses on and some sort of a shirt...if you could call it a shirt...this skimpy thing that was covering his shoulders and he instantaneously appeared at my side of the car. He had this very fine, naturally blonde hair, too, that was so shaggy. He opened my door and sort of bent over, making this swooping motion, as if he was taking a bow, then made a gesture with his arms towards the front door of the house. Perhaps he could not speak, I mumbled to myself. Then, he spoke. But, no...I did not get a word he said because his lips never moved when he spoke. Genius. How does HE do that? We're going to get along famously because I can't understand one friggin' word he says. Sunglasses or not, I felt his eyes upon me. Door opens. My Mother appears before me and we hug for a very - long - time.
The man's name is Marcus.
Marcus (to be known as Tinto in the future unbeknownst to him!) makes us tea. And more tea, and more tea, and more tea. He is continuously putting the kettle on the stove. In Australia, whether you are sad, celebrating, dealing with a problem, a loss of a great love, a loss of an animal, moving home, divorcing, marrying...you get it: ONE PUTS ON THE KETTLE. It is the English/Australian way of living or rather surviving.
Marcus became indispensable. I mean that man was ahead of the game in all aspects. He made tea. He made arrangements. He looked after my Mother as I have never seen anyone look after my Mother. Perhaps that is when I first fell in love with him. It must have been. Because he never took those dark glasses off and I still could not understand the language he was speaking. He did not have a loud bone in his body. He sure could make a cuppa.
Neighbours began making an appearance. Still, today, I remain friends with some of these people. They did not know my Mamma or me or my sister, Constance, for Constance had only recently moved from Port Adelaide to Allendale North, so she was a new community member, too. That fact stopped no one. Casseroles, condolences, cakes = 'CCC' every single day. The memories I have are the sweetest. These people only knew that some (strange, grieving) women were hurting by the loss of a very significantly talented, bright, intelligent, and beautifully gifted (and beautiful) woman and the neighbours wanted to console us any way possible. They soothed the minutes, the hours, and the days away. What does one do in situations like this without the kindness of strangers? People shining. Humans at their very best.
Funeral director came by. Visitor after visitor appeared. Copious amounts of tea were served by the man named Marcus. Silently, he moved swiftly behind the scenes always appearing when he was needed and out of sight when privacy was warranted. I was only aware of the fact that things were getting done, but I did not know how that was to be. It was THE man.
The strangest thing happened every single day; Mom and I were going through Constance's personal belongings, gasping at grand photos and art projects she had been privileged to design, but every book or album or object we picked up had objects fall out of them. What objects, you may ask? Well, notes and coins and coins and notes. I'm not talking about a little money. There were heaps of $100.00 notes and $50.00 notes and lesser amounts, but money was hidden in the tiniest and strangest of places. My Mother had on a hat with a fly net (as you do in South Australia) and sat at Constance's kitchen table with stacks of notes and coins piled up in front of her. Mom looked like a gangster from a mafia movie! It was baffling - completely mind-boggling. YES, my sister paid her taxes. One of her dearest mates said that Constance worked for the thrill of making art and she never wanted her art to be about money, so she would take the money she earned and put it away to 'think' about later. Well, Mom and I gave away quite a few things and we ran out of time; no moments left to go shifting through everything. I am certain Constance's 'things' people received made them very happy. Constanza, as she referred to herself, would have approved. Marcus stood by and watched smirking.
Marcus had been building the grooviest art studio for my sister at the time of her death. It stands today on her property which has been sold...twice. He used to tell me that he would walk into her sitting room and notes would be strewn all over the floor. Constance told him that no one should be tied to money. It should not be all that important. My sister. What a gal.
Days went by like molasses flowing. It must have been a couple of weeks. I truly do not know. When the funeral director appeared at Constance's front door with an object in his hand...I had no idea at the time what it was. He stepped inside the door and announced he was bringing my sister home. Well, I had been holding down the fort for my Mother and putting on a brave face - my best face. But, this visit with the urn in the funeral director's hands...put me over the edge. I ran through the back door...straight into my sister's paddock where she kept her horses, sat in the middle of the tall, dry grass and cried like a baby. I got as far away from the house as I was able to run. Reality set in. My sister, my only sibling, was gone. My Mother would never be the same; she never completely recovered. I understood. Have no clue how long I had been out there, but...there was a gentle touch on my shoulder. I looked up. It was Marcus. He said, 'Come with me. There is someplace I want to take you and I think you need to go.' I didn't say I word. I tried to wipe my face; I stood up. He grabbed my hand and walked me through the long, wispy grass in the front paddock across the simple dirt road.
We went up some steps and Marcus pushed open a door. It was dark, yet cool. It was perhaps the darkest and dingiest place I had ever entered. A big, blonde Scottish woman greeted us with a wide smile. It took my eyes quite a few minutes to adjust. Marcus asked me what I liked to drink. I said, 'Scotch.' The woman and Marcus looked at each other. Marcus told her Constance was my sister. And...this publican went into some funny stories she had about Constance. I wasn't really listening. I know she was making an attempt to make me feel better. She reached for a whiskey glass, put it in front of her mouth and blew all the dust out of it before she poured the scotch. Yes, that's right; that's what she did. But, I will say ~ that was the BEST damn drink I ever had in my entire life. It was served at the right time, too. That particular drink saved me for the day. The pub was called The Wheatsheaf. Little did we know...
I saw Marcus with new eyes and I was able to enter my sister's home with a calm head and finish the things I needed to accomplish with my Mother.
Marcus would appear every morning and stay with us as long as we needed. He did the grocery shopping for us. He began to ask me if I would like to run errands with him. It felt good to get out of the house. He had 2 very small children at the time that he brought over and it was lovely to meet them. They brought a new energy into the home. His oldest daughter came out for Constance's celebration of life service, too. Listening to Constance's friends speak of her and tell how they met her and how much they enjoyed working with her was the best gift that could have been given to my Mother and to me.
Yes, my sister's death was deeply saddening, yet wonderful moments and magnificent people presented themselves to us and one, gentle, noisy, messy, talented man by the name of Marcus changed my life forever...and for the better. Out of darkness...came the light.
Posted with LOVE and tenderness on this very special day.
Blanco, proudly married to Tinto of The Roaming Stevens.
I remain enormously thrilled that Tinto invited me to join his world which is now...ours.
The 7th of April is our 17th wedding anniversary and it's thrilling, humbling, fabulous, outstanding, and brilliant that Tinto and I have been through so many severe and daunting changes yet we are stronger than ever.
That is what makes a marriage - a good marriage - the ability to change and adapt to new and sometimes scary situations. Each of us had to do some bending...like a big, strong tree...or we would have cracked into pieces.
Whenever I meet someone new or in everyday conversation, I am always asked how Tinto and I met. My pat answer: 'Well, that's a very long story and involves a bottle of French Champagne and YOU'RE buying.' We have a good giggle then I am pushed to make the story smaller because they really want to know. I don't know HOW to make the story short. That capacity, that angle is not in my genetic makeup. Seriously.
So, I'll commit this story to paper. In 2000...remember...the Millennium? Computers were supposed to stop, people were predicting the world would end and crazy stuff was happening all over the planet. The media was hyping up the turn of the century and you could almost feel electricity in the air. Some people were truly scared. Others excited. A few, perhaps, didn't really care either way. I cared. I thought it was absolutely enchanting and well worth the effort of a good celebration - large or small. I knew I would never see a century change again!
My dear Mother rang me from Memphis and announced she was going to travel to Australia to visit my only sister, Constance, for sixty (60) days. Got that? Count it. 60 days. I said, 'No, Mom; we are flying you to Atlanta and you're going to spend the Millennium with us. We'll go to the club, there will be a big, live band, an enormous, glamorous ice sculpture, cocktails, fine food and we'll bring in the century the right way.' I distinctly remember this entire conversation. My Mom said, 'No, Pat, perhaps you didn't hear me. I have already purchased my ticket and I am flying to be with Constance.' The tone of her voice was more like: 'Get over it. You're a big girl now.' Well, damn, I was pissed and I mean really pissed off and jealous on top of it. I wanted Mom to feel like a true queen for an evening and although I had been making plans in my head I had never actually invited her to Atlanta...yet. But, now, it was clearly too late. I remember feeling red-faced, shocked, and stunned. And, once again, left out of the picture. It is true. Always and forever I was jealous of the time my older sister and Mom got together; I wanted so badly to be a part of their private conversations. Little sister syndrome stuff, you know?
Mom flew away. I was in the middle of a break up with an extremely distinctive man whom I shall always appreciate, but I knew in my heart of hearts I would never love him the right way and it was not fair to him for me to stay. It felt wicked. I had come to depend on this man...he was my safe haven. He was a huge, looming sort of a guy with a shaved head, really tall, super smile, and extremely intimidating (to others) - gentle as a lovable dog, but no one sensed that when they met him; no one. We had been broken up for a while yet he insisted that I live in the upstairs portion of his home until I got myself sorted with a new flat. That gesture was more than kind. He called me 'Precious Patti' and had me featured on the top part of his arm in a black and gray tattoo. Yep. Yes, he did. Unbelievable.
Like yesterday, I remember I was upstairs packing and sorting personal things and I heard these lumbering, loud steps coming up the stairway and the steps sounded rushed. 'Precious Patti, Precious Patti...it's your sweet Mother on the phone and I think you need to take this now.' Something was wrong with his voice and his eyes looked strange - nothing I had ever seen before. He grabbed my hand, held the phone tightly in his while I was reaching for it and he said, 'No, Precious Patti; I want you to sit down on the steps first.' Well, now I was completely unsure of what was happening. My Mother was ringing me from Australia. Her voice was weak and she said, 'Oh, Pat, Constance was in a car accident.' I swallowed and asked her if Constance was okay. Mom could not speak. I don't remember the exact next words, but I finally got, 'No, no she is not. She's been killed.' Well, words can be absolutely shocking to a system. Words can feel like a punch in the gut or a kick in the head. I could not think.
I knew at that moment that my Mother had been exactly where she needed to be on this earth and at the right time. Never was I more pleased that Mom was in Australia instead of the States.
When I began to gather my senses I remember, too, feeling forever grateful that my Mom had not been in my sister's Jackaroo (which is like a Cherokee jeep). IF Mom had been travelling with my sister; no doubt, I would have lost both of these amazing women.
Shock sets in as it always does with an emergency and adrenalin revs up the system, too. Pacing. I did heaps of pacing and Mom and I made many phone calls back and forth to each other. First, Mother told me she was okay and did not need me there. Then...other phone calls came in from my Mom's friends urging me to get my butt to Australia. Later, my Mom rang me again and very shyly asked if I could fly over. Always wanting to be strong, Mom wanted to deal with this on her own, but realized it was far too much. Plus, I wanted and needed to see my Mom, too.
Delay after delay after delay. I was a mess travelling. There was a snow storm in Northern California and unbeknownst to me the Delta Atlanta flight I was on was going to be decidedly late into San Francisco. I could not believe it. Now I never care what happens travelling because most times you find a way around or through any issue. Not this time. I was livid and about to come out of my skin. I wanted to get to Mom as soon as I could, but it felt like forces were keeping me from her. It felt personal. The airport looked deserted when I arrived. I did not have the much needed boarding pass to get on my San Fran flight to Adelaide and guess what? The reservation desk was CLOSED. Lights off. NO one there. I convinced a security agent to let me go down to the gate because the boarding sign was flashing repeatedly. He escorted me, but he was very aggressive and was not happy with me. I get to the gate. I rush to the boarding area and as I approached the plane door closed. I screamed. Well, even though this was the year 2000 you still do not yell at an airport. I'm not dramatic. I promise. I am emotional. But, I do not want to bring unwanted attention to myself. Simply I had reached my point. I dropped to my knees and wailed. I had let my Mother down again. Gheeeez-friggin'-Louise. Agents came running towards me and scooped me and my belongings up in their arms. I shared my story of sadness. They listened. I was given a hotel room and boarding passes to return early the next morning and when I did I was taken to the executive lounge. I think the airline wanted to keep me away from the rest of their passengers. I was placed in a sweet, dark corner. All I could do was breathe and nod my head.
Upon reaching the other side, in Adelaide's airport, I saw a sun tanned man with blonde hair standing in reception with my name on a sign. There had been no communication on how I would get to my sister's home which was over an hour away from Adelaide in Allendale North. Again, I didn't really care how I got there as long as I was with my Mother soon. This wonderful man happened to be American and I remember thinking that Australians sounded just like Americans. Ha. They do not. I was very sleep deprived and in a constant adrenalin rush. Anyway, this person knew my sister very well and we had a nice, long trip ahead of us which was filled with good and funny stories about my sister. By the time we got all the way to Kapunda, my new friend stopped at the funeral home and sheepishly asked if I would like to go in and see Constance. I did not sense this question coming. He was awkward. I was feeling strange and he told me, 'Hold on a minute, I want to go in and speak with the funeral director first.' When he hopped back in the car he said, 'Pat, I'm so sorry, but Constance has already been cremated.' I did not miss a beat. I needed to feel ANY way other than the way I/we were feeling so, I stared straight ahead and asked, 'Well, do you think they could put her back together this one time for me?' I swear. I didn't dare look to my right; kept still as long as possible, but...I could not let the silence go on any longer. I turned my head to look at him in his eyes and he just looked down with his shoulders rising up and down, laughing. Then he said, 'I swear you are SO much like your sister.' We were fine for the rest of the very short way we had to travel.
After a long, difficult, and sensitive journey we pull up to my sister's home. I looked around and felt like I was on another planet. I'm not sure why. I had seen Australian landscape before. Yes, it was pretty, but everything felt really foreign and raw this time. Plus, jet lag does a number on your brain. And, then...there was this guy. There was this man whom had a wiry, well-tanned body, dark sunglasses on and some sort of a shirt...if you could call it a shirt...this skimpy thing that was covering his shoulders and he instantaneously appeared at my side of the car. He had this very fine, naturally blonde hair, too, that was so shaggy. He opened my door and sort of bent over, making this swooping motion, as if he was taking a bow, then made a gesture with his arms towards the front door of the house. Perhaps he could not speak, I mumbled to myself. Then, he spoke. But, no...I did not get a word he said because his lips never moved when he spoke. Genius. How does HE do that? We're going to get along famously because I can't understand one friggin' word he says. Sunglasses or not, I felt his eyes upon me. Door opens. My Mother appears before me and we hug for a very - long - time.
The man's name is Marcus.
Marcus (to be known as Tinto in the future unbeknownst to him!) makes us tea. And more tea, and more tea, and more tea. He is continuously putting the kettle on the stove. In Australia, whether you are sad, celebrating, dealing with a problem, a loss of a great love, a loss of an animal, moving home, divorcing, marrying...you get it: ONE PUTS ON THE KETTLE. It is the English/Australian way of living or rather surviving.
Marcus became indispensable. I mean that man was ahead of the game in all aspects. He made tea. He made arrangements. He looked after my Mother as I have never seen anyone look after my Mother. Perhaps that is when I first fell in love with him. It must have been. Because he never took those dark glasses off and I still could not understand the language he was speaking. He did not have a loud bone in his body. He sure could make a cuppa.
Neighbours began making an appearance. Still, today, I remain friends with some of these people. They did not know my Mamma or me or my sister, Constance, for Constance had only recently moved from Port Adelaide to Allendale North, so she was a new community member, too. That fact stopped no one. Casseroles, condolences, cakes = 'CCC' every single day. The memories I have are the sweetest. These people only knew that some (strange, grieving) women were hurting by the loss of a very significantly talented, bright, intelligent, and beautifully gifted (and beautiful) woman and the neighbours wanted to console us any way possible. They soothed the minutes, the hours, and the days away. What does one do in situations like this without the kindness of strangers? People shining. Humans at their very best.
Funeral director came by. Visitor after visitor appeared. Copious amounts of tea were served by the man named Marcus. Silently, he moved swiftly behind the scenes always appearing when he was needed and out of sight when privacy was warranted. I was only aware of the fact that things were getting done, but I did not know how that was to be. It was THE man.
The strangest thing happened every single day; Mom and I were going through Constance's personal belongings, gasping at grand photos and art projects she had been privileged to design, but every book or album or object we picked up had objects fall out of them. What objects, you may ask? Well, notes and coins and coins and notes. I'm not talking about a little money. There were heaps of $100.00 notes and $50.00 notes and lesser amounts, but money was hidden in the tiniest and strangest of places. My Mother had on a hat with a fly net (as you do in South Australia) and sat at Constance's kitchen table with stacks of notes and coins piled up in front of her. Mom looked like a gangster from a mafia movie! It was baffling - completely mind-boggling. YES, my sister paid her taxes. One of her dearest mates said that Constance worked for the thrill of making art and she never wanted her art to be about money, so she would take the money she earned and put it away to 'think' about later. Well, Mom and I gave away quite a few things and we ran out of time; no moments left to go shifting through everything. I am certain Constance's 'things' people received made them very happy. Constanza, as she referred to herself, would have approved. Marcus stood by and watched smirking.
Marcus had been building the grooviest art studio for my sister at the time of her death. It stands today on her property which has been sold...twice. He used to tell me that he would walk into her sitting room and notes would be strewn all over the floor. Constance told him that no one should be tied to money. It should not be all that important. My sister. What a gal.
Days went by like molasses flowing. It must have been a couple of weeks. I truly do not know. When the funeral director appeared at Constance's front door with an object in his hand...I had no idea at the time what it was. He stepped inside the door and announced he was bringing my sister home. Well, I had been holding down the fort for my Mother and putting on a brave face - my best face. But, this visit with the urn in the funeral director's hands...put me over the edge. I ran through the back door...straight into my sister's paddock where she kept her horses, sat in the middle of the tall, dry grass and cried like a baby. I got as far away from the house as I was able to run. Reality set in. My sister, my only sibling, was gone. My Mother would never be the same; she never completely recovered. I understood. Have no clue how long I had been out there, but...there was a gentle touch on my shoulder. I looked up. It was Marcus. He said, 'Come with me. There is someplace I want to take you and I think you need to go.' I didn't say I word. I tried to wipe my face; I stood up. He grabbed my hand and walked me through the long, wispy grass in the front paddock across the simple dirt road.
We went up some steps and Marcus pushed open a door. It was dark, yet cool. It was perhaps the darkest and dingiest place I had ever entered. A big, blonde Scottish woman greeted us with a wide smile. It took my eyes quite a few minutes to adjust. Marcus asked me what I liked to drink. I said, 'Scotch.' The woman and Marcus looked at each other. Marcus told her Constance was my sister. And...this publican went into some funny stories she had about Constance. I wasn't really listening. I know she was making an attempt to make me feel better. She reached for a whiskey glass, put it in front of her mouth and blew all the dust out of it before she poured the scotch. Yes, that's right; that's what she did. But, I will say ~ that was the BEST damn drink I ever had in my entire life. It was served at the right time, too. That particular drink saved me for the day. The pub was called The Wheatsheaf. Little did we know...
I saw Marcus with new eyes and I was able to enter my sister's home with a calm head and finish the things I needed to accomplish with my Mother.
Marcus would appear every morning and stay with us as long as we needed. He did the grocery shopping for us. He began to ask me if I would like to run errands with him. It felt good to get out of the house. He had 2 very small children at the time that he brought over and it was lovely to meet them. They brought a new energy into the home. His oldest daughter came out for Constance's celebration of life service, too. Listening to Constance's friends speak of her and tell how they met her and how much they enjoyed working with her was the best gift that could have been given to my Mother and to me.
Yes, my sister's death was deeply saddening, yet wonderful moments and magnificent people presented themselves to us and one, gentle, noisy, messy, talented man by the name of Marcus changed my life forever...and for the better. Out of darkness...came the light.
Posted with LOVE and tenderness on this very special day.
Blanco, proudly married to Tinto of The Roaming Stevens.
I remain enormously thrilled that Tinto invited me to join his world which is now...ours.
'What the world needs now...is love, sweet love. That's the only thing that
there's just too little of.'
there's just too little of.'
WHO sang that song?
Dear, precious, beautiful Pat....I read this blog with tears streaming down my face. Your recollection of that extremely difficult time was heartbreaking and raw. I remember it all so well and talked to your mom in depth when she returned to work. Judy was an incredibly private person but she allowed me in and shared some of her deepest feelings. I remember us holding hands and crying together. It all seemed so surreal. She was so grateful that you came to Australia to face the insurmountable grief together....she would not have made it through without you. And she talked in depth about Marcus and his kindness, strength and support. He was truly a godsend for you both. Thank you for sharing this heartbreaking story of Constance’s death and its impact on your life. And thank you for continuing to share your beautiful love story with Marcus....your knight in shining armor...your savior. Without a doubt, I believe Constance and Judy (and your other dear family members) are smiling down on you and Marcus every day. Sending big love and hugs to you from me.
ReplyDeleteSuzanne Dangerfield
Oh, Suzanne, THANK YOU. I suppose after all these years...the emotions are still raw. It was a dreadful time in our lives, but...something wonderful came out of the pain. Marcus and I share a special connection. He has been my rock and I have been his, but we manage very well separately, too - not something we are eager to attempt again. Sending hugs and BIG LOVE your way. Blanco xox
DeleteYes very difficult year ! I had trouble reading this ... losing constance was difficult but losing my brother 2 months later was even more difficult ! Both still feel as though they were yesterday !!!! Such talent and my brother .. I love and miss them both very much!! But yes granny was where she needed to be.. And you did meet Marcus during one of the most difficult times a family could go through .. Happy Anniversary to you both 💋
ReplyDeleteYes, my love. I know. Could not bring myself to write about Cory this year. I want to honour him, too ~ will do so in the future when I know it is the right time. Isn't it strange how SO MANY YEARS have gone by yet the pain always feel recent? I miss them both incredibly, too. YOU are my STAR. Sending heaps of love and hugs. xox
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