Kathleen Varn's Blog, page 3

Peace Out, Chaz

I owned the most gentle and eager to please mutt, Chaz. Back story: I am not a dog person—I’m a cat girl! Chaz migrated from my ex-husband’s home to my home sometime early 2000s. Eventually, my son graduated high school and Chaz remained in our home. My husband did the walking, feeding, playing and even showers with him once a week. I did potty duty during the day but it was on a leash and only as long as it took to get the deed done.

Chaz melted the heart of anyone who visited our home; we had out-of-town friends that would drive to Charleston just to pet sit. My husband slipped snacks into his morning breakfast. Chaz wants for nothing.

Since my childhood, I’ve always sensed I could feel people and animal energy. When I heard there was an animal communicator holding sessions, I had to sign up. I brought Chaz.

We waited for her to ask, “What does your pet want more of, and what does your pet want less of?” But, out of the gate, my dog wouldn’t let Barbara get a word in edgewise. She looked at me, smiled and said, “Chaz won’t let me speak. He insists that he has to let you know why he is in your life.”

I stared at Barbara, waiting on Chaz’s message. “He says the reason he is in your life is because you needed something gentle.”

True, the atmosphere of my earlier  young adult life was far from peaceful or gentle.  Wow!

“Let me ask him what he wants more of….”

I sat quietly.

“He says he doesn’t want anything. He says he has everything he needs. He is a happy dog.” Wow!

“Let me ask him what he wants less of…. Again, he says he is happy. His home is very peaceful.”

I looked at them both and said, “I can’t believe he didn’t talk about his showers with my husband.”

Barbara looked at Chaz and mentioned my husband’s name. She started laughing and relayed, “He said that he loves Steve because he takes him on really long walks and lets him run.” Guilty as charged!

On September 22, 2015, our wonderful 15 year old dog passed. He was always eager to please and pushed his old man body farther against high levels of pain. In spite of the deep emotional hole we are coping with, being a pet owner with a lovely dependent, there is responsibility on both sides of the coin. Good times and hard times. We cannot refuse to ignore issues involving any loved one because it is emotionally difficult. So, as I read on a sympathy card: When someone you love becomes a memory, the memory becomes a treasure. Thank you, Chaz, for a treasure chest of memory gems.

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Where were you when…?

In the five decades I have lived and experienced, there is a common question among all generations…. Where were you when….? Pearl Harbor, Hiroshima? I am a baby boomer but I was not alive during the Great Depression or the Great Wars. My first deep childhood memory was the assassination my President, John F. Kennedy.

Looking back from my kindergarten eyes, I didn’t totally understand what had happened when sent home early from our school day. A couple days later, I watched my mother staring at our black and white t.v. in her ironing room as I quietly leaned against the doorway. The sobriety of his casket being pulled by a team of horses was eerily quiet. I’ll always remember where I was on November 23, 1963 and November 25, 1963. However, as I climb the ladder of seniority, there have been many new questions of “Where were you…?”

Where were you when Martin Luther King, Bobby Kennedy, John Lennon or, more recently, Michael Jackson, died? Where were you when you heard/saw the devastation of the tsunami, or Hurricane Katrina?

However, with another anniversary of September 11, 2001 approaching, I’m sure almost all generations can answer, “Where were you on 9-11, when planes were hijacked and used as weapons of terrorism?”

I have friends, as many of us do, that were in New York during the tragedy and have told their sobering experiences. I was in Charleston watching it when I arrived to my office observing the attorneys surrounding a little black and white television. The violation of taking innocent lives to promote terrorist agendas, and on the soil of a democratic country that has always been a melting pot of various ethnicity, slowly boiled as the situation deepened.

My soul was deeply disturbed as people forced themselves to jump from buildings, collapsing towers took not only the employees but firefighters. Eventually, we learn of the sacrifice of the passengers trying to prevent the last aircraft from making another devastating stain on September 11…

I cannot imagine what this day represents to the actual victims and survivors of the event directly. All I can tell you is this: No one who perished was labeled as an ethnic American… they were Americans.

Unfortunately, I feel our nation is being torn apart internally by younger weapon-wielding terrorists. Trendy hashtags seem to be as much damage to the #blacklives matter, #whitelivesmatter or #copslivesmatter divisions. I live in Charleston where nine AME church members were recently killed and am proud of how our city stayed glued together.

I’m sure we all have a “where were you when…?” moment in our lives. My hope is that we find the sensibility to honor our Declaration of Independence’s essence: life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, regardless of what that happiness entails, assuming it does not abridge the unalienable rights of others.

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Bride’s School: Yes, That was a Thing!

Some of you know, some of you don’t—I’m working on another story. A story inspired from my book coach (Shari Stauch of Where Writers Win) as I plowed through my first novel, Ameera Unveiled. She suggested I consider writing a modern Little Women tale on growing up as baby boomer Navy dependent.

We discussed telling this story from the eyes of little girls on the brink of many technological disadvantages and advances. We’ve noticed that in my writing, whether it is a book idea or a drive-by blog, I love to unveil things. So now I’m trying to unveil being part of the Old Navy. I’m seeking to see this story from the eyes of the young boys and eventually their wives and children. It was a time that was complicated with a lack of consistent communication and political paranoia, inherited from the Great Wars and overshadowed by nuclear weapons.

For several years, I’ve been reading, writing, and discovering the voice of my step-father’s peers. I yearned to embody the brotherhood and voice of the men who shaped my preparation to enter the community as a well rounded adult. Well, in my perception, being well rounded from men that I looked up to; I had no idea the adult issues they had waded through socially, politically and economically. Let alone as husbands and wives.

While I researched the time my step-father spent as a young seaman during the Cold War in Subic Bay, I discovered an unusual fact. I was amazed but will leave this one on the editor’s floor since it doesn’t factor into my character’s story.

As I surfed YouTube for a clip for my next scene, I stumbled across an old black and white video of Filipina fiancés of Subic Bay American sailors. The Navy embraced and enrolled legitimate fiancés to move on the base to a dormitory, learn and write English, take home economics, and graduate with an understanding of how to handle the budget of a Navy man.

I’m sure it provided moral support to the young guys trying to focus on their military tasks. Hopefully, the fiancé was a good graduate.

As I have integrated into the Tin Can Sailor groups, I’ve met many couples that did marry Filipina women who have a genuine love for being American. They don’t segregate and are so friendly and hospitable. You can see the love between the couple as they exchange stories.

I found it refreshing the US Navy had the forethought to assist in the balance of educating one culture to assimilate into another…

 

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#IamCaitlyn

While I was diving in Roatan, I’d check my email for news from home. Unfortunately, one morning I opened my iPad and saw a horrific picture of a dog with her muzzle taped, preventing her from eating, barking or drinking. She was immediately taken to an emergency veterinarian center to be treated; they named her Caitlyn. The situation got global attention. Some may say… it’s just a dog. But it goes deeper…

When Caitlyn was domesticated and as a puppy put under the wing of a human caretaker, she became dependent on that human. She needed to be safe and cared for. A dog owner is the pack leader. Training and care is in the hands of the owner. Instead, Caitlyn was given feet of electrical tape. Something inconvenienced this man and his dog.

A fundraiser for her surgical bills was held at Republic on King Street. Between the cast of Southern Charm and hundreds of locals battling a late afternoon thunderstorm,  I watched a community pull together. Not just for a dog, but against cruelty.

There is a petition to pass a law holding anyone that is caught placing an innocent animal in such a horrific state to face serious consequences. If someone can mistreat or harm an animal, where does it stop? A child or elderly relative dependent on them?

I’m not sure what is mis-wired in individuals that abuse or harm others. It breaks my heart to hear a mother in Walmart insult and ridicule a child. Slaps on the back of the head for being annoying or inconvenient. We hear of neglected or victimized children every day. If the motive of being a parent is anything but being the leader and healthy caretaker, don’t become a parent. Don’t become the owner of a pet that relies on you. Hopefully, Caitlyn’s happy childhood begins now.

 

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I Love Time Travel with a Tin Can Sailor

As an avid reader since my tiny hands could carry a book, the adventures created by authors such as Eleanor Cameron kept me turning pages and living in alternate realities. Building rocket ships in hidden caves off the beach, taking on the challenge of Gandolff and Frodo or just wanting to find and perfect The Secret Garden…

Now, as an aspiring storyteller, I look back in my mind and realize I’m constantly in a Time Machine… my life line. The memories have been created through the journey of being a Hall girl, finding stories in the souls of those that crossed paths, either through the pages of books or my family’s journeys.

Working on my second novel, I have had the privilege of riding in a Time Machine as I meet and listen to the tales of Tin Can Sailors. This is the happy result of researching for a new book based on fathers serving in the US Navy. This weekend was a particularly special one for me. I spent the weekend with a shipmate and his wife who served with my late step-father in the Vietnam War, aboard the USS L. F Mason. Little did we know that in 1963, Jerry would be sent to the destroyer while she was in FRAM at the Boston Shipyard. My stepfather was already assigned to Damage Control and Jerry was a Radioman. Daddy was in the bowels of the ship and referred to as a Snipe. Jerry served at the top of the boat and was referred to as Sparky. Although they had no personal ties as friends, they were brothers on The Grey Hounds of the sea. Boys whom the Navy transformed from high school through boot camp to utilize their natural abilities.

Jerry’s story is very special to me. He will soon be celebrating his 50th wedding anniversary. Last summer, he wrote an article with the assistance of his wife that was published in a quarterly newspaper, The Tin Can Sailor. The detail and humor he shared with his national Tin Can Sailor audience coincided with my stepfather’s orders. The article was given to me as I was creating the male characters of my project. We’ve been chatting once a month or so regarding his story. He started playing with the idea of bringing his wife to Charleston to show her what it was like to be on a destroyer. Between my life as a dancer, writer, mother, wife and scuba diver… we finally coordinated a vacation.

One of the situations I was not aware of – Jerry is dealing with Alzheimers. I would have never known from his lucidity on the phone. It pulled a string in my heart and I knew I needed to preserve his voice for his family. His wife is lovingly attentive and never condescending. I hired a good friend, Leroy Mazyck, to film his stories as we explored the USS Laffey. Jerry provided me with 8mm films from the deck of the USS L. F. Mason. He brought a Ziploc bag full of photos from boot camp, liberty calls and other miscellaneous incidents. I’m now filled with memories, too…

As I left them at the airport, I drove away and thanked him for his service. Tears welled in my eyes as I went back into his time. His memories and reactions flowed from the sights and smells of Patriots Point. He said he finally got his welcome home after he was discharged from his service. He was abandoned by his Command on the shores of Manila. Through the problem solving skills he’d developed all those years, he eventually got himself 9,000 miles home.

I can’t wait to chop and splice the words and pictures of my friend, Jerry. His vulnerability, honesty and beautiful laugh will not be lost. Thank you US Navy Tin Can Sailors for bringing such amazing men to the lives of wives, children and communities.

Were you blessed to have an amazing family member or friend to share memories of American history with you? Share with your comment below!

 

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What are you peddling?

For the past few weeks, there seems to be an employment surge on the corners of major intersections in my city. By no means do I think it is a new concept. But, this group seems to be as organized as the CEO of a van of kids dropped off to canvas neighborhoods selling magazine subscriptions. I don’t see any signs of homeless veterans, but mostly young adults drinking Dunkin’ Doughnuts coffee and changing shifts with another peer sitting under an overpass.

I guess my beef is that I see “Now Hiring” signs in business windows up and down my suburb’s highways. I was not a privileged young adult that was able to go to college. However, the work ethic that my parents raised me with failed to allow myself to indulge in the idea that I would ever get rich quick. I worked fast food, the Piggly Wiggly deli and eventually into law offices to earn the title of Legal Assistant for a prominent attorney.

Yes, I worked for food. I improved my living conditions at a tortoise pace. Nothing happened overnight or was served from a silver spoon. My children didn’t have every gimmick or name brand fashion.

I can’t imagine that choosing to hold a sign at the side of a highway pays more than minimum wage at a department store or restaurant. I am not judging their choice to participate in a group peddling scam, but I guess it plucks a sour note. As the younger son in the Bible’s Prodical Son story, I tend to resent being the dutiful worker bee. The one that sends a check to the government and doesn’t sit and wait for one. As hard as it is to stop from rolling down my window and share the fruits of my labor, I feel I am enabling slothful mentality. As my friend, Jacqueline Gum, says…. Where’s the Justice? 

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Facing fears? What’s a little spilt milk…

“The fear of change can keep you from walking into some of the greatest things life offers. Don’t be afraid to let go of things and people that aren’t making you a better person. Life is too short!” ― Buky Ojelabi

The above quote is a beautiful capsule of encouragement to embrace personal growth. But for anyone who has made it part of their lifestyle, the ability to see what to let go of is a complicated job.

When I decided to write Ameera Unveiled, I knew it would revolve around my protagonist facing her fear. A fear that eventually revealed underlying prongs of insecurities… prickly fears we universally experience… 

I didn’t choose the family tree I was born into. My ancestors’ lives are part of the superhighway I will become part of while fulfilling my destiny. Global and spiritual footprints contribute to my ability to sift the good, bad and the ugly. When do I choose fight or flight instincts? When do I choose peace over going to war?

As the product of a Navy family career childhood during the ‘60s and 70’s, I still find myself discovering influences that impact my own life. As I research and interview military veterans and their stories, it has solidified my belief system. In spite of people in your life that aren’t making you a better person, they are an influence.

Being the oldest, I was the first to go to school. I left my social network of sisters to figure out how to navigate a new social environment. My first school lunch memory is seared on my brain still because of how nervous I was trying to open the little bottle of milk. My mom wasn’t there to show me how, or do it for me. She’d taught me to tie my shoes, brush my teeth, and respect my elders… but this was a challenge I was wholly unprepared for. And yes, I was scared.

There I was among a group of strangers, trying to cope with a little bottle of milk with a foil pull tab. If I didn’t remove it correctly, I knew it could result in a spill, all eyes on me… maybe even snickers from my peers. Pretending not to watch, I tried to see how my classmates were dealing with their own little milk bottles.

My shaky little hands reached for the tab and pulled. The tiny wet bottle slid sideways and spilled milk all over my lunch tray. The self prophecy manifested itself.

I remember the embarrassment as my teacher reassured me it was not a big deal. She removed the lunch tray and returned with a new slate. With a graceful and reassuring voice, she showed me how to open that little bottle of milk.

As I would move past that seemingly small circumstance of having to face an unknown, I look back and see it is not the size of unknowns. It is facing the fear, in spite of the possibility of failure, evaluating fight or flight.

Even as a kindergartener, my ego said run. In the long term, I would have to open many little bottles of milk. If I failed? It was only spilt milk and a few giggles from insensitive classmates.

There are so many coping lessons I learned and moved on from at that lunch table. As I’ve aged, little milk bottles became bigger unknowns and greater fears; navigating marriage, parenthood, divorce and career paths. And I’ve realized that I cannot simplify how to know when to choose fight or flight, peace or war… So, like the rest of us, I take it as it comes, still sometimes afraid of the unknown, but willing to face my fears with the help of family and friends and the cathartic release of words onto a blank white page…

What was one of your milk bottle moments? 

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Christmas Traditions

We are in the last ten days of Christmas countdown. I see blogs, Facebook posts and other personalized media expressions of Christmas traditions. But to be politically correct (which I resent having to qualify such a simple term), it is understood that it reaches across the lines of many faiths and traditions. I look back into my own Christmas experiences and recall things that saturated my five decades of Christmas. One of my new adult favorites? Taking my Big Ass Santa wine glass off the top shelf!

My child memories are based in the 60’s and 70’s. Christmas trees ranged from aluminum with the spinning light to various green versions. Home made cookies and ornaments from elementary school were consistent. In spite of the majority of my childhood was Southern, I did vacation with snow and icicles at my grandparents. But, as southern raised grandchildren, we were the skilled paper snowflake arts and crafters. The faces of the adults when we pinned dozens to the ceiling is still burned in my memory. TV cultivated animated Christmas tales that are staples in generations below me. My husband and I obtained ownership of his mother’s beautiful ceramic tree. Another new addition to my Christmas decor.

But, one of my favorite new traditions, is undusting the Big Ass Santa wine glass and giggling as I imbibe some Chardonnay. My friend, Pattie Welek Hall, had a Christmas drop-in that included a Chinese gift exchange of wine glasses. I made and presented my Redneck wineglasses from Mason jars and Dollar Tree candlesticks. I love a good old Chinese gift exchange. In a nutshell, after I picked my pretty blue swirl wine glass was snagged by a friend’s hubbie…. I got the Big Ass Santa glass. Needless to say, no one tried to steal him. I’m a great lover of puns and believe me, there were plenty as I examined my “prize.” There is definitely a degree of naughtiness that can follow the portion of wine served if you choose to fill Santa to the brim.

However, my memory of that night with friends enjoying nibbles and a gift exchange is still one of the favorites. It was impromptu and who knew I would find such amusement that keeps on giving every December. It may be my private tradition, but sometimes it is little joys that keep our funny bones in tune. Merry Christmas!

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Is There a Halo in Your Life?

Last Saturday night, my hubbie declared it Movie Date Night. Don’t get me wrong– I love date night– but he isn’t the best movie picker. We like to go to a locally owned and managed theater. A glass of chardonnay and some popcorn is my idea of an adult snack bar. So, at 9:00 a.m., we got on his Ipad and picked St. Vincent starring Billy Murray. I didn’t really understand the synopsis of the movie but I knew wine would make it all better, whichever way it fell.

Billy Murray was a beautiful pick for the part of Vincent. He was cranky and flawed. And he still managed to appear bad ass, with a white cat sitting in his lap. The relationship between him and the young boy next door (Oliver) showed how our paths can cross, with all the baggage and jewels from our trials and tribulations, regardless of age or experience. The director did a great job keeping social commentaries tempered with light humor moments. When Oliver presents his oral project at a Catholic school assembly, he hits the bulls eye of the movie’s theme. He exposes the halo over Vincent’s heart shielded by the callous exterior.

Why am I writing about this? Well, it is Christmas time! I’m a believer in allowing the experiences from my life’s journey to co-exist. Whether nature or nurture, I believe all roads lead here. Justice and injustice with layers of life underneath create a hard dissection of one factor. In my soul’s experience, there are very few black and white lines. St. Vincent does a beautiful job of showing just that.

After the movie, I was in the restroom checking my make-up from the tears that had escaped. Other women were discussing their own tears and movie impressions. I asked one of them if she was talking about Bill Murray’s movie. She said yes and added, “it was a little dark.”

“I don’t know,” I said, reaching for the restroom door handle. “I think it was a creative way of showing that life is messy.” I left my comment floating in the restroom and walked out to meet my husband.

I am just a human being who passes through your life with my scars, strengths and vulnerabilities. In spite of surviving childhood wounds, unlikely friendships, social barriers and blessings, I won’t be nominated for St. Kat of Chardonnay. But hopefully I’ll leave more refreshment and encouragement than destruction in my wake. And I strive to reach within to find forgiveness to those who may have left behind negativity. After all, it’s made me dig deeper.

Do you have someone whose halo is worn within their heart?

 

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Her Grandfather’s Gun

I kept the postcard on my desk of this painting by my friend, John Carroll Doyle. It reminded me of the challenges of growing up in a career Navy family. The world lost the presence of John Carroll on November 12, 2014 and his artistic visions. I was not only privileged to be his friend, but he extended many opportunities to drop-in his studio as he painted. Nothing on canvas was placed without conviction and a deeper message. 

 

I am the first born in my family. I can look at the simplicity but complex layers of this young girl. John Carroll’s insight of what inspired him to paint her can’t be said better: “I saw children like this in my youth while hunting with my father in the Carolina lowcountry. Children, who through necessity, were forced to grow up fast.

The girl walks in a mans shoes wearing a pair of heavy boots. Yet under her masculine jacket, the hem of a delicately flowered skirt reveals her femininity. The Bloodhound, a breed favored by royalty or blooded people, symbolically connects the girl to her own noble soul.

The 16-gauge shotgun held by the girl is more than a means to feed her family. It embodies a code of ethics and responsibility handed down through generations.”

I took solace from his message. I pictured my father’s destroyer leaving the pier for months of absence.  I stood watch preserving the family bonds with sisters and a mother keeping the home fires burning. The sixties and seventies were a whirlwind of change. In spite of lack of instant information, we developed resilience and coping skills as we hoped for their safe return. Or not. I lived through the cusp of the women’s movement and managed to be sheltered from some of the more serious social issues.

But, looking back… I see my young girl body in those heavy boots, my father’s Blue Dress Jacket waiting to blossom into the responsible but feminine lover of life. I’ve been blessed to shed the cloak and experience the glitter of belly dance. I wiggle into a lycra wetsuit and seek the beauty of the oceans. Or sometimes, I just wear patchoulli and hippy clothes down at Avondale on a Friday night with hubby and family.

Thank you John Carroll Doyle for seeing the vision of the little girl in her father’s boots when you painted In Her Thoughts. I truly felt the message. I cherish the times we spent together and got into each other’s thoughts. 

 

 

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