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Ode: An unexpected gift

Sara Culley
Ally Karsyn

For the longest the time, I thought my mother didn’t like me very much.

Of course, she loved me in the obligatory ways. She fed me, bathed me and read to me every night. But the tension between us started early. One of our first fights unfolded in our kitchen when I was around 4 years old. I was standing there with my hands on my hips, telling Mom that I was a cowboy, not a cowgirl. I lost the fight.

Mom grew up during the Depression. When the Dust Bowl rolled through her family’s cattle ranch in western Kansas, she remained every inch of a lady—even under all that dirt. She was tall, blonde, thin and brilliant.  During her college years, she was on the dean’s list every semester, president of her sorority and the homecoming queen.

I, on the other hand, threw a fit any time I had to wear a dress. When I started first grade, it took the will and strength of both my parents to get me ready for school. If memory serves me right, they promised me a new pony if I’d just put on that dress. All I wanted was to be was a cowgirl, wearing boots and jeans.

It seemed like this was not what my mother wanted for me. And she went to great lengths to steer me in another direction. When I was old enough to sign up for 4-H, she single-handedly started a Girl Scout troop in our small town in Kansas. Of course, the uniform was a dress. But I guess I did learn some valuable skills in Girl Scouts like how to build a campfire, tie a square knot and make s’mores.

But really, I just wanted to show my horse, Joey, at the county fair. I never became a 4-Her.

My mother’s second line of defense against my Wild West fantasies was enrolling me in the International Order of the Rainbow for Girls, a Masonic youth service and leadership organization. This meant wearing dresses and pantyhose. All the way through high school, they did their best to hammer home things like public speaking, responsibility and, much to my distress, poise.

Despite my mother’s efforts to make me more like her, I developed a serious drug and alcohol problem.  I went to treatment when I was 24.

Part of the program was family week. Loved ones were asked to write down instances of how the alcoholic’s behaviors had affected them. My mother came with a notebook. But she also came with a carton of cigarettes, even though she hated the fact that I smoked.

I would need the nicotine to take the edge off of what she had to say.

In excruciating detail, she recalled my drunken endeavors—from hanging out with the local biker gang to falling down, drunk, during the marching band’s homecoming performance when I nearly swallowed my piccolo. At this time my Dad was the president of one the banks in our small rural community and I had embarrassed my parents.

In the early stages of recovery, I was ready to address the elephant in the room—my adoption and predisposition for addiction and how my Dad accidentally run over me with the truck when I was 4 years old. These things were all related.

But we never talked about it—any of it—and Mom wanted to keep it that way.

Instead of talking, after I got sober, she began buying me clothes, lots and lots of clothes. When I talked to her on the phone, she would ask, “How are your clothes?” And I’d say, “Do you want to ask them yourself? I can take the phone to the closet.” Friends told me that buying clothes was her way of showing love.

Many years later, when my Dad got sick, I began calling every day.  At first, she talked about Dad, but slowly, it became a connection for us. Of course, we found things to argue about. There were still hang ups, and at times, I would still get too close to things that she didn’t want to talk about.  

The accident was off-limits.

All I knew was that I had been severely injured, and episodes of PTSD affected all areas of my life. I pressed Mom for more information. But by asking, I had no idea what I was putting her through. She had to remember the painful hours of waiting to see if I was going to live or die.

I couldn’t blame her for not wanting to talk about it. After all, I used to drink my fears away. Because of my affinity for alcohol,I flunked out of college four times and it was only after sobriety I was able to combine my credits and finish my English degree at Morningside College.  I went to law school in my early 40s and made my mother proud.

Instead of practicing law, I took a job at the barn where I boarded my horses.  I loved getting back to the ranch, to my roots. I told my mom about it, and she scoffed, “After all that education, you work in a barn!”

I told her, “I’m happy. I love doing chores and taking care of these horses. Besides, I can read them poetry or the latest Supreme Court cases. After all, I am a cowgirl.”

Around this same time, my Dad passed away, and Mom decided to downsize. She moved into an apartment and of course it had to be professionally decorated. I happened to be in Kansas and went with her to the design studio. That’s when I saw it: a beautiful painting of a working cowgirl—not a fringy, fluffy cowgirl—but a rugged cowgirl, out on the range, on her horse.I was in love with this painting. Mom saw the painting, and she saw me looking at it.

Her plan for the rest of the day was to embark on another epic shopping spree. When she was finished talking to the decorator, I said to her, “Mom, if you really want to buy me something, that painting…”  

She stomped out of the studio. She got in the car, handed me the keys and said, “Drive home.” She didn’t speak to me for the next 60 minutes. I had crossed a line by asking for the painting. I went back home to Iowa, and we never spoke of that painting again.

As my mom got older and needed more help, I was grateful when my older brother moved back to Kansas. We had gotten along fine while we were growing up but as time had passed our relationship had deteriorated.  

He had remarried and had two grown sons and he decided he no longer wanted me included in family gatherings. Mom was caught in the middle. I got angry at her for not standing up to him. Most of our daily calls at that time consisted of me bashing my brother, until a very good friend of mine told me to stop it, grow up and realize that he was her son, and she could not confront him.  I know she was afraid he would not come over and take care of things for her anymore. It made me sad that I had put her in this situation.  I did my best to make amends.  

 

Our calls returned to normal. We’d talk about  gossip around the hometown, my job at the barn and we avoided the topic of my brother.  

On Christmas Day in 2010, I called Mom. I told her that I had been working in the barn and how I loved being with the horses especially on Christmas. I told her that I was going to have dinner with friends and then go home to be with my cats and dogs.

She told me that she was going to Omaha with my brother and his wife to meet my nephews. They were going to have Christmas together.  I was not to be included in this gathering. My brother didn’t want me to know about it so I wouldn’t drive down. Mom was upset with my brother. At this point, I know my higher power took over. Instead of letting my hurt show through, I was able to tell her to enjoy Christmas with her grandsons. I would be fine. I had my recovery family here.

She mentioned she had a Christmas gift for me and she would give it to me the next time I came home. Our talk didn’t have any arguments or fights about cowboys and cowgirls or my brother, even though it would have been easy to go there. Instead, I told her about my horse Fancy. One of the last things she said to me was, “I had a horse.” And I said, “I remember Mom. You told me his name was Friday.”

Two days later, Mom had a massive stroke. She had a do-not-resuscitate order in place. On December 29th, my 27th sobriety birthday, I went to be with her. It was just the two of us in the hospital room. I was holding her hand when she passed away, very quietly, very dignified, just like the lady she was.

I went back to Kansas two weeks later to pack up her apartment and there it was: the last Christmas gift from my mother.

It was perfectly wrapped in silver paper with a blue ribbon and a bow, and I knew what it was before I opened it.

It was the painting.

 

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Ode is a storytelling series where community members tell true stories on stage to promote positive impact through empathy. It’s produced by Siouxland Public Media.

We’ll be hosting Ode’s 2nd Anniversary Show on Friday, February 2.

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