growing pains

according to WebMD, 'growing pains are a rite of passage, a sign of growing up[,]' and the term refers to discomfort (sometimes severe) felt by children between the ages of 3 and 7, 'triggered when bones grow, stretching the bone's thick covering.' (full article here) i'm not entirely convinced of the whole 'between the ages of 3 and 7' thing, as i experienced those types of pains through adolescence, but that's neither here nor there.  the operative words in that definition are 'rite of passage,' and 'triggered when bones grow.'

i hated growing pains when i was younger - puberty is difficult enough without being subjected to random, often-excruciating pains in one's legs that is capable of waking one from deep REM sleep, or that is severe enough to cause one to lose concentration during a physics exam.  granted, i emerged from these years as the tallest woman (and, depending who you ask, the tallest person) in my family, so it turned out all right.  the fact is, though, that it took a long time to get to this point.  i think the most insidious aspect of growing pains is that you never know when they'll hit, how long the pain will last, or even where the pain comes from.  also, the pains were sneaky: they never occurred as a result of a particular activity, and i never knew what was going to hurt; the ultimate insult, though, was that my brain blocked them out so i wasn't ready for them.  each new occurrence struck me from the blind side, as if i'd never experienced them before, and so i was helpless to prepare my body and mind for what was to come.

on May 22, my beloved Aunt Connie departed this world after a brief, but bitter, struggle with a serious illness, and the day my mom gave me the news that she was gone, i was shattered.  how could this be, when Aunt Connie was still so young (only a year older than my own mom)? when she still had so much to give to the world, and asked so little in return?  when i, having learned so much from her over the years, am clearly still in need of her singular brand of guidance ('three lefts make a right, unless you're talking about feet')?  in many ways, the sense of betrayal i felt was eerily similar to those growing pains, and just as unwelcome.  i realize, of course, that death is a part of life, albeit a confusing and intrusive part, and that we must all succumb to it at many points over the course of a lifetime - loved ones and friends pass away, goldfish go belly up, and even pets that seemed immortal by sole virtue of their dedicated awesomeness leave us, presumably to serve and protect others in need - much like an adolescent's intermittent bouts with those pesky growing pains, but it always takes us by surprise, and the pain associated with each loss seems foreign and steeped in the injustice of having growth forced on us in such an offensive manner.

my first recollection of Aunt Connie involved Christmas, coffee (for the adults, not me), and her dog Benji. i remember Benji being much bigger than he actually was, likely due to the fact that i was only 3 or 4 at the time.  there was also atticus, a black cat roughly the size of Mother Russia and with an attitude to match.  over the years, Aunt Connie and i developed a special bond as the only members of our respective families blessed with sinistromanuality (that's being a 'lefty,' in the vernacular), and she taught me everything i know about playing the guitar.  among my cherished memories: trips to Dairy Queen with Aunt Connie on those occasions (less frequent for me than for Sandy) when we made the honor roll at school; gathering at the Hessville Restaurant for birthday dinners; Christmas open houses when Aunt Connie would stay long after the other guests had gone home, chatting with my sister and me and playing the Christmas Game; and crafting a makeshift hatchet out of corrugated cardboard and aluminum foil to embed in one of her favorite birthday treats, the 'Lincoln Log' that my mom baked especially for Aunt Connie one year (she shared a birthday with Abe Lincoln).  Aunt Connie was one of the first people i remember seeing after i got my first stitches (in the forehead, as a result of a nasty fight with a fencegate - i lost), and later, when my dog Mac bit my lip - requiring me to have the right side of my mouth taped shut for two weeks, during which i drank Instant Breakfast and Jell-O through a straw - Aunt Connie assured me that the wide, starched medical tape was 'hardly noticeable.' when we left hammond to return to TN, Aunt Connie wasn't far behind, having purchased her house on Clearwater Drive, where she lived for more than 20 years with her mother.

when i was a teenager, i would go to Aunt Connie's house to mow the front and back yards for her, for which i was paid in 'cold hard cash' ($15 in the form of a $10-bill and $5-bill stashed in the freezer for at least two hours prior to my arrival to ensure its 'cold hard' state).  after i was done, my mom and i would visit with Aunt Connie and Grandma Bonnie until it was bedtime (for mom) or until i could no longer stand my own stench and had to take a shower.  at the time of those visits, i wasn't aware of how precious they were, and sometimes i would indulge in an internal monologue (while mowing) about how i hated it, particularly because the back yard had a subtle grade in it that made it look *much* smaller than actual size.  now, i would give anything to be back in Aunt Connie's kitchen, covered in grass stains and drinking sweet tea, enjoying the summer evening and listening to 'the adults' reminisce about anything and everything.

the last time Aunt Connie heard me perform was at my junior recital in college - i cannot remember ever being so nervous (before or since), but when i finished, it was difficult to tell whether she or my mom yelled louder or clapped harder. afterward, when we went to dinner as a group, i told Aunt Connie that the school had made a CD recording of the recital, and she practically begged to listen to it on the way to the restaurant.  i can still see with perfect clarity the pride in her eyes when i gave her a copy of that recording for Christmas that year, along with a note thanking her for her incredible contribution to turning me into the musician i had become.  as i read this post, i'm not surprised to discover that most of the memories i've recounted involve gifts Aunt Connie shared with those around her while never asking anything in return.  this, it seems, was her greatest talent: to give so much of herself, with incredible profligacy, while placing her own problems/needs/hardships firmly in the backseat, or neatly dismissing them with a clever epigram ('i'm so poor i can't even pay attention'). 

Aunt Connie, whether it was creme de menthe cake, the elusive perfect guitar chord to complete a song, help with my French translations in college, or just her signature peal of laughter over the phone, you had such a gift for knowing just what i needed, and you were so very generous in obliging.  in reflecting on the too-short time i had with you, i can only hope and pray that i was able to give back to you, in some small measure, the love, support, and unending #1-fan-ness you poured out on me. as with growing pains, the unwelcome feelings of loss and grief i've been carrying since your departure will fade, and the keen edge of your absence will dull with the passage of time.  i can say without hesitation that your legacy of selflessness, wit, and music - oh, what music - will remain as bright and fresh in my heart as the green of Ireland glowed in your eyes.  may your welcome in heaven reflect our heartfelt gratefulness at having lived in the wake of our very own Irish Tempest.

Remembered Joy 

 

Don't grieve for me, for now I'm free!
I follow the plan God laid for me.
I saw His face, I heard His call,
I took His hand and left it all...
I could not stay another day,
To love, to laugh, to work or play;
Tasks left undone must stay that way.
And if my parting has left a void,
Then fill it with remembered joy.
A friendship shared, a laugh, a kiss...
Ah yes, these things I, too, shall miss.
My life's been full, I've savoured much:
Good times, good friends, a loved-one's touch.
Perhaps my time seemed all too brief—
Don't shorten yours with undue grief.
Be not burdened with tears of sorrow,
Enjoy the sunshine of the morrow.

In memoriam - Connie Lynn Bolinger (February 12, 1953 - May 22, 2011)