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Mother at Cherry Point

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My mother was fun-loving and energetic with an appreciation for dance. She met my father while he was stationed at Cherry Point. They frequently strolled through the lush valley and gently sloping hills. Soon, they were swept up in a whirlwind love affair.

Father, stalwart and striking in his Marine Class-A uniform, would remove his jacket, wrapping it around mother’s shoulders to shield her from the encroaching evening breeze. Mother said his love, while quiet in its presentation, immersed her like the confluence of many rivers.

Acquainting himself with many renowned chefs along the East Coast, he took great delight in carefully planning delectable meals to expand my mother’s palette. The inveigled passion of mother’s love for art and dance provoked father’s heart to enjoy plays, shows, theater, opera, and ballet. With the war ending, my father married my mother, bringing her home to reside with him in Virginia. Oddly upon arrival, mom asserts she observed a dramatic change in dad.

Hyde or Jekyll

Once home, my mother described my father as Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde because he began mistreating her. Dad treated her like gold before the marriage, but after, he was rigid and exceptionally jealous. My mother blamed the neighborhood gossip line—always making a mountain out of a mow hill. The look of accusing eyes if she merely spoke to any man other than father. The banter of whispers as she walked by. She didn’t mind. She was used to it. She was a showstopper, and nothing would stop her flow.

“I love my fun,” mother would say.

Mother wanted the relationship to remain the same as when father competed with other men to win her affection. But he was no longer courting her. He had won, and she was now his wife. He loved hard, but his love turned callous.

Shortly after settling in Virginia, she became pregnant with my brother, Garrett Jr. A few days after my brother’s birth, my father was re-deployed. Completing his enlistment, a year later, he returned home.

Home At Last

Father wrote a letter to alert Mother of his arrival, but military mail is slower than the pony express. Father dropped his duffle bag at the door and slumped into his favorite chair. Weary from fighting, images of home sweet home swirled in his mind like a ballet of white swans. The house was quiet. Peace. Finally. No bugles blaring the morning reveille. No calls to formation. No bomb blasts or weapons fire, just peace.

When my mother rose to find him home, his shocked expression withheld a warm reunion.

“You …you pregnant?” “How?”
But before she could reply...
"“No way. How the hell? You’re getting rid of it.”
“I’m not. I am having this baby.”
“You will or I will — you choose!” he said.
“I am having this baby!” she shouted.
“Not in my house.” Then, grabbing her by the arm to drag her toward the door. “You whore. We gonna go to that clinic where they know how to take care of things like this.”

“Mother jerked away from him.

“He pulled out his service weapon. Drew back the hammer. The cold metal clicked—one, two, three, four times—unleashing a reverberating, whip-like crack.

“She was shot in the stomach by the bullet intended to terminate the pregnancy. Intended to end me.

“He left. Was seen walking down the street, drinking a carton of milk.

“She lay bleeding. Holding her stomach, thinking that would somehow protect the child.”

“Houses in the neighborhood were close. So, neighbors heard the heated exchange and gunshot. They rushed her to a nearby hospital, where they induced labor,

Meanwhile, a bulletin was issued for Dad’s arrest. The charge was attempted murder. He later turned himself in.

“And this is where my beginnings start.”
“What a tragic beginning,” said the man.”