MOUNTAIN MAGIC with Ann Hite

A Half Is Part Of A Whole

When one is writing a column about mountain magic and one is not sure there is any magic in the story, one trusts the mountains to show her the way. 

What is a half of a whole? This should be self-explanatory. If I look at one of Granny’s buttermilk pies she made when folks were coming to visit, I totally understand the math. But if I look at a label such as, half-sister or half-brother, the water becomes murky for me. 

My granny’s best friend as a child was her “half” brother, Obar. His mother was the only mama Granny knew from the age of six until she was an adult. I knew Bell. Her real name was Isabelle, which didn’t fit the overweight, housebound woman I visited as a child. Later as an adult, I could envision what Isabelle looked like when she came to live with Granny two weeks after her mother, Asalee, died tragically. Obar was Granny’s age, meaning she and Obar’s father, Henry Lee, kept two families hidden or not from the two wives in his life. 

All my life I thought of Obar as Granny’s full-blood brother. I was raised to believe this because to Granny and Obar, they were brother and sister. Only as an adult did I learn the truth.

***

Imagine how I felt, the questions I had, when my mother and dad explained to me at the age of six in a couple of short sentences that I had a half-sister and brother much older than me. My questions were never permitted. I would later understand my parents were protecting me. I was the cherished daughter from an affair that ended Dad’s first marriage. My existence as a sister to my two siblings was doomed before I was born, tangled in resentment and heartache. I was sentenced to be half, not quite what it took to be included. 

One can’t take half of a buttermilk pie to a family reunion, when the tables are filled with untouched homemade desserts. 

As a grown woman, with grown children of my own, I was fortunate to have several phone conversations with my sister.  During one of these talks, my sister told me of my mother and father’s affair. How it caused a divorce and heartbreak to her family. I was unaware of the affair at that time because Mom and Dad never told this part of the story. But, as soon as I heard her words, I knew it was true. So many things from the past were explained. Questions answered. 

Dear Readers, we never truly hide stories from children. They are so smart and always know something is off. The lie or secret rides in the sweet clean air. Just waiting for someone to catch on to them.

My sister went on to tell me, while she saw I loved my dad with all my heart, she did not call him her father, so bitter was her heart. She removed herself from any outreach that he made toward her. Talking to me was painful for her because it revealed all she had missed when he left her family. My existence was proof she could be replaced. I made the decision, not lightly, to walk away. She died three years later without us having spoken again. Not every ending is happy. 

I never met my older brother. Part of me always believed I would. That some miracle would allow us to get to know each other. I held this hope close to my heart. I had spoken with him once when our dad died. I was given the task to make a phone call to him in the middle of the night. I was twenty-nine and he was forty. We had a two-minute conversation. “Dad died an hour ago.” I don’t remember what he said to me because I was reeling from the loss. 

Neither my sister nor my brother came to the funeral. No one expected them to. 

***

When Obar would come to visit Granny at her house, it seemed the two became much younger, joking and laughing. He always pulled out his guitar and played. He was a quiet soft-spoken man, who possessed the best smile. When Bell died, it was Granny who helped Obar arrange her funeral and paid for her headstone. How had these half-siblings become so close? Was it because they were raised together from six on? Was it because they were expected to be brother and sister? Maybe it was because there were no secrets about how they ended up in the same house together. The truth was given to them when the need became evident. 

I am old school and believe in the definition that says truth is facts of what happened. Today we see truth as fluid that shift changes from one person to another. Both definitions have their valid strong points. 

***

When this column is published my brother’s celebration of life will be a few days in the past. How can a half-sister, who only spoke with her brother for two minutes feel such sorrow? Yet, I do. Upon his death, I learned he was an avid Florida Gators fan. That the photo of him wearing his Gators jersey looked just like my dad. So much so I cried. And there was the fact he loved to fish, spent time hanging out with his buddies at a bait and tackle shop. Dad lived to run his trout lines each morning after he retired. I have memories of him taking me fishing, telling me I had to be quiet so I didn’t frighten the fish away. My first lesson in listening to the world around me. 

Where is the mountain magic in this story, Dear Readers? 

I was at a loss to see it, to understand that I would never really know my brother and sister. That I would always be half, not quite enough. 

I sat with this for days before adding the end to this column. But mountain magic always reveals itself. It always wins. 

Dear Readers, to have a whole, you must have two halves. What happened to make me a half-sister had nothing to do with me. My sister and brother had no part in the actions and decisions that were made. And most of all those that did have a part were being the best people they could be. Judgment never works and only causes more pain and sorrow. Forgiveness and acceptance are the key ingredients in mountain magic. It’s the knowhow, the trust. And only then can a half become a whole. 

Dear Readers, become whole. It is a choice we all can make. Find that mountain magic.