{"id":766,"date":"2021-01-17T10:56:09","date_gmt":"2021-01-17T15:56:09","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/sites.cortland.edu\/crystallize\/?page_id=766"},"modified":"2021-02-01T12:16:30","modified_gmt":"2021-02-01T17:16:30","slug":"regan-ralston","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/sites.cortland.edu\/crystallize\/regan-ralston\/","title":{"rendered":"Regan Ralston"},"content":{"rendered":"

Distinguished Voices in Literature Fiction Contest Winner<\/span><\/h3>\n

 <\/p>\n

Death in Four Parts<\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n

Part I: L<\/span><\/span>ast Meal<\/span><\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n

The last time I saw my\u00a0Mamaw\u00a0alive was eight Thanksgivings ago, I was\u00a0only seventeen then. She was in\u00a0her claustrophobic\u00a0kitchen,\u00a0stirring a rusted metal boiler full of sauerkraut and ham hock. She stirred in a trance, her gaze digging into the wall as if her eyes wished to burrow there for the winter.\u00a0Ghosts must\u00a0often frighten themselves,\u00a0when they\u00a0attempt speaking to the living.\u00a0I imagine\u00a0there is\u00a0a\u00a0feeling of isolate horror as their words bounce unacknowledged by the haunted.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHey\u00a0Mamaw, Happy Thanksgiving.\u201d\u00a0Bounce, bounce, bounce.\u00a0My\u00a0voice\u00a0ricochets right\u00a0back into my chest\u00a0like a shot,\u00a0leaving\u00a0my lungs burning.\u00a0Quivering.\u00a0Mamaw\u00a0keeps\u00a0stirring, her eyes begin to build\u00a0a\u00a0nest among the wilted yellow wallpaper.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

The word\u00a0shun<\/i>\u00a0isn\u2019t something you hear often, no colloquial\u00a0relevance. It recalls narratives such as\u00a0The Crucible,\u00a0<\/i>materializing\u00a0images\u00a0of pious\u00a0zeal. Nevertheless,\u00a0it was in my\u00a0Mamaw\u2019s\u00a0dingy kitchen, that I realized I\u2019d been thoroughly and certainly shunned.\u00a0The pungent sour smell of\u00a0German cooking wafted with a slight hint of mildewed honeysuckle. It must have been her perfume I smelled. For someone who loved gardening, it\u2019s a wonder she tolerated the fragrance which held not even a hint of green.\u00a0<\/span>
\n\u00a0<\/span>
\nMamaw\u00a0wasn\u2019t the only one who treated my sisters and I like the\u00a0Invisible Man<\/i>\u00a0that icy November day. My aunts and uncles were\u00a0at our grandparent\u2019s house,\u00a0all the\u00a0cousins too.\u00a0The rooms were\u00a0full to busting\u00a0with\u00a0familial\u00a0blood. Maybe that\u2019s why the silence still echoes in my mind,\u00a0I\u2019d\u00a0always thought blood thicker than water.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Perhaps\u00a0I had died on the car ride over, my soul traversing to one final warm meal. Maybe this was why my\u00a0words were lost on the\u00a0living.\u00a0I\u00a0could have believed the\u00a0fiction,\u00a0when presented with such a surrealist\u00a0reality.\u00a0But\u00a0I wasn\u2019t alone in this strange curse: the\u00a0shunning<\/i>. My sisters were\u00a0with me,\u00a0Emily\u00a0was almost\u00a0fifteen\u00a0and little\u00a0Gretchen\u00a0only\u00a0eight. I remember the feeling of warmth that spread through my bones as my sisters and I\u00a0plotted\u00a0hurriedly in\u00a0a cramped\u00a0hallway: \u201cWe need to\u00a0leave.\u201d\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

It was only as\u00a0we drove away\u00a0in my clunky black car,\u00a0premature and with empty bellies,\u00a0that the horror of this new social status began to sink in.\u00a0We stopped by a McDonalds on the way home, sipping\u00a0chalky\u00a0consolation milkshakes as we tearfully greeted our mother; there was knowing in her eyes.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Part II:\u00a0<\/b>Mother Dear<\/b>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

My mother\u00a0parceled out information like a geyser spewing hot lava form the earth: seldom and explosively. I learned the truth about my grandmother the same week that Mom finally agreed to help me buy birth control pills. It was my freshman year at university, I sat in the dimly lit stairwell of\u00a0Teter\u00a0Hall\u2019s dormitory to take her phone call. I remember lowering my voice as various\u00a0passerbys\u00a0made their way up and down the concrete paths.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span>
\n\u00a0<\/span>
\n\u201cHer therapist diagnosed her with borderline personality disorder, though that was years ago when she still took her\u00a0prescriptions.\u201d My Mom was oddly calm, usually the topic brought out the hysterics; rivers of hot tears staining both our faces. I wonder when Mamaw died in my Mother\u2019s mind, how many years before the actual passing?\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI need you to know it\u2019s not your fault, you\u00a0understand\u00a0that don\u2019t you?\u201d The guilt was overwhelming for my Mom.\u00a0After years of accepting the vitriol of her toxic mother, we were ironically set free by\u00a0the shunning<\/i>.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cShe wasn\u2019t always like this, but it just got worse as she got older. There were a lot of times growing up where it was hard to be home.\u201d\u00a0It\u2019s odd to learn that your parent was abused, somehow your roles are reversed in the\u00a0moment. Should I comfort my Mother?\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

To realize your childhood\u00a0drastically\u00a0altered from that of your parent,\u00a0creates a kind of descended guilt. Sometimes I think about this at night, when I can\u2019t sleep. There are so many things passed down from parent to child, not just eye color and dimpled noses \u2013 attached or unattached earlobes.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Part III:\u00a0<\/b>Reunited<\/b>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

My\u00a0mom hadn\u2019t seen her father in five years, it was unsettling to watch the way they stood next to each other at the funeral. Dressed in black, two sentinels framed by a canopy of the drabbest flower arrangements money could buy. My grandmother would have loathed this affair, her last words are rumored to have been \u201cdon\u2019t hold a funeral, I don\u2019t want them there.\u201d Her\u00a0shunning<\/i>\u00a0was meant to last from beyond the grave. People tend to fast forget their scruples\u00a0when they\u2019re standing around\u00a0your\u00a0burnt-up\u00a0ashes\u00a0sipping tepid punch. All my aunts and uncles\u00a0joined my mom at the\u00a0funeral parlor,\u00a0four\u00a0in total; even the hotshot\u00a0engineer who ran away to California.\u00a0He drove\u00a0his jet blue Camaro\u00a0all the way\u00a0to Indiana\u00a0in winter. His youngest son\u00a0Trevor\u00a0never even met Mamaw; the closest he got was crawling on all fours near the \u201cin\u00a0memorium\u201d placard with her photo \u2013 nearly fifty years dated.\u00a0Turns out we were all shunned in the end, some just got the boot sooner than others.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

The only time I cried that day was when my grandfather hugged my mother, the first step towards a labyrinth of atonement. Mostly, I just remember the cold. I drove in from New York, a ten-hour pilgrimage through the worst snowstorm November\u2019s seen in years. My\u00a0sisters\u00a0and I dressed for the funeral by candlelight, ice had knocked out the city\u2019s power. Something ancient and dark lurked in the corners as I zipped my black dress. The skirt fell in a way which made me jump, like someone had caressed my leg.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s a fitting farewell,\u201d I told\u00a0my sisters as we\u00a0trudged out to the car, a united front. When we entered the funeral parlor, everyone looked up and began to move our way. A\u00a0crescendo\u00a0of voices and cooing sentimentality.\u00a0This was to be a very different kind of Thanksgiving.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Part\u00a0<\/b>I<\/b>V:<\/b>\u00a0The Wake<\/b>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Last weekend I baked dumplings from scratch, my husband asked where I got the recipe.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span>
\n\u201cI just winged it.\u201d\u00a0It wasn\u2019t until the words were leaving my tongue that I\u00a0realized\u00a0it\u00a0wasn\u2019t my own creation. Long term memory has a funny way of hewing bits and pieces of a life together, these dumplings were from\u00a0Mamaw\u2019s recipe. I inked it down\u00a0as \u201cOld Fashioned Dumplings\u201d in my cookbook \u2013\u00a0origin unknown. That\u2019s not really a lie.\u00a0A person\u2019s life isn\u2019t as simply understood as oil\u00a0to\u00a0water, or measures of morality. Half a cup care, half a cup venom, and a pinch of despair.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

When I dream of Mamaw, we\u2019re always in that dark and greasy kitchen. Sometimes it\u00a0actually smells\u00a0like home. She\u2019s always stirring that big metal boiler, slick black like a cauldron in my mind. Some spells are stronger than those who cast them, they live on like a ripple in dark water.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

“Death in Four Parts” is an evocative meditation on inheritance and family. In rich, surprising language, the narrator traces the ways a family member can be lost before they die, and can persist in unexpected ways long after death. Unforgettable details–like the smell of mildewed honeysuckle, or the feeling of dressing in the candlelit dark–gradually coalesce to reveal the haunting at this story’s heart.<\/i><\/strong><\/p>\n

-contest judge, Emily Fridlund.\u00a0<\/em><\/strong><\/p><\/blockquote>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n

\"\"Regan<\/span>\u00a0Ralston<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0is currently pursuing her Master of Arts in Teaching at SUNY Cortland with a focus on English Language Arts. Prior to graduate studies, she received a Bachelor of Arts in English from Indiana University, Bloomington. Outside of class,\u00a0Regan<\/span>\u00a0works as a graduate assistant for the English Department and the Writing Center.<\/p>\n

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Home<\/a><\/strong><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Distinguished Voices in Literature Fiction Contest Winner   Death in Four Parts Part I: Last Meal\u00a0 The last time I saw my\u00a0Mamaw\u00a0alive was eight Thanksgivings ago, I was\u00a0only seventeen then. She was in\u00a0her claustrophobic\u00a0kitchen,\u00a0stirring a rusted metal boiler full of sauerkraut and ham hock. She stirred in a trance, her gaze digging into the wall […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":130,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"_exactmetrics_skip_tracking":false,"_exactmetrics_sitenote_active":false,"_exactmetrics_sitenote_note":"","_exactmetrics_sitenote_category":0,"_genesis_hide_title":false,"_genesis_hide_breadcrumbs":false,"_genesis_hide_singular_image":false,"_genesis_hide_footer_widgets":false,"_genesis_custom_body_class":"","_genesis_custom_post_class":"","_genesis_layout":"","footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-766","page","type-page","status-publish","entry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/sites.cortland.edu\/crystallize\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/766","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/sites.cortland.edu\/crystallize\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/sites.cortland.edu\/crystallize\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/sites.cortland.edu\/crystallize\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/130"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/sites.cortland.edu\/crystallize\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=766"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/sites.cortland.edu\/crystallize\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/766\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/sites.cortland.edu\/crystallize\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=766"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}