Note from Cathy:

Tomorrow is publication day for my debut novel, That Which Binds Us. It’s thrilling and scary and there are a hundred thousand things yet to be done, so it’s not surprising that I woke up really early this morning with an intention to Get Right To It. Yet for some reason I decided, instead, to take a minute to look back to the time I started the novel (12 years ago!) to see what I was doing and thinking and writing about then, which of course is captured via The Daily Grace. I don’t know how I can be astounded by what I discovered, and still I am. For context, my historical fiction novel takes place in the Appalachian Mountains of Southwest Virginia, in the area where I grew up. My ancestors on my mother’s side go back there seven generations, and in recent interviews to promote the book I have found myself explaining to folks how strongly I have felt the presence of the women in that maternal line, from my mother, to my grandmother, to my great-grandmother, and on and on; how they have guided me in the research and writing of this novel; how I know the women are with me as I step into the new space of my book (our book!) being out in the world.

Below is the post I shared on October 13, 2013—eighteen days before I put pen to paper and wrote the opening lines of That Which Binds Us. To which I can now only say: of course.

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originally published on The Daily Grace on October 13, 2013

Gunga’s Ring

This is Gunga’s ring. It goes to you when I die.

It is something my mother said to me at least a thousand times over the course of her life, each time pointing to the antique diamond ring she wore on her right hand, a ring that had belonged to her grandmother, a ring Mom wore every day.

I know, Mom, I know I said a thousand times in return, rolling my eyes at her need to reiterate.

I know.

And here I am now, eight months after that cold winter day we laid my mother to rest. It has taken some time—I know it always does—to address the endless details in the settling of her affairs. Thanks to my devoted brother, William, Mom’s every request is being honored. As of Thursday night, Gunga’s ring is on my right hand.

I am surprised at the weight of this transfer of ring from Gunga to La-La to Mom to me. It carries with it a strange mix of emotions, from comfort and connection to deep deep sadness—a mixed bag I shared with my husband this afternoon as we took a quiet moment to talk about the week’s events. He listened generously, but in the mere telling of the story I realized something of significance: The grief is intensely private when a daughter loses her mother. 

Nevertheless, a few minutes later he walked through the living room and stopped to put his arms around me.

It makes it so real that she is gone I said, my eyes filling with tears. It makes me so sad.

He looked at me and smiled.

Well, at least she didn’t have to suffer through that awful football game last night*, he said.

I couldn’t help but laugh. Mom and Dad were there for every game during my four years at Clemson, a magical time capped off with a national championship my senior year. How we hoped for a repeat this year, with the beautiful and unlikely parallel 31 years later for Eliza, now in her junior year at Clemson—my daughter, Mom’s granddaughter, La-La’s great-granddaughter, Gunga’s great-great-granddaughter.

And then I laughed again, knowing exactly how likely it is that the next time I see my sweet girl, I will point to my right hand and say emphatically:

This is Gunga’s ring. It goes to you ….

 

Mom and me, 1995

*Florida State over my beloved Clemson Tigers 51-14. **

(**That football memory is not so fun to revisit.)

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