Corrie, A Remembrance

June Correll Clancy Galatti
1937-2010

O

n her last day here with us, my sister Corrie was surrounded by those she loved. She had been pretty doped up and for several days unable to speak. Mostly all she could manage was an occasional nod. Or a smile. That incandescent Corrie smile. Words, however, seemed to have left her. But then, when her boys, Jeff, Chris, Greg and Drew, crowded in beside her bed, when they held her and said, "Mom, you know we’re all here with you", something lovely happened.

"I know", she said, as clear as can be. "I know."

She knew. She knew how each of us was there for her. How much we all loved her. She knew how much Stephen cared for her, doted on her, drove her everywhere, cooked for her, sat with her through the long hours. She knew.

I don’t know anything about growing up with brothers, but having a big sister, a beautiful and popular one, who moved through life with such grace, was mysterious and awesome. I did my best, being a boy, to be a brat, but she never complained – did she, Mom? She shared her Nancy Drew books and we listened to radio serials together. And then, the ultimate act of sisterly trust in a kid brother, introduced me to her younger friends. Introduced me to her world. She had so many friends, it amazed me. Girl friends and boy friends. The boys seemed to line up outside the door and down the block. She was that pretty. She was that much fun.

At this point I want to say thank you to her many friends here and in New York, who sat with her during her treatments and buoyed her spirits.

She was a good daughter, although she could be head-strong. Does that surprise anyone? Buffie remembers the time, at age 12, she played hooky from school so she could take a subway into New York City to hear Frank Sinatra at one of the hotels. She loved Sinatra, didn’t she? In the age of rock and roll, it was old Blue Eyes. Oh, Mom, not him again!

Janice Frey, a friend since they were teenagers together in Forest Hills, calls Corrie the quintessential friend, one who always knew the right thing to say, who never pronounced judgment. When things were rough, she projected a constant note of hope. Furthermore, she had a huge sense of fun.

One night Janice’s parents left town and entrusted the house to them. Can you imagine that? A couple of teenage girls? Level-headed, yes, but also fun loving? They had dates or a party to go to, and they spent the afternoon doing the things girls do, laughing, gossiping, making themselves up, shaving their legs. And they left the house in kind of a mess. Getting back around 10:30 that night, they noticed they’d forgotten to lock the door. Oh, my God, I wonder if burglars broke in, they both said, building up to a crescendo of fear. They peered into one of the rooms and it was a mess, just like a break-in had occurred. They called the police, who arrived promptly but didn’t find anything suspicious. Finally, sheepishly, Corrie and Janice realized that it was they, in their hurry to prepare for the party, who had made the mess. Finally, when the police left, Janice remembers, “We hugged each other and rolled on the floor with laughter.”

Corrie loved her boys unconditionally, and protected them with the ferocity of a mother bear. When they came home late at night, she’d always wait up, but never berated them. Maybe it was because she had so much experience coming home late.

She had secret sayings with each of them, terms of endearment. She was a fan of Instant Messaging. Greg’s logo was a little monster, who made special sounds. Bad Monsta. Her character was a duck. Each month, the first thing they’d say to each other, because it meant good luck for the rest of the month, was “Rabbit Rabbit.” Does anybody else do that? One of their inside jokes was the word “Yuck.” “What it basically means is I love you,” Greg says. When her hair fell out he presented her with a soft brush with the word “Yuck” written on it. She was sis to me, and I of course was Bruvie. To many she had recently become Coco. Or, simply, Me.

Corrie was big on tradition. Every Easter, whether there were children or not, she’d boil a dozen eggs and dye them. She’d overdo it every Christmas, as you all know. Even sometimes holding back a present and sneaking it to the intended person when no one else knew. She made felt stockings for the boys with their names on them and stuffed them full of surprises. She and Stephen. Papa, wore Santa caps every year and made the boys wait until all were ready before coming down the stairs. “She knew how it would go perfectly and did all she could to make it that way,” Jeff says. “It was because of her that I was fairly old before I stopped believing in Santa Claus.” She and Steve had another tradition: calling up and singing Happy Birthday. Always off key, of course. Always a little bit like torture – and yet birthdays wouldn’t be the same without it.

Corrie was a grandmother in her early 40s. Instead of ducking this identity, she embraced it. The grandchildren know. All of them. How many are there? And recently, just before her passing, a marvelous gift, she got to see that beautiful great granddaughter, Eva. Everyone on the east coast gathered together at Christmas, but usually on the west coast, Grandma’s visit was in the form of a giant package, with each present individually wrapped. She carried that same love of gifts and children to her store, Heffalumps, in Millbrook, and to her online business, firstgift.com, where everything was presented with flair and style. She was enormously proud of having created that business.

She taught her kids how to love by loving them without reservation. When he was six and living on 72nd Street, Greg was playing superman with Drew, with towels tied around their necks like capes. So they could fly, of course, when they leaped from the top bunk. Superman! Crash! Greg landed wrong and broke his leg. He and Mom rushed to the doctor’s office on 66th and Third where his leg was set and put in a cast. But for some reason they weren’t provided with crutches. By the time they got to 72nd and Third the pain was too much. So Corrie rigged up an amusing contraption. She placed the heel of his cast on her foot and tied their legs together with a belt. They walked three-legged back to the house, laughing all the way. “She was my good leg,” he says.

When they lived in that beautiful cow barn in Millbrook, Drew couldn’t stop racing down the stairs, despite what Corrie kept telling him. And of course, on one breakneck descent, Drew arrived at the landing and the rug slipped out from under him. The crack of his skull on the corner of the banister must have been sickening. Corrie gathered this rule breaker in her arms. You’re going to be OK, she assured him. “Everybody went to a party,” Drew says, “but she stayed home, hugging me close and reading James and the Giant Peach. I’ll always associate that book with her.”

Corrie loved her boys but admitted to them that she always yearned for a girl. Who was going to be called Jennifer. “We were all supposed to be little Jennie,” one of her kids remembers.

After her fourth boy, but knowing she’d reserved the name, I was reluctant to claim it when our second daughter was born and asked for permission. “Yes, the name is yours,” she sighed. But she got the last word, naming her dog Jenny.

In truth, she felt that she was finally blessed with a daughter after she became step-mother to Paula and John.

What we didn’t know about Corrie was how much of a fighter she was. Maybe, as our grandfather Jim would put it, it was in her genes. Her name goes back to a tough, scrappy Irish sea captain with a shock of black hair, Ben Correll. Do we have a Ben out here? Do we have a Correll? Great-great-grandpa Correll smuggled rum, ran blockades and carried hospital supplies and medicine to Florence Nightingale during the Crimean War. His wife was Elizabeth Correll, also from Dublin. Her daughter, in turn: Elizabeth Correll. And, as Jim wrote in his memoir, “my Betty’s Christian name carries the name into the third generation.” Elizabeth Correll Clancy. Buffie. And of course, her daughter. June Correll Clancy…Hall…Galatti … Corrie.

Corrie and Buffie had an unbreakable bond. Best friends, I’d say. I don’t know how many years it was, but they talked on the phone at least once every day. They shared stories about the family and the amazing accomplishments of those kids and grandkids. The Corrie-Buffie hotline was virtually instantaneous, sometimes so fast that the story had ricocheted from one post to the next and back before the teller of the tale got home. “I shouldn’t tell you this, but…” Corrie used to tell Buffie. What will happen now? One or more of the grandchildren will have to step in and fill the void. More than once already, Buffie has thought, Oh Boy, I can’t wait to tell Corrie. Me too.

When it became clear that Buffie was ready for a change, Corrie and I didn’t arm-wrestle over our Mom. I got lucky that she chose Virginia. What Corrie told me was, “I’ve had her selfishly all these years; I’m finally surrendering her to you.” I’ve worried that I was stealing her away, but Corrie told me again and again that she was happy with the arrangement. After all, they’d still talk.

What she really loved doing was planning birthday parties for her mom, especially conspiring with me to surprise her. Like the time, Buff and Lill were in a restaurant in California and a clown pranced over to them carrying a huge bouquet of balloons. When they stuffed them into a taxi cab, the driver could barely see. She and I laughed and laughed at that. And oh how she wanted to make it down to Norfolk to celebrate Mom’s 95th birthday. She’d planned it for months. Do you remember the list of Buffie’s Birthday t-shirts, complete with sizes for everyone, that she assembled on her Blackberry? She was in tremendous pain by then, but any time anyone suggested she stay home, she’d reply, “Oh, no, I’m going. I have to!” It’s sad to think that this is the gathering she had longed for. But who’s to say she isn’t here with us?

No, we didn’t know what kind of fighter she was. How tough. How ferocious, really.  And it wasn’t something she liked to share. I learned to never start a conversation with How Are You? She didn’t want to talk about it. She didn’t want people to think of her as the one who was battling cancer. She wanted to just be Corrie. Wife, mother, sister, daughter, grandmother, great grandmother. She insisted on looking at the positive.

Think of this. For I don’t know how long, she went for radiation treatments in Poughkeepsie in the morning, then showed up for work at J. McLaughlin’s clothing store, stayed all day, then vacuumed and closed up. She worked in discomfort and pain and never let on. She was happy with the fashionable clothes she got to wear and the last time she was in Norfolk bought three pairs of shoes at Nordstrom’s – on sale, to be sure. She was going to look good in that job, by golly. Then we went to a bar, the first time we’d ever done that, had a glass of red wine and sat and talked and talked. My sister and me at a bar. How good is that?

Disguising her illness? She did that to protect us, the boys say. She didn’t want to worry them. When one of the boys, having read about this in the hospice guide book, told her it’s all right if you go. We’ll be fine. She said, in effect, not so fast. “I’ve decided I’m going to fight again.”

In a touching card to Chris not long ago, she wrote, “I meant it the other night when I said holding my hand is the reason for my progress. Together I believe we’ll all get through this stronger for it.” When they all got together, Corrie shook her head in disbelief. “I’m so very lucky to have the love and support I have. I don’t know how I got so lucky to have you four boys. What did I do?’”

What did you do? You were Corrie, that’s all. We’re the ones who are so lucky to have known you.

Rest in peace, my beloved sister.

--Paul Clancy
  June 12, 2010