Speed Bumps and Angels: A Personal Journey

By Cherie Kirby Hill Wren

Tornado warnings were posted in Canton, Ohio, on the night of author Cherie Kirby Hill Wrens birth in 1943. The storm was just a normal occurrence, but she cant help think it was a precursor of her life to come.

In Speed Bumps and Angels, Wren recaps the storms and speed bumps she has experienced in her life: nearly drowning when she was just two years old; being hit by a car; getting jilted, twice; running away from home and marrying a man who was abusive and ultimately tried to kill her; developing type 2 diabetes; being diagnosed with benign essential blepharospasm; having her mitral and aortic valves replaced; gaining a pacemaker; and enduring pulmonary hypertension.

In this memoir, Wren shows how these bumps served their purpose. First, they slowed her down so she didnt run out of control. Second, they gave her a little jolt, sometimes back to reality. Third, they kept her from getting too complacent. She shows that by conquering challenges, we grow and learn. We are here for a purpose, and by living each day to the fullest we can, knowingly or unknowingly, accomplish that purpose.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 14, 2012
• ISBN: 9781469791890

Cherie Kirby Hill Wren

Cherie Kirby Hill Wren is retired after working more than forty years as an administrative assistant and bookkeeper. She and her husband, Bill, live in Sarasota, Florida.

Book preview

Contents

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

INTRODUCTION

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

TO

Janine Aurora Hill, for creative inspiration;

Frank Hill and Patrick Krepps, for technical support;

Tricia Hill, whose encouragement got it started

and kept it going; and

Bill Wren, my husband, my rock, my best friend.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am grateful to Charles and Terri Neubauer of Charles Neubauer Photography, Sarasota, Florida, for the back cover photo.

In addition, I would like to thank Canton Cemetery Association, Canton, Ohio, for information about Fred and Mildred Kirby.

INTRODUCTION

You should write a book! Many people have said this to me over the years, but I have always dismissed it as just a passing comment. After all, I wasn’t rich and famous, although I might have been if my maternal grandfather had not been swindled out of the deed to his gold mine in the Black Hills of South Dakota. But the thought that just maybe there might be people who could be helped by learning of my journey in life inspired me to put words on paper.

Aspiring writers are told to choose a subject about which they are familiar, and I decided that nobody knows me better than me; thus, my choice was easy. Written expression has always been easier for me than spoken communication. I only wish I had kept a diary or journal as I was growing up. A written record would have been very helpful, as some memories have faded over the years. I’ll do my best, and with the help of my mother’s diary, perhaps this memoir will all come together and make sense.

Let me encapsulate my life thus far. I’m certain there are those who can identify with many aspects of my journey. I nearly drowned when I was just two years old; was hit by a car; got jilted, twice; ran away from home and married a man who was abusive and ultimately tried to kill me—a .22 caliber bullet remains in my brain as proof; lost two babies in miscarriages; met and married my rock and best friend; developed type 2 diabetes; was diagnosed with benign essential blepharospasm; have had my mitral and aortic valves replaced; possess a pacemaker; endure pulmonary hypertension; and have naturally curly hair. See, every cloud has a silver lining, and my lucky number is two!

To say that life has been interesting up to now would probably be a major understatement, but I’ve learned that, by conquering challenges, we grow and learn. We are here for a purpose, and by living each day to the fullest, we can, knowingly or unknowingly, accomplish that purpose. Of course, I’m sure that part of my purpose is to be living proof that God has a sense of humor!

Chapter 1

AND SO IT BEGINS

It was a dark and stormy night. No, really, it was. Tornado warnings were posted. The relative quiet in the halls of the maternity ward at Aultman Hospital in Canton, Ohio, was shattered on August 6, 1943, when a little girl made her presence known at 12:55 a.m. Of course, the shattering of the silence might also have been her father, Edgar Lewis Kirby, who was expecting a boy for the third time.

He and his wife, Jane Eleanor, had two other children—a daughter, Nora Ralphel, and another daughter, Jean Ann. Neither of them had a stems on their apples either, I was in good company. Naturally, being the youngest of three girls, I didn’t see many new clothes until I started working and bought my own.

Alas, this little pink bundle needed a name, and Cherie Jane was chosen. Mother wanted it spelled Cheri meaning beloved in French. Dad, however, added an e when he completed the birth certificate, either in error or to get back at his wife for having another girl. They are both gone now, so this fact cannot be disputed either way. It’s my story, and I’m stickin’ to it.

Dad also had his pet names for us: Nora was The Big Sister; Jean he called Fatstuff; and I was Little Boy/Girl. Is it any wonder that I was quite the tomboy growing up? We were all just grateful that he never referred to us by those names when we were out in public.

The storm on the night of my birth was probably a normal summer thunderstorm, but looking back I wonder if it might have also been a precursor of things to come. Everyone experiences storms in his or her life—I prefer to call them speed bumps—but they serve a few purposes. First, they slow us down so we don’t run out of control. Second, they give us a little jolt, sometimes back to reality. Third, they keep us from getting too complacent.

My sister, Jean, was delighted to have a new baby in the house. After all, the Christmas before I was born, she had prayed that God would send her a new little sister. The Christmas after I was born, she prayed that God would take me back!

The summer I turned two, Jean, a neighbor boy, and I were playing on our dock at Meyers Lake. Jean wanted to go into the house for something and asked our neighbor to keep an eye on me. She had just opened the door when she heard a splash.

She turned and the neighbor boy calmly said, Your sister just fell in.

Jean ran back to the dock and pulled me from the water. She had obviously forgotten her prayer to have God take me back, missing a golden opportunity. It wasn’t long before we were both in the water and she was teaching me how to swim.

I was no different than most children, testing the limits of parents’ tolerance. One Sunday I awoke to announce that sickness had swooped down during the night and I was unable to go to church. Pretty clever, huh? Ha! Never underestimate parents. I made one of those that-will-teach-you-to-lie-to-your-mother mistakes. When Mom, Nora, and Jean returned, I was happily riding my tricycle on the sidewalk. My recuperative powers were remarkable in those days. I’m sure I was punished, but as a testament to my mother, the punishment wasn’t bad enough to be indelibly etched in my memory.

Since I seemed to have a penchant for dancing around the truth, Mother thought perhaps I should have tap lessons. Nora had taken ballet, and I thought it might be fun, until my first, and last, recital. My outfit was lime green and white satin with a large green hat and, of course, black, patent leather, Mary Jane tap shoes. After performing several combinations, our exit from the stage was one long line, which was supposed to leave stage right. Everyone did, except for me. I exited in perfect unison by myself stage left. Dancing with the Stars would probably not be calling any time soon.

Although my feet were not very coordinated, I developed a love of music quite early, and I displayed a talent for singing. My first solo was a little Mother’s Day ditty sung in our church when I was just five. Children’s choirs, adult choirs, and community choruses have kept me sane throughout some troubling times. The more I sang, the better I became. Like it does with any talent, continued practice only improved my singing.

In my adult life, I received invitations to sing at weddings, funerals, and other special events. In 1974, I joined a small group called The Bay Chorale. We started out with only nine members, and by the time I retired from the group in the early 2000s, we had fifty to eighty people, depending on the season. Our combined church choirs made a CD in 2001 entitled How Sweet the Sound, on which I had two small solos.

Music has been, and will always be, the golden thread of consistency woven throughout the tapestry of my life. My love of music was probably instilled in me by my father, who also had a lovely singing voice. I can still remember sitting on his lap when I was