Carolyn: A Most Remarkable Lady

By Buddy Clark and Nancy Blanton

Carolyn Corley Clark -- a cartoonist at age five, a writer and ilustrator of original stories at eight, speech writer at eleven and prize-winning short story writer at sixteen.When she graduated from The University of North Carolina in 1957, her Phi Beta Kappa induction topped sixteen years of straight A's, and she excelled as a radio p

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Old Well Press
• Release date: Aug 25, 2018
• ISBN: 9781732501423

Book preview

Introduction

April 1, 2016. April Fool’s Day. It should have been a day to celebrate or play a trick on someone, but it wasn’t. It was the day Carolyn died. Carolyn Corley Clark, my wife of fifty-seven years, was gone, a victim of Alzheimer’s, and I was devastated. Sobs of grief clogged my throat as tears poured down my cheeks. I felt so alone, so helpless, emotionally drained.

She was my best friend and I was lost without her. I was hurting badly, but I was also angry. Why Carolyn? She was the most loving and caring person I had ever known. She had never intentionally hurt anyone. Why did she have to suffer so much? What was the point? Of course, that’s the eternal question, and I’ve never heard a satisfactory answer.

I managed to regain my composure to make arrangements for her service. We had both left written instructions about our memorial services, specifying the scripture we wanted read, the music to be played and, in Carolyn’s case, comments she’d like one of her children or grandchildren to pass on for her. She included these thoughts: I enjoyed my life so much more than I had ever expected. I was rewarded with a husband whom I adored and who opened the world for me through his adventuresome spirit; and loving children and grandchildren who made me so proud and happy. In moving to Beaufort, I was thrilled to accomplish a lifelong ambition to be a historic tour guide as an unexpected bonus to living in our little corner of heaven. She had ended her instructions with this declaration, I would like the tone of the Memorial Service to reflect the spirit of my life, made happy by my family and friends. I hope I have done some good things along the way that help others. Thank God and all of you.

Keeping it together during the service was difficult, but I managed to remain upbeat during the general reception afterwards, greeting friends and family with thanks for coming and listening to small talk, mostly about what a wonderful person Carolyn was and what attractive children and grandchildren I have been blessed with. Several close family members gathered at my house later and we shared fond, happy and some humorous memories of Carolyn.

Once everyone had gone and I was left alone with my dog, Beau, grief took over. I cried until there were no more tears and allowed my feeling of desperation and unbelievable sadness to escape and slowly be replaced by joyful memories of so many wonderful years with Carolyn. I was so lucky to have had a full life with such an extraordinary woman.

Reading the comments written on sympathy cards, I found that some of Carolyn’s friends remembered her for her accomplishments. I had accompanied her to her fifty-fifth high school reunion several years earlier. Among her former classmates was June, who had been a cheerleader, and was still pretty and vivacious. She gave my wife a big hug, then turned to me and recalled how much she’d hated to have a class with Carolyn because Carolyn destroyed the grading curve in all her classes by acing every one!

Another classmate and close friend, Grace Livingston, also shared her memories. Carolyn gave you her full attention—her poise, radiant smile and gentle manner were her attributes. I remember viewing her many creations (hobbies) during school years, saying, ‘Carolyn, you absolutely amaze me!’ She had many interests and talents … pianist accompanying the high school orchestra and mixed chorus.

As a senior, Carolyn had not only edited the yearbook, she was president of her chapter of the National Honor Society, was chosen Most Intelligent and Most Likely to Succeed and Miss DAR, and was one of four Senior Superlatives selected for district, state and national recognition.

Other friends, who had first met Carolyn when she was the mother of teens, remembered her more for who she was rather than what she had done. She brought more than her share of beauty, love and joy to this world. Our lives have been enriched by knowing her, wrote Ellamarie and Lee Parkinson, friends in Nashville.

Close friends and family vividly remembered her warmth and unconditional love, commenting that she was a lovely person, inside and out. Her smooth and mellow Southern voice served her well during her broadcasting career and, combined with her infectious smile, put everyone she met quickly at ease.

Those who knew her well agreed that Carolyn was a one-of-a-kind. She was creative, beautiful—and to quote an expression I grew up with, smart as a whip. But foremost, she was a writer. She began writing stories as a preschooler and continued writing, professionally, until she retired.

It dawned on me that each of her friends knew something of Carolyn, a part of her story, but few were aware of everything she had accomplished and what a remarkable person she was. In our early days together, I was amazed at her many talents and creativity. But, pretty soon, I just took it for granted that she could do anything she wanted to and do it well, and not once did she show a need for praise for her accomplishments. When I realized this, I felt guilty that during her lifetime I had not told her how proud I was of her. So, I decided I must tell her story. To paraphrase a line from Doris Day’s 1953 hit song, Secret Love, from the movie Calamity Jane, I have to sing it from the highest hills.

After all Carolyn has been for me, I owe her that. She brought more positive value to me than the total of everything else I have experienced in my lifetime. She was my mate, my inspiration and my idol, and the most multi-talented and brilliant person I have ever known. She never stopped learning and mastered everything she set out to accomplish. I feel certain that those of you who knew Carolyn will nod and smile as you read about her, and I suspect that those of you who didn’t know her will wish you had.

Chapter One

If God is not a Tarheel, then why is the sky Carolina blue?

It had been several weeks since Carolyn’s passing, and I was finally shaking off this heavy cloak of despair that had enveloped me. Thinking of her now most often gave me a warm, happy feeling and I smiled as I settled into the past, full of so many good memories. I still missed her terribly, but also realized how fortunate I was to have shared most of my life with such a loving woman and devoted wife. I wanted to remember everything about her, so I started with photographs.

Carolyn had been very photogenic. I believe she must have realized this at an early age and sometimes used the camera not just to capture her pretty face, but, perhaps play-acting a little bit, to give us a hint of what she was feeling when the shutter clicked. I covered her dresser with framed photos, in an effort to keep her closer. And one of these stood out above the rest. It was taken when we were seniors in Chapel Hill, one of several poses a photographer took for her to consider for the Yackety-Yak, UNC’s yearbook. She was positioned sideways to the camera, her head turned as she looked over her shoulder at the photographer, lips curving open as her bright eyes complemented her beautiful smile.

Maybe the reason I was drawn to this one was that I sensed that special smile was meant for me. We never discussed it, but that was her way; she often chose to let her expression do the talking. Even today, whenever I think about her, my first mental picture is of her captivating smile. In this photograph, her smile radiated, just as it did when we first met.

It was in September of 1955, early in the semester, a perfect late summer afternoon in Chapel Hill, sunny and warm, but not hot, a clear Carolina blue sky with just a few scattered clouds. I wanted to be hanging out at Y Court, the favorite student gathering place, trying to identify new co-eds who were really there just to be seen. At that time, with few exceptions, girls were not accepted at UNC until the beginning of their junior year. Male students outnumbered females about five to one. Every fall, a flock of new junior co-eds would matriculate. This was also my junior year, so I finally had a chance to meet new girls who were my age—plus, with the odds so much against us, any wise, social-minded guy would identify new prospects and make his moves early. And I was a social-minded guy. But on that day it wasn’t to be. I was on my way to Peabody Hall to take some dumb preference test.

When I arrived at the testing room, I discovered I was actually early. And I am never early. There were plenty of empty desks, so I quickly surveyed the room and sat next to the best-looking co-ed there, as was my custom when given the opportunity. I introduced myself, got a nice smile in return and managed to get her name and which dorm she was in before she began the test. It was just designed to aid us in selecting electives for the next year. So, not taking it very seriously, I spent almost as much time scoping out this new coed as I did taking the test.

Almost by reflex, I began to rate her by my simple five-point system, one point each for having a pretty face, long hair, nice legs, good overall figure and pleasant personality. I know, but remember, this was 1955. This time I started with her legs, which were fine…but I noticed what ugly shoes she was wearing. They were brownish-yellow with crepe soles and made of some kind of leather with little holes all over—pigskin? And they had rawhide laces with small leather tabs on the tips. Really augly shoes. I don’t know why, but I always notice people’s shoes. Maybe because I was an Army brat and my father made certain my shoes were shined to a mirror finish, by me of course.

As I leaned over to her to begin a conversation, Carolyn glanced up at me and with a combination smile and wrinkled brow, shook her head ever so slightly, pointed to her paper and further admonished me with an inaudible shush as she put her forefinger to her lips. She had conveyed to me that right then she was concentrating on the test and I should, too. I took her silent but clear advice and returned to my paper. Though I had been tempted to write in none of the above on each list of multiple answers, I got down to brass tacks and began filling out the questionnaire in earnest.

Carolyn finished before me, put away her pencil and rose to leave. She gave me a gorgeous smile, winked one of her sparkling blue eyes and briskly walked out of the room, her blonde ponytail bouncing, shoe soles squeaking. That smile! That disarming smile obliterated any thoughts I had about her shoes and my rating system. I sensed there must be one terrific person behind that killer smile and I couldn’t wait to discover everything about Carolyn Corley, my pretty and dazzling new friend.

Although I rarely called a girl for a date without getting to know her a little bit, that didn’t cross my mind before I called Carolyn that evening. Students didn’t have private telephones, so I called the house phone on her floor, told the girl who answered that I wanted to speak to Carolyn. When she came to the phone, I probably spoke faster than normal. I tend to do that when I’m nervous, and, boy, was I nervous. I introduced myself and asked her if she was busy Friday night.

Uh, no, I don’t think so.

Would you like to go out?

After a pause, Well, I guess so. I mean, okay, she answered.

I was disappointed with her lackluster response. I thought I had scored some points that afternoon, and that was the kind of response I got? My ego was shaken and I almost decided to call off the whole thing. But my mother had raised me better, so I decided to be a gentleman and just chalk it up to experience, reminding myself not to jump to conclusions just because a pretty girl winked at me. She probably winked at all the guys.

We will most likely just go to a movie, but I’ll call you later in the week to confirm so you’ll know what to wear.

You don’t have to call, she said. Just tell me in class.

I paused a moment and then said, Carolyn, I don’t have any classes with you.

After another pause, she asked, You don’t?

No.

Then, after a longer pause, she asked in a barely audible, tiny voice, Uh, who is this?

Exasperated, I practically shouted my name, enunciating slowly and clearly, and she quickly responded that she would love to go out with me, and apologized for her hesitation. She explained that there seemed to be a lot of static on the line and that, even then, she could barely understand me.

I suggested that she hang up and I would call her right back. Realizing that of the two telephones in my fraternity house, I had chosen the one in the downstairs closet, which—as everyone but me seemed to remember—notoriously had a bad connection. I rushed upstairs, used the other phone and called her back. I explained the situation with the phones and it was my turn to apologize. She was gracious and I wasn’t ready to end our conversation, so, my confidence now restored, I asked her what she was doing the next night.

I’m afraid I do have plans. I have to do some research at Wilson Library. Sorry.

Well, you have to leave Wilson sometime and go back to Smith. Why don’t you and I meet at the library and I’ll buy you a Coke at the Pine Room, before I walk you back to your dorm?

Oh, all right, see you tomorrow night. The tone of her voice told me that she was smiling at my persistence and I thought to myself, Gotcha!

I was early when I found her sitting at a table writing away, several open books around her. After brief, whispered hellos, I started to continue the conversation. But, giving me a little smile, she whispered a suggestion that I meet her at the library entrance in about forty-five minutes. I remained at her table, quietly reading, until she let me know she was ready to go.

What I