Читать книгу Finding My Voice - Nita Whitaker LaFontaine - Страница 9

My parents told me that before words were clear in my three-year-old vocabulary, I sang. Just threw my head back and made “ahh” sounds on pitch with whatever was on the car radio, in church, or in the community “old one hundreds,” where the whole rural Louisiana church would join in and sing call-and-response. I sang before I can remember, and for all my forty-plus years since—I’ve been blessed in all that time to never once lose my voice. Despite colds and swollen vocal chords, I could still produce some singing sound without great effort.

Nineteen years before I found my voice, there was a little curly haired boy in a sleepy Midwestern town who memorized encyclopedias and could come out of a movie quoting its lines and even singing some of the songs. At age thirteen and only four eleven, his voice suddenly changed mid-sentence into a deep, authoritative tone. And for more than forty years, that voice never failed him. Through more than five thousand movie trailers, hundreds of thousands of tags, and TV and radio spots, he never lost his voice.

That voice almost seemed like a given. Even throughout radiation and chemo- therapy, his voice continued announcing five days a week. Even after medicines, illness, and, finally, death silenced him, Don’s voice continued to reverberate around the world. Only after he was physically voiceless, did I, too—literally and figuratively—lose my own voice.

In an effort to find my voice again after Don died I began sending emails to a close group of friends. Writing these emails evolved into a way through the darkness of the grief of losing Don and moved me into the grace of having known him. There were so many things that happened that my children did not witness and I could not articulate, though I believe they understood how much their Dad and I loved each other. This book was written to share with them and you the insights, love, laughter, and loss of one of Hollywood’s most influential voices: Don LaFontaine. Finding My Voice tells the story of our romantic journey and of two different voices that became one in life and love.

I never intended to write a book—especially one so raw and personal—but I had many inspirations that put me on this road. The first was a quote I heard: “When you tell your story, you can heal yourself and heal others.” That is my biggest hope for this book. The other motivation came from one of my favorite teachers, Larry Moss, who said in a class: “The more personally you tell a story, the more universal it becomes.” If that is true then I know this story will touch any of you who have experienced any loss.

Though I’ve enjoyed writing some poetry and songs for my album projects, that was the extent of that creative arm, but I always wanted to get better at writing. I thought Donnie would write a book; he was such a prolific reader, I believed there was a book in him. He wrote a screenplay called Sandman that we filmed, but the book never came. I bought him countless leather bound books with empty pages for him to fill, but he always put them aside, saying he just enjoyed reading books and did not want to write one.

When I first started writing my “check-in” emails, which included stories about Don, many encouraged me, especially Pastor Larry and dear friend Neva saying that I should share these stories; that they may help some others walking the road to grief to healing. As I began to tell my stories of various events and memories made with Don and the girls, my coach Jackie said to me, “These are too rich to keep.” With that and encouragement from friends and family, and a published article, it occurred to me that I was the one left to share our story. I was inspired along the way not only by the constant support of our family and friends, but also by reading some enlightened spiritual books that helped illuminate the crooked and narrow path during the painful first year, after the crowds had gone and we were left to be a family, minus one.

After Don died, I was moving around in my new normal, trying to be present for my grieving children and myself. Later, when my eldest daughter had gone away to college and my high school-aged daughter was still with me, I found myself with time on my hands that I’d never before had in my married life and life as a mother. I needed a creative outlet. When I received an email invitation to a “Writing to Heal” workshop class in my neighborhood on a weekday night, I thought it could be that outlet.

I quickly discovered I couldn’t wait to get to class and began to write some of the stories of my life and love based on random prompts from my wonderful teacher and mentor, Jackie Parker. It was a neutral place and I could write, release, laugh, and cry. I found it cathartic and learned from the other students that we all use different voices to tell our stories.

This book is the journey of how Donnie and I discovered our voices and how that ultimately led us to Los Angeles to discover each other. Ours is a beautiful, rich, love story punctuated by life’s highs and lows. We each had pivotal moments that shaped our souls and crafted within us a deeper spirit and purpose. It is a story of black and white—peach and brown love that shone like the sun on the sea and lit us from within. Engraved on our wedding rings was our proclamation that we were One Voice united by a precious, real love and family. The bleak raw road that took us to the door of death when he ascended and the road that I have walked with my children is one that I hope can inspire and encourage others that may be on or will walk this road at some point in their journeys.

Elizabeth Lesser says, “I am fascinated by what it takes to stay awake in difficult times—how we resist, how we surrender, how we stay stuck and how we grow.”

I have grown. I have surrendered. I have found my own voice in a world without Don’s.

These are our stories, the moments that created our journey to each other, and the love that sustained us to the end and continues to sustain me today, even as I walk my path without Don.

I know he’s there.

I hear him all the time.

Long before Don started thinking about his own mortality, he wrote the eulogy for his favorite Aunt Gladys. His words are as poignant and relevant today as they were then, and are a perfect start to my story of journeying through grief to grace.

MAY 25, 1982

Don writes…

It happens more and more often as we grow older—

Gatherings like this.

The time of remembering.

Remembering somehow justifies the deep sense of loss –

The helplessness we feel in the face of the inevitability of death.

The words that are spoken at times like these are almost as ancient as the process of passing over, itself. The most eloquent among us becomes tongue-tied, trapped in shopworn clichés and phrases that—no matter how heartfelt and true— ring hollow. Expressions filled with emotion are somehow empty of meaning.

We find ourselves regretting the fact that we put off until another day, the good things—The thoughtful things—The loving things we wanted to do for the one who is no longer with us.

We want desperately to turn back the clock. To live, just one more time—the happy moments, and to replay the bad times—this time with a happy ending.

But of course, we can’t alter the patterns of the past. We can’t go back to the first square and start over. The moments that have gone, that chances that have passed—have passed, and can never be regained. And so, we are left with remembering. And ultimately, that’s good. Perhaps that’s all we are left with because that’s all that matters, in the long run. Each of us, in our turn, will become the centerpiece of a gathering such as this. The reason for ritual. The rational for remembering.

Remember all the great—and all the little insignificant things that made up their life and all the tender contact points where their life touched yours.

For me, as it is for everybody else, I suppose, it is a totally personal thing—

Secret and sacred—

To be held in the warmest and most private rooms of our hearts. It’s fitting enough that we feel the sorrow—

The sense of loss—

And ultimately, the joy for her or him,

Because they have moved on to another higher plane. She’s not gone. She’s just gone ahead.

We will meet again. God love you.

—Don LaFontaine