Symphonies for Little Girls

Corrie had a thing for Stevie.

I guess you could say she got it honest …

… from me.

corrie and stevie

If you’ve never heard of Stevie Nicks, or as one of my students at my former school said when she saw her singing on my screen “that old woman,” you’re missing out on something deeper we don’t find as much today.

She’s the first, and still only woman, to be inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame twice. She was inducted with Fleetwood Mac and then a second time in 2019 as a solo artist.

No matter what you’ve heard or read about her in her life’s choices, she still had a special connection to young and little girls. I watched her on some old footage from Fleetwood Mac’s Rumors‘ tour. She took time and played with a little girl.

Corrie knew how much I loved Stevie from the time I was thirteen. She recognized that distinguished voice when she came on the radio, and said, “Mommy, it’s Stevie!”

In early high school, I poured over Stevie’s entire Enchanted box set. I pulled out the lyrics, and read them as you’d read poetry.

I loved her as a writer as much as I would later adore Carl Sandburg, Joshilyn Jackson, J.R.R. Tolkien, and Zora Neale Hurston.

With a mind as socially atypical as mine, few things reached me. Powerful writing reached me. It reached Corrie and Hayes, too.

The truth is Corrie was, and still is, a little bit of every mystical woman Stevie writes about. Inside all of the Rhiannons and Saras is a girl who believes in something special. She believes she is something special without a man beside her.

She had a love for the stage. Every moment was dress up time as a certain character …

As the pastor from the church where I grew up recalled before Corrie’s funeral, Corrie had a flair for drama. She had a love for the stage. Every moment was dress up time as a certain character from Aurora to Tiana to Ariel to … yes, Elsa. I’m proud to say the last women she admired so much were strong: Elsa, Tiana, Diana (Wonder Woman), her Aunt Diana, Taylor Swift and … Stevie.

For many years, I tried to keep it quiet that the children, my husband, and I lived with my parents for a few years after my husband lost his job. I went back to school, and worked hard to help John get us back out in the world. Fear of what people thought died when we buried our daughter. Because out of those days, I remembered something ….

Corrie was sick every fall and winter season at least twice with pneumonia and bronchitis. John and I traded places staying with her at home because Corrie was not sick for just one day. I kept Corrie in the bedroom with me, or she sat in my lap while I made flipped lessons for students at school. When I was done, we laid down and watched something together because she didn’t want me to leave her side.

I put on the Fleetwood Mac concert from the short Mirage tour. Corrie came to know the characters in the band, and said often of Linsey Buckingham,

“He’s a bad boy, right?”

“He just made some bad choices,” I said.

“I don’t like his parts.”

“That’s why I skip through a lot of them,” I said. “We’re here for Stevie.”

On our chill days when it rained outside and Corrie convinced me to put down my pen or phone to stop writing, we watched Stevie again. Corrie went into her room, grabbed some skirt or dress, and returned.

She’d even tell me, “Mommy, pause it. I have to get another dress because it doesn’t spin out like Stevie’s.”

We’d pause Stevie’s Janis Joplin style performance in Sisters of the Moon from the 1982 concert. She’d get another skirt that had just the right flair.

When Corrie had found the right dress in which to twirl, she danced in front of the TV as Stevie twirled on stage. Corrie adored the dance, and I felt the passion, heartbreak, and depth in Stevie’s voice and lyrics. I felt Stevie’s courage to be raw and real.

In that bedroom/ living room/ my home office, where I’d once twirled as an older child in a long black dress, I would blast Stevie’s songs on my karaoke machine and sing. In the same room where I was once ashamed and embarrassed about people judging us in my parents’ house, Corrie twirled like Stevie just as I did many years ago.

There are songs, lyrics, poems, and stories for the right times and places.

I wrote songs and sang, too, but in college, I thought about what my greatest talent was: writing. I wanted to perfect that craft instead of putting it into two spaces.

“Come on, you sing, Mommy,” Corrie said.

“My voice is tired, sweetie,” I said. “I don’t sing much anymore.”

“I love your voice.”

Since I finished Corrie’s poetry collection “When We Danced in the Rain,” I have thought about all the writing coming out of me.

I’ve thought about how much I can write about my son now that he’s getting older to respect his privacy.

I thought even more about what Corrie would want me to write for and about her. Immediately after her death, I wrote about some of the darker moments. I still walk through the darker moments, and I think that is important to remember this about grief:

Stevie worked hard to craft an image of herself through the years just as Dolly Parton did and other artists.

On Sunday night, I told my husband:

“I was alone listening to Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata on the other side of the school, and I thought, I will write Corrie a symphony of words.”

But in doing so, I have to consider how Corrie would craft her image had she become an adult. I hear her voice guide me, and I see her doing something. I hear her say, “Mommy, write this.”

The darkest parts of my journey were written right after.

As I grow in my writing of Corrie’s Season, I know my daughter would take her image seriously. She would not want me to craft the darkest hours, although some of it will appear in the memoir. From this point, she’d want me to design works that showed the force of her personality. A power of will that few adults have and even fewer children possess. She had the confidence of an older Stevie Nicks, and a beauty beyond words.

Photos of Corrie and Words by: Rebecca T. Dickinson