The long-awaited day arrived one week ago. After eight months of one of the most miserable pregnancies I've ever witnessed, my elder daughter gave birth to twin boys by emergency C-section. With a sigh of relief, I learned that both mother and babies were fine and ready for a look-see at the sweet little hospital up in the Amish country of Pennsylvania.
I drove up there, excitedly making birth announcement phone calls along the way, and marveling that this was a beautiful sunshiny, blue-sky-ed fall day to be born. I drove through the rolling countryside, taking note of the still brightly-colored leaves remaining on the trees, thanking the God of my understanding for this happy outcome of years of waiting and praying.
What greeted me in that hospital room were two beautiful pink-and-white "squirmlings," just three hours old, and already taking in the bright new world around them. One of the boys was hatted and swaddled, and he turned his head and looked at me as I spoke to him for the first time! The other little guy was contentedly splayed-out in nothing but a diaper underneath a "warmer," blissfully asleep, arms and legs akimbo, and making little "puppy noises" as he slept.
Mother, zonked-out on heavy pain-killers, opened her brown eyes and looked at me. "Oh, Mom's here," she mumbled, as she drifted back into La-La Land.
My younger daughter, accompanied by her own teenaged daughter, was floating back and forth between babies, touching, cooing, commenting - she's the old hand at this with three children, the youngest of whom is 13. The new father appeared, valiantly trying to hide the fact that he had been, and was, weeping out of sheer joy over the morning's events.
The wiped-out mother opened her eyes again and said, "Oh, Mom's here," before falling asleep again.
The love in that room was absolutely palpable - everyone was beaming, happy. The nurses, the aides, everyone kept saying over and over, "Aren't they cute?" And once they were laid in my granddaughter's arms, I thought she'd never let go. "We've got babies," she squealed.
Mother responded, "Oh, Mom's here," and we all laughed.
With the arrival of the paternal grandparents, the rest of us took our leave. I leaned down to kiss my sleeping daughter good-bye - and whispered to her that I loved her and she'd done a great job. "Oh, Mom's here," she replied.
Yes, my darling, Mom's here, accompanied by the spirit of your beloved father, who probably wanted this for you as much or more than you. And all I could think of was my very first go-round, when it was just your dad and me and one hungry little "squirmling" who so enchanted us, we had two more. And you have a husband who is as thrilled and happy and hands-on as your own dad was - and you have embarked upon this bonding journey that will have no other equal as long as you live.
I wasn't weepy-sad, but I must admit to a little achy-heartedness. I so wished I had your dad with me to share this moment - but at the same time, I could feel him with me. I could feel his relief and joy. I re-lived the happy anticipation we felt together for all that lay ahead of us with our first-born, and now, for you - times two.
Mom's here, and so is Dad - and all our children have children at long last.
"All my life's a circle..."
Thursday, November 15, 2012
Monday, August 27, 2012
Dead Leaves
I hate this time of year. It's no longer summer, but it's not yet fall. It's "in limbo" time, with dead leaves littering the ground, the deck, the sidewalk, the patio furniture. It's an odious harbinger of the lifeless months to come.
It's a sad time. Even the crickets sound sleepy - and the long, light-filled evenings I love so much are getting shorter and shorter. It's also a reminder of two years ago when the world as I knew it began to come apart at the seams. The summer had been marked by physical pain for the man I loved more than life itself - which inevitably led to rounds of specialists and endless testing - and ultimately, the hopeless diagnosis.
I stood among the ruins of our life, among the fallen leaves, with our furniture replaced by hospital "appliances," and I kept focusing intently on acceptance. "God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change..." I knew it - he knew it - there was no discussion. We only had to look into each other's eyes, and we knew. It was a day-to-day marathon. I thought of a dear friend who used to say, "Step out in faith. Do what you can as gracefully as you can. Expect God to help." It became my mantra, or litany, all day, every day, as I did my best to care for my dying husband.
Caring for someone who is dying, especially someone you love, is tough, grueling work. Add to that the emotional strain of helplessness and grief, and you have a recipe for exhaustion that is un-equaled in my experience. Sleep deprivation, companionship deprivation, hope deprivation - "the days dwindle down" - one tired day blends mercilessly into the next. The night slips in a little earlier each evening, and pretty soon the trees are bare and the air is cold.
In the late-late hours of one of those cold nights, I had him sitting on the edge of the bed, and I was struggling to remove those damnable tight elastic stockings that made him so uncomfortable. I was kneeling on the floor with my head at the level of his knees - and I suddenly felt his hand on my head, and he stroked my hair - lovingly, tenderly. I didn't know that this would be the last time he'd be able to reach out voluntarily and touch me. No words were necessary - he knew how tired I was, and I knew how heartsick he was - and those few sacred moments will live with me as the most intimate in our life together. He was comforting me, as he had a million times before - my hero, my protector, now mortally wounded.
And so it is that I hate this time of year, which in my heart represents the beginning of the end of so many things. All of my memories hurt right now, and I wonder when and if the pain will ever end.
It's a sad time. Even the crickets sound sleepy - and the long, light-filled evenings I love so much are getting shorter and shorter. It's also a reminder of two years ago when the world as I knew it began to come apart at the seams. The summer had been marked by physical pain for the man I loved more than life itself - which inevitably led to rounds of specialists and endless testing - and ultimately, the hopeless diagnosis.
I stood among the ruins of our life, among the fallen leaves, with our furniture replaced by hospital "appliances," and I kept focusing intently on acceptance. "God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change..." I knew it - he knew it - there was no discussion. We only had to look into each other's eyes, and we knew. It was a day-to-day marathon. I thought of a dear friend who used to say, "Step out in faith. Do what you can as gracefully as you can. Expect God to help." It became my mantra, or litany, all day, every day, as I did my best to care for my dying husband.
Caring for someone who is dying, especially someone you love, is tough, grueling work. Add to that the emotional strain of helplessness and grief, and you have a recipe for exhaustion that is un-equaled in my experience. Sleep deprivation, companionship deprivation, hope deprivation - "the days dwindle down" - one tired day blends mercilessly into the next. The night slips in a little earlier each evening, and pretty soon the trees are bare and the air is cold.
In the late-late hours of one of those cold nights, I had him sitting on the edge of the bed, and I was struggling to remove those damnable tight elastic stockings that made him so uncomfortable. I was kneeling on the floor with my head at the level of his knees - and I suddenly felt his hand on my head, and he stroked my hair - lovingly, tenderly. I didn't know that this would be the last time he'd be able to reach out voluntarily and touch me. No words were necessary - he knew how tired I was, and I knew how heartsick he was - and those few sacred moments will live with me as the most intimate in our life together. He was comforting me, as he had a million times before - my hero, my protector, now mortally wounded.
And so it is that I hate this time of year, which in my heart represents the beginning of the end of so many things. All of my memories hurt right now, and I wonder when and if the pain will ever end.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Trip Down (Kitchen) Memory Lane
Eleven years into the game, I finally had the kitchen "bricked." I know that sounds odd, but that's what it was. The portion of the kitchen wall that holds my double ovens was always intended to be surrounded by brick - and it was just one of those projects my late husband never got around to. I finally took matters into my own hands this summer, and on the advice of a neighbor who is a restoration contractor, I hired a guy who is an absolute "artiste" with brick tiles. And I've been happy-happy-happy with the finished product. It's everything I dreamed it would be - and I only hope my husband can see it from his lofty perspective. He'd be pleased.
An added bonus to the project is two more kitchen cabinets for which my husband had squirrelled away doors and European hinges - and John-the-tile-man knew precisely how to install them. I ordered some free-standing shelves for the cabinets, and today was the appointed day when ever-faithful Donna, my cleaning lady, and I were to unload other cabinets and re-organize.
What I hadn't anticipated were the memories that would assail me as I encountered all the "stuff" that had been stowed away. There were the cereal bowls we'd used for breakfast when the house was only framed in - we had a little dorm refrigerator for milk and juice, and I'd acquired the bowls and some really cheap flatware at a local discount store. We sat on some stools, also purchased at the discount store, and ate at a "table," that was a sheet of plywood placed across a couple of sawhorses. It was fun, a little like "playing house," and we were grateful we could eat here at "home" instead of having to go to a restaurant.
Then there were the candles: dozens of votives, chimneyed candle-holders, big chunky candles with four wicks. I'd forgotten how much we relied on them before the house was wired - and still use them when we have a power outage. Some of the candle collection were housewarming gifts after we'd moved in. I even had two little old-fashioned oil lamps.
And my cookie tins - that I've had for decades to store the fruits of my Christmas baking labors. Now I can finally get to them without having to move half the kitchen. I remember my husband sneaking into them to grab an extra brown sugar cookie or a family favorite, a "moldy mouse." (It's a long story.)
Bowl by bowl, plate by plate, roasting pan by roasting pan, the memories of the events of almost 47 years of my life rolled over me, steamrolled me, squeezed my heart. So many of these "things" traveled with us to nine different homes from coast-to-coast, with ultimately three children, a bunch of in-laws and a flock of grandchildren.
And I felt so alone in today's work. It all went by like a sneeze, all those yesterdays. Forty-seven years is a long time, until you don't have them anymore - and you don't have your soul-mate to share the memories, the love, with.
Donna went off with a giant box of those yesterdays, to be donated to her church's give-away day this weekend. I am left with neatly-tidied cabinets, now stripped of things impractical for me to keep. It's bittersweet. I am at that point in my life where divestiture is almost mandatory, I just didn't expect it to come so soon - and I never expected to feel an ache in my soul over muffin pans.
Muffin pans. Are they worth my tears and heartache? They were my kichen treasures. They were 'us' - they were 'we' - and yes, dammit, worth some salty tears and a sob or two, with no apology for what they represented. I guess, because I've never been through this before, that this is the way life and death unfolds. I just wish it didn't hurt so much.
An added bonus to the project is two more kitchen cabinets for which my husband had squirrelled away doors and European hinges - and John-the-tile-man knew precisely how to install them. I ordered some free-standing shelves for the cabinets, and today was the appointed day when ever-faithful Donna, my cleaning lady, and I were to unload other cabinets and re-organize.
What I hadn't anticipated were the memories that would assail me as I encountered all the "stuff" that had been stowed away. There were the cereal bowls we'd used for breakfast when the house was only framed in - we had a little dorm refrigerator for milk and juice, and I'd acquired the bowls and some really cheap flatware at a local discount store. We sat on some stools, also purchased at the discount store, and ate at a "table," that was a sheet of plywood placed across a couple of sawhorses. It was fun, a little like "playing house," and we were grateful we could eat here at "home" instead of having to go to a restaurant.
Then there were the candles: dozens of votives, chimneyed candle-holders, big chunky candles with four wicks. I'd forgotten how much we relied on them before the house was wired - and still use them when we have a power outage. Some of the candle collection were housewarming gifts after we'd moved in. I even had two little old-fashioned oil lamps.
And my cookie tins - that I've had for decades to store the fruits of my Christmas baking labors. Now I can finally get to them without having to move half the kitchen. I remember my husband sneaking into them to grab an extra brown sugar cookie or a family favorite, a "moldy mouse." (It's a long story.)
Bowl by bowl, plate by plate, roasting pan by roasting pan, the memories of the events of almost 47 years of my life rolled over me, steamrolled me, squeezed my heart. So many of these "things" traveled with us to nine different homes from coast-to-coast, with ultimately three children, a bunch of in-laws and a flock of grandchildren.
And I felt so alone in today's work. It all went by like a sneeze, all those yesterdays. Forty-seven years is a long time, until you don't have them anymore - and you don't have your soul-mate to share the memories, the love, with.
Donna went off with a giant box of those yesterdays, to be donated to her church's give-away day this weekend. I am left with neatly-tidied cabinets, now stripped of things impractical for me to keep. It's bittersweet. I am at that point in my life where divestiture is almost mandatory, I just didn't expect it to come so soon - and I never expected to feel an ache in my soul over muffin pans.
Muffin pans. Are they worth my tears and heartache? They were my kichen treasures. They were 'us' - they were 'we' - and yes, dammit, worth some salty tears and a sob or two, with no apology for what they represented. I guess, because I've never been through this before, that this is the way life and death unfolds. I just wish it didn't hurt so much.
Saturday, August 11, 2012
God's Coincidence
It was one of those spur-of-the-moment things. An e-mail from the church said there would be an ice cream social and a hymn sing last night. Glued as I've been to the Olympics, I decided I'd take an evening off for some ice cream and some good old hymn singing. The incongruity of ice cream and hymns didn't bother me - I love both. So I took myself off to the parish hall to meet up with many familiar to me, friends from the community chorale I sing with, and other acquaintances from church. Mary Grace was our leader, with delightful, comfortable old hymns to sing - I sat next to dear Pat, whom I adore - and Fred, two down from me at the table; cute Beth next to me, and Owen and Betsy across the table. I finally got to meet Pat's son, Jared, an acquaintance from Facebook, who turned out to be an extremely accomplished pianist. There was a smattering of others I didn't know - but we were all eagerly holding onto hymnals and song books and Xerox copies of out-of-print hymns. We sang lustily, with a lot of smiles and laughter, invisibly bound together by the spirit of the music and the words.
I put in a request - a hymn with an unpronounceable Welsh title we'd sung at my husband's memorial service - but everyone knows it, and everyone who has ever attended a Christian service has sung it at one time or another - and anyone who has ever attended a sporting event in the British Isles has heard it sung as a "team song" of sorts. They say it's the un-official national anthem of Wales. I've always loved it for its phrases in the refrain - in English - "...grant us wisdom, grant us courage, for the facing of this hour..."
A woman across the room who looked vaguely familiar to me absolutely beamed, obviously delighted by my hymn choice. After the singing was finished, she came over to me and said, "Linda, I was so thrilled to sing that hymn again. I used to sing with a Wesh chorus!" Who was this woman? And how did she know my name? Later, out in the parking lot, I discovered she was a fellow yacht club member - and two of her grandchildren had been students in the sailing school my husband founded And a few paragraphs later, I learned she'd been widowed four months less than I - and she invited me back to her house for a chat.
We spent the next two or so hours sitting in her living room, with a beautiful breeze from the bay blowing in through the windows, chatting like old friends and comparing notes on how we'd survived the loss of the love of our lives. (She'd had about 4 years' advance notice - I'd had only 16 weeks.)
And upon reflecting on the evening, it struck me that I'd made a new friend with whom I have so many common bonds - someone who really understands how I'm feeling - and someone who doesn't share a past with me that includes my husband. And vice versa. And I'm learning, in this vast wilderness of widowhood, that it is important for my own mental and emotional health, to establish "solitary" relationships. I don't mean that I want to wipe out memories of my husband, or exclude him - but I appreciate the new relationships that are part of my journey alone. I've been half of a whole for so long, I really don't know who I am anymore.
So God sent me an angel named Anne, all wrapped in ice cream and Sunday School hymns - and it just has to be more than a coincidence.
I put in a request - a hymn with an unpronounceable Welsh title we'd sung at my husband's memorial service - but everyone knows it, and everyone who has ever attended a Christian service has sung it at one time or another - and anyone who has ever attended a sporting event in the British Isles has heard it sung as a "team song" of sorts. They say it's the un-official national anthem of Wales. I've always loved it for its phrases in the refrain - in English - "...grant us wisdom, grant us courage, for the facing of this hour..."
A woman across the room who looked vaguely familiar to me absolutely beamed, obviously delighted by my hymn choice. After the singing was finished, she came over to me and said, "Linda, I was so thrilled to sing that hymn again. I used to sing with a Wesh chorus!" Who was this woman? And how did she know my name? Later, out in the parking lot, I discovered she was a fellow yacht club member - and two of her grandchildren had been students in the sailing school my husband founded And a few paragraphs later, I learned she'd been widowed four months less than I - and she invited me back to her house for a chat.
We spent the next two or so hours sitting in her living room, with a beautiful breeze from the bay blowing in through the windows, chatting like old friends and comparing notes on how we'd survived the loss of the love of our lives. (She'd had about 4 years' advance notice - I'd had only 16 weeks.)
And upon reflecting on the evening, it struck me that I'd made a new friend with whom I have so many common bonds - someone who really understands how I'm feeling - and someone who doesn't share a past with me that includes my husband. And vice versa. And I'm learning, in this vast wilderness of widowhood, that it is important for my own mental and emotional health, to establish "solitary" relationships. I don't mean that I want to wipe out memories of my husband, or exclude him - but I appreciate the new relationships that are part of my journey alone. I've been half of a whole for so long, I really don't know who I am anymore.
So God sent me an angel named Anne, all wrapped in ice cream and Sunday School hymns - and it just has to be more than a coincidence.
Sunday, July 29, 2012
Parenthood Redux
It used to be so easy when they were little kids. The grandchildren. They came to stay for the summer, and my worst fear was forgetting one of them as I made my daily carpool rounds: science camp; theatre camp; sailing school; rowing camp. But time marches on, things change, and everyone starts to grow up. I've already "been there, done that." Raised three kids in relative safety with some pretty hard-and-fast rules about where are you going? With whom? Stay in touch. (We didn't have cell phones in those days.) And we were a fortunate set of parents - no phone calls from police or emergency squads, thank God, altho' we did attend more than the lion's share of teenage viewings and funerals. The vision of families mutilated by death is still etched in my memories.
Forward to 2012, and I now have grandchildren who drive - grandchildren who are more than 18 years old, and are very aware that in the eyes of the law, they are adults. Peachy. Except that they are staying under MY roof, and they have to abide by MY rules! And now I am alone, without the strength of a husband to back me up. It's scary enough to be responsible for someone else's children - even scarier when they are your precious grandchildren - and I'm just that much older and wiser and even more aware of the dangers lurking out there in the world. I'm not a total neurotic - really - nor am I a control freak. But I am a worrier, something I inherited from my father, over which I have very little control. And no one ever told me that parenthood, or grandparenthood, NEVER ends. I try to console myself with the knowledge that my driving-age grandchildren are intelligent, trustworthy people - but...but...but... there are deer, there are drunks, there are curves in the roads, weather conditions - and idiots.
And there is no longer anyone to share with me the anxiety of waiting for the car to come down the driveway - or to be flooded with relief when the door opens, and a grandchild walks in, safe and sober. No one to snuggle up with in the dark once everyone's home and the household can go to sleep. No one to share the sense of gratitude that we are once again whole, with the comfort of nothing to worry about.
This is a lonely, heavy responsibility - and it's at times like these when I miss my husband more than there are words to express. We were meant to parent, and to grandparent, together - and death has deprived me - us - of that experience. And I will never stop wondering why...
Forward to 2012, and I now have grandchildren who drive - grandchildren who are more than 18 years old, and are very aware that in the eyes of the law, they are adults. Peachy. Except that they are staying under MY roof, and they have to abide by MY rules! And now I am alone, without the strength of a husband to back me up. It's scary enough to be responsible for someone else's children - even scarier when they are your precious grandchildren - and I'm just that much older and wiser and even more aware of the dangers lurking out there in the world. I'm not a total neurotic - really - nor am I a control freak. But I am a worrier, something I inherited from my father, over which I have very little control. And no one ever told me that parenthood, or grandparenthood, NEVER ends. I try to console myself with the knowledge that my driving-age grandchildren are intelligent, trustworthy people - but...but...but... there are deer, there are drunks, there are curves in the roads, weather conditions - and idiots.
And there is no longer anyone to share with me the anxiety of waiting for the car to come down the driveway - or to be flooded with relief when the door opens, and a grandchild walks in, safe and sober. No one to snuggle up with in the dark once everyone's home and the household can go to sleep. No one to share the sense of gratitude that we are once again whole, with the comfort of nothing to worry about.
This is a lonely, heavy responsibility - and it's at times like these when I miss my husband more than there are words to express. We were meant to parent, and to grandparent, together - and death has deprived me - us - of that experience. And I will never stop wondering why...
Thursday, July 12, 2012
Loose Ends
Here, just beyond the crest of 19 months as a widow, I am still tying up loose ends - and my life is ruled by paper. Paper. Mountains of paper. Statements, bills, receipts, records - paper and more paper. My late husband was a real 1950s-type guy. He insisted upon balancing the checkbook, paying the bills, tracking insurance policies and investments and staying on top of taxes. I was very spoiled, not because I wanted to be, but because he was adamant about handling all of this stuff himself. So for almost 47 years, I paid no bills, filed no tax forms, ("Here, dear. Just sign on this line,") and I only ran for cover when I'd overspend on our shared credit card.
The first clue that I was in over my head came just a few months after he died, when I stepped into what turned out to be an ice-cold shower. I can't begin to tell you how it works, but my hot water magically comes through my furnace and sprays its warmth through the shower head every morning - except for this particularly cold morning when I just couldn't seem to warm up - and I thought the shower would take the chill out of my bones. Shivering out of control and wrapped in a towel, I called our air-conditioning guy. He's a local - very friendly - long-married - and he was a big fan of my husband's. "Sounds to me like you might have run out of heating oil, Linda. Better check your oil tank. See if you can find your last fill statement."
Uh.....okay. I'll go check the oil tank, which sits in red-painted glory in a corner of the basement. I knew it involved a wrench and a stick - but for the life of me, I can't reach the nut to affix the wrench to - and the stick has no markings, so I wouldn't know what I was looking at anyway. I made a few calls, and learned that "Frankie" was the person I needed - the A/C guy said that if my tank was empty, the lines would have to be bled, and Frankie was the one to attend to this. Long story short: the oil tank was indeed dry as a bone - when I finally found the fill statement, it said 400 gallons had been delivered. Frankie came and bled the lines after the oil company re-filled the tank. Frankie, who turned out to be a very kind and understanding big bear of a furnace guy, also noticed my water softener was low on salt, and the filter was in need of changing - so while he was at the local hardware store buying a gauge to install on the oil tank, he also picked up some bags of salt and a new water filter. Who knew? In addition to not paying bills or filing tax forms, I was clueless about heating oil, (400 gallons sounded like an OCEAN of oil to me!), bleeding lines, water softeners and water filters. Jeeze, Louise! I have since put myself on a budget plan with the heating oil company, so now I don't have to worry about checking the shiny new gauge Frankie installed .
The second clue that, "Houston, we have a problem," was when an agent for my homeowner's insurance called to say that my homeowner's policy was going to be canceled if I didn't pay my premium. I vaguely remembered getting an envelope from an insurance company with a whole bunch of slick papers inside, in living color, which I pitched into the trash, because I thought it was promotional advertising. Whoops! I'd discarded my renewal notice - duh! - and the sympathetic agent said I could renew over the phone with a credit card. Whew! Another bullet dodged!
And the avalanche of paper continued. Statements about investments. Some guy who sounded like he was about 17 called to express his condolences about my husband - turns out he was the contact person for a money market fund - and he asked me if I wanted to inherit or assume the fund. "Beats the daylights outta me, Sunshine," I told him, feeling like I'd just been told to identify the parts of a jet engine, or something. He explained, in finance-ese, what the difference was, leaving me with a whirling brain and crossed eyes and no further understanding of what is inheriting and what is assuming.
I also knew, before he died, that my husband was a compulsive "filer." I had six filing cabinet drawers full of files, a veritable encyclopedic record of our life for almost 47 years in the form of bills of sale, receipts, very old bank statements, and God alone knows what else. I can still see the expression of dismay and fear on the face of my accountant the first time I stumbled into her office, bearing two huge file boxes of records. "My husband died in December," I said on that cold February morning. "Everyone said I should come to you to do my income tax." I dropped the boxes and ran like hell for the door. God bless her. She somehow made sense of all that stuff and all those files - and my filing went in on time, and I got a refund! I felt like I'd won the lottery.
So now, a year and change after that first baptism of fire - or ice-cold water, if you prefer -I'm beginning to get sorted out. No less paper, I might add, as it still gets stuffed into my mailbox - but I'm beginning to be able to differentiate between the bills and the promotional garbage - and I've just spent an entire DAY organizing my very own filing cabinet, and my own system for filing, so that my accountant won't be apoplectic the next time I walk in.
But I'm still surprised by the unexpected discoveries in all these papers. Little scraps with HIS all-too-familiar handwriting - little notes to himself. "Zing went the strings of my heart." It's almost as if he's still here. Almost. Sweet reminders of the lovely man who took such good care of me and his family - and a filing cabinet full of what I have and no longer have, if you understand what I mean.
And paper is, after all, what it comes down to, Birth certificate to death certificate, with all those papers in between. Something tangible to say we walked this earth at one time or another and then we ceased to live. I had no idea all this awaited me - and I hover somewhere between gratitude and aggravation - and short of origami and airplanes, I'll just have to deal with all this paper.
The first clue that I was in over my head came just a few months after he died, when I stepped into what turned out to be an ice-cold shower. I can't begin to tell you how it works, but my hot water magically comes through my furnace and sprays its warmth through the shower head every morning - except for this particularly cold morning when I just couldn't seem to warm up - and I thought the shower would take the chill out of my bones. Shivering out of control and wrapped in a towel, I called our air-conditioning guy. He's a local - very friendly - long-married - and he was a big fan of my husband's. "Sounds to me like you might have run out of heating oil, Linda. Better check your oil tank. See if you can find your last fill statement."
Uh.....okay. I'll go check the oil tank, which sits in red-painted glory in a corner of the basement. I knew it involved a wrench and a stick - but for the life of me, I can't reach the nut to affix the wrench to - and the stick has no markings, so I wouldn't know what I was looking at anyway. I made a few calls, and learned that "Frankie" was the person I needed - the A/C guy said that if my tank was empty, the lines would have to be bled, and Frankie was the one to attend to this. Long story short: the oil tank was indeed dry as a bone - when I finally found the fill statement, it said 400 gallons had been delivered. Frankie came and bled the lines after the oil company re-filled the tank. Frankie, who turned out to be a very kind and understanding big bear of a furnace guy, also noticed my water softener was low on salt, and the filter was in need of changing - so while he was at the local hardware store buying a gauge to install on the oil tank, he also picked up some bags of salt and a new water filter. Who knew? In addition to not paying bills or filing tax forms, I was clueless about heating oil, (400 gallons sounded like an OCEAN of oil to me!), bleeding lines, water softeners and water filters. Jeeze, Louise! I have since put myself on a budget plan with the heating oil company, so now I don't have to worry about checking the shiny new gauge Frankie installed .
The second clue that, "Houston, we have a problem," was when an agent for my homeowner's insurance called to say that my homeowner's policy was going to be canceled if I didn't pay my premium. I vaguely remembered getting an envelope from an insurance company with a whole bunch of slick papers inside, in living color, which I pitched into the trash, because I thought it was promotional advertising. Whoops! I'd discarded my renewal notice - duh! - and the sympathetic agent said I could renew over the phone with a credit card. Whew! Another bullet dodged!
And the avalanche of paper continued. Statements about investments. Some guy who sounded like he was about 17 called to express his condolences about my husband - turns out he was the contact person for a money market fund - and he asked me if I wanted to inherit or assume the fund. "Beats the daylights outta me, Sunshine," I told him, feeling like I'd just been told to identify the parts of a jet engine, or something. He explained, in finance-ese, what the difference was, leaving me with a whirling brain and crossed eyes and no further understanding of what is inheriting and what is assuming.
I also knew, before he died, that my husband was a compulsive "filer." I had six filing cabinet drawers full of files, a veritable encyclopedic record of our life for almost 47 years in the form of bills of sale, receipts, very old bank statements, and God alone knows what else. I can still see the expression of dismay and fear on the face of my accountant the first time I stumbled into her office, bearing two huge file boxes of records. "My husband died in December," I said on that cold February morning. "Everyone said I should come to you to do my income tax." I dropped the boxes and ran like hell for the door. God bless her. She somehow made sense of all that stuff and all those files - and my filing went in on time, and I got a refund! I felt like I'd won the lottery.
So now, a year and change after that first baptism of fire - or ice-cold water, if you prefer -I'm beginning to get sorted out. No less paper, I might add, as it still gets stuffed into my mailbox - but I'm beginning to be able to differentiate between the bills and the promotional garbage - and I've just spent an entire DAY organizing my very own filing cabinet, and my own system for filing, so that my accountant won't be apoplectic the next time I walk in.
But I'm still surprised by the unexpected discoveries in all these papers. Little scraps with HIS all-too-familiar handwriting - little notes to himself. "Zing went the strings of my heart." It's almost as if he's still here. Almost. Sweet reminders of the lovely man who took such good care of me and his family - and a filing cabinet full of what I have and no longer have, if you understand what I mean.
And paper is, after all, what it comes down to, Birth certificate to death certificate, with all those papers in between. Something tangible to say we walked this earth at one time or another and then we ceased to live. I had no idea all this awaited me - and I hover somewhere between gratitude and aggravation - and short of origami and airplanes, I'll just have to deal with all this paper.
Saturday, July 7, 2012
The Tractor
It stood useless for almost two years. No, wait a minute - not useless. Unused would be a better word. It was a big old Massey-Ferguson farm tractor, perfect for grading the driveway, or moving snow in the wintertime, or mowing vast fields of grass. It was my husband's "baby," purchased even before we built the house. His prized possession, complete with a roll cage and enough shifting levers to operate the Hoover Dam. I always said that if I ever tried to drive the thing, I'd be in Toledo, Ohio, before I could figure out what all those levers and gear-shift doo-dahs were for. It stood about 17 or so hands high, towering over me and thee - and the only other person who could understand how to drive it was my son-in-law, who said it was entirely too huge for any of his needs, plus the fact that he had nowhere to store it. And none of my other children had the space or the need for it. The left rear tire had gone flat as a pancake, and the one on the right was beginning to look a little deflated. The only "person" using it was a stray barn cat who slept on the comfy seat when it suited her, leaving behind mountains of cat hair.
So, my husband died almost two years ago, and the old tractor stood patiently under the shed roof of the barn. And one day my friend, Owen, who periodically does mowing and yard work for me, said, "Why are you keeping this tractor?" And I replied that I couldn't bear the thought of parting with it because it meant so much to my late husband. And Owen said, "Well, it would be a shame to let it just sit here and deteriorate." (Owen's a farmer by career, so is well-acquainted with all kinds of farm equipment.) His comment kept flying around in my brain, and the word, "deteriorate," kept haunting me. "You have to be practical," I told myself. "It's just a tractor, made of steel and pistons and God knows what else. It's not a living thing." Deciding to square my shoulders and to be a big girl and do the right thing, I reluctantly put the word out - and I had a taker within a month. By the light of flashlights and floodlights, a nice young farmer from somewhere up in Pennsylvania appeared one evening in a giant roll-off truck with a winch, loaded the tractor, and handed me a roll of hundred-dollar bills. The tractor started up without hesitation, and almost purred as it was being loaded, even with a flat tire, and it wasn't long before truck and tractor rolled out of the driveway, leaving me in the red backwash of tail lights.
"It's just a tractor," I sobbed to myself as I made my way up to the house from the barn. The memories rolled over me: the excitement of taking delivery of the tractor so many years ago; visions of my then-young and healthy husband riding along on the tractor with one or another baby grandchild on his lap, (the babies were either terrified or fascinated); mental images of my husband working with the tractor in all kinds of weather, bucket up, blade down, mower whirring, and he was grinning from ear-to-ear.
Then the realization hit me. It wasn't just a sold tractor. It was the end of an era, a machine wrapped in dreams and memories and hope and satisfaction - and it was gone, just as my husband was, never to return. I never contemplated this, this pain of letting go - this emotional trip-wire with Massey-Ferguson stamped on its grille. And it's just not within me to dismiss a piece of machinery, as just that, a piece of machinery. The tractor represented so many things - it was the beginning of our "golden years," when we bought our land and started building our house. Its sale marked the end of the "golden" period and the beginning of the alone-ness, the gold now chipped and tarnished with the reality of being one instead of two. Half of a whole. No more you and me - just me now - and it's such a sad and empty place to be.
Oh, sure - I know the pain of separation will lessen, and the day will come when I will be grateful for having one less "thing" to be responsible for. Intellectually, I know all of this. Emotionally, part of my heart went along with that tractor, which I pray will be a happy beginning for someone else - a machine to make dreams come true.
So, my husband died almost two years ago, and the old tractor stood patiently under the shed roof of the barn. And one day my friend, Owen, who periodically does mowing and yard work for me, said, "Why are you keeping this tractor?" And I replied that I couldn't bear the thought of parting with it because it meant so much to my late husband. And Owen said, "Well, it would be a shame to let it just sit here and deteriorate." (Owen's a farmer by career, so is well-acquainted with all kinds of farm equipment.) His comment kept flying around in my brain, and the word, "deteriorate," kept haunting me. "You have to be practical," I told myself. "It's just a tractor, made of steel and pistons and God knows what else. It's not a living thing." Deciding to square my shoulders and to be a big girl and do the right thing, I reluctantly put the word out - and I had a taker within a month. By the light of flashlights and floodlights, a nice young farmer from somewhere up in Pennsylvania appeared one evening in a giant roll-off truck with a winch, loaded the tractor, and handed me a roll of hundred-dollar bills. The tractor started up without hesitation, and almost purred as it was being loaded, even with a flat tire, and it wasn't long before truck and tractor rolled out of the driveway, leaving me in the red backwash of tail lights.
"It's just a tractor," I sobbed to myself as I made my way up to the house from the barn. The memories rolled over me: the excitement of taking delivery of the tractor so many years ago; visions of my then-young and healthy husband riding along on the tractor with one or another baby grandchild on his lap, (the babies were either terrified or fascinated); mental images of my husband working with the tractor in all kinds of weather, bucket up, blade down, mower whirring, and he was grinning from ear-to-ear.
Then the realization hit me. It wasn't just a sold tractor. It was the end of an era, a machine wrapped in dreams and memories and hope and satisfaction - and it was gone, just as my husband was, never to return. I never contemplated this, this pain of letting go - this emotional trip-wire with Massey-Ferguson stamped on its grille. And it's just not within me to dismiss a piece of machinery, as just that, a piece of machinery. The tractor represented so many things - it was the beginning of our "golden years," when we bought our land and started building our house. Its sale marked the end of the "golden" period and the beginning of the alone-ness, the gold now chipped and tarnished with the reality of being one instead of two. Half of a whole. No more you and me - just me now - and it's such a sad and empty place to be.
Oh, sure - I know the pain of separation will lessen, and the day will come when I will be grateful for having one less "thing" to be responsible for. Intellectually, I know all of this. Emotionally, part of my heart went along with that tractor, which I pray will be a happy beginning for someone else - a machine to make dreams come true.
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