Date #2
Mr. On-Line Date #1 didn't work out. After breaking two subsequent luncheon dates with me, he sent me a very polite e-mail, stating that distance was the culprit, since he lives almost 2 hours away. Ah, well... It's been a lo-oong time since I've had to deal with romantic rejection - and this one stung.
So I screwed up my courage one more time and went back to the on-line parade of too-young and too-old men - more muscle shirts and motorcycles - more English-as-a-second language - and more inappropriate overtly sexual messages. And then, along came a candidate. I had to sort of "pursue" him, as he seemed a little reluctant. Another one blaming "distance" as the hurdle. I assured him that I wasn't all THAT far away, and a meeting point was easily just an hour's drive for each of us.
He finally relented, and we set up the meeting date and place for lunch. It was a miserable, cold, rainy day - but I pressed on. We met in a lovely restaurant, and a three-hour lunch ensued. He was delightful, funny, interesting, and I didn't have to DRAG conversation out of him. He was also easy on the eyes - tall and attractive, well-spoken - and I'd learned during previous e-mails that he could spell and punctuate, which is a 'plus' in my book.
And date #2 came along this past weekend - here in my town, with a cabaret fund-raiser on Saturday night and a food festival on Sunday afternoon. It was the first weekend in almost 2 1/2 years that I haven't sat glued to the TV and feeling unutterably lonely. He was comfortable to be with - and seemed to enjoy himself. I was happy to introduce him to friends around town - and my surviving 15-yr-old dog fell in love with him.
So maybe there's hope after all - after this long, cold and empty winter. The air is filled with the newness and lushness of spring - and just maybe this will be a beginning of whatever. I feel the seeds of a nice friendship, even if it doesn't progress any farther - and I'm not intimidated by the "distance." (Hell, I'm an old California girl, accustomed to driving for HOURS to get somewhere I want to be.) I'm cautiously optimistic, and full of hope. So we'll see where it goes...
Sunday, April 28, 2013
Sunday, February 10, 2013
The First Date
Well, it finally came to pass. The first date. After an unfortunate false start that had me wondering if I'd made a mistake - schedule conflict, his - disappointment, mine - we re-grouped and and finally set the date and the meeting point.
The activity was my idea. A dear friend of mine, a genius flutist, was giving a concert about 90 minutes from here, and I really, really wanted to go. So my "blind date" and I made plans to meet for an early supper, and, as I said, if we decided we couldn't stand each other, he could then go his way, and I'd go to the concert by myself. Otherwise, we'd go to the concert together.
With a week to plan for this auspicious event, my friends and family began to circle the wagons around me. Barbara warned me to guard my emotions, my children cheered me on, Mary Grace wanted to arrange for a phone call an hour into the date in case I needed an escape route, and my wacky friend, Elaine, started giving me warnings: Don't get into a car with him, take a blanket, water and food in the car (in case of a breakdown), be sure to take my cell phone - and she'd stand by and notify the state police if I somehow disappeared. And what was I going to wear, she demanded to know. (She was not amused when I said I thought I'd wear my see-through Bob Mackie evening dress festooned with rhinestones and crystals.)
I tried to stay calm, but cripes! I hadn't been out on a "date" since 1963! My date and I exchanged text messages and e-mails during the week, and finally nailed down a time and place to meet, describing what our cars look like. Since I really had no idea of where I was going, I went out and bought a new GPS, as my old one had become hopelessly outdated. I was going to have to navigate the outskirts of Washington, DC, which is a daunting task at best, even when you know the area.
THE day arrived, and things went so smoothly - too smoothly - so that I was sure I was going to have a flat tire, or a traffic jam-up on the Bay Bridge to screw things up. I needn't have worried. It was a bright, sunny day, I decided to wear black with a look-at-me-red sweater - a little touch of eye shadow - a little spritz of perfume. I fed the dogs and got them settled, and off I went, right on schedule. Maintaining a death grip on the steering wheel, I concentrated on what the GPS, aka "Myrtle," was telling me to do. My date sent me a text message telling me he, too, was on his way, and he "couldn't wait" to meet me. (As if I didn't already have enough butterflies!)
And suddenly I was there! And he was there, leaning against his car, waving, with a big smile on his face. All of Elaine's admonitions about not getting into his car went out the window immediately, (did I mention that he and I had previously spent more than THREE HOURS talking on the phone with each other a couple of weeks ago?) He knew where to go, about 10 blocks away, to a neat little restaurant in Chevy Chase - so I hopped in with him and off we went.
It was another three-hour event. The conversation came easily, comfortably - it was as if we'd known each other for years, rather than hours. The waitress kept checking on us - and he said, "We're going to be here for awhile."
"Yes," I added, "We haven't seen each other for a lifetime." We both laughed.
We went on to the concert together, and it couldn't have been more perfect. David-the-flutist was magnificent - I've known him since he was in elementary school with my daughter, and I've kept track of him as his musical career has developed. My date and I loved the music, happily closing our eyes and listening as David's magic flute transported us somewhere out in Never-Never-Land. (I highly recommend a flute-and-piano concert for a first date, if you're both into classical music.) The reception afterward afforded time for a wonderful reunion with David, and introductions all around - and a cupcake and some apple juice and/or wine.
And all too soon, it was time to say good-night and part company. At my car, I just easily stepped into his outstretched arms for a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek - it felt natural and comfortable - and we both went our separate ways. We talked on the phone while we were both en route to our homes, and the conversation was full of plans for our next get-together.
So my instincts were right - this was a "good guy" - interesting, fun, gentlemanly, enthusiastic about life - and please, God, let there be date #2. It's so nice to have something to look forward to.
Well, it finally came to pass. The first date. After an unfortunate false start that had me wondering if I'd made a mistake - schedule conflict, his - disappointment, mine - we re-grouped and and finally set the date and the meeting point.
The activity was my idea. A dear friend of mine, a genius flutist, was giving a concert about 90 minutes from here, and I really, really wanted to go. So my "blind date" and I made plans to meet for an early supper, and, as I said, if we decided we couldn't stand each other, he could then go his way, and I'd go to the concert by myself. Otherwise, we'd go to the concert together.
With a week to plan for this auspicious event, my friends and family began to circle the wagons around me. Barbara warned me to guard my emotions, my children cheered me on, Mary Grace wanted to arrange for a phone call an hour into the date in case I needed an escape route, and my wacky friend, Elaine, started giving me warnings: Don't get into a car with him, take a blanket, water and food in the car (in case of a breakdown), be sure to take my cell phone - and she'd stand by and notify the state police if I somehow disappeared. And what was I going to wear, she demanded to know. (She was not amused when I said I thought I'd wear my see-through Bob Mackie evening dress festooned with rhinestones and crystals.)
I tried to stay calm, but cripes! I hadn't been out on a "date" since 1963! My date and I exchanged text messages and e-mails during the week, and finally nailed down a time and place to meet, describing what our cars look like. Since I really had no idea of where I was going, I went out and bought a new GPS, as my old one had become hopelessly outdated. I was going to have to navigate the outskirts of Washington, DC, which is a daunting task at best, even when you know the area.
THE day arrived, and things went so smoothly - too smoothly - so that I was sure I was going to have a flat tire, or a traffic jam-up on the Bay Bridge to screw things up. I needn't have worried. It was a bright, sunny day, I decided to wear black with a look-at-me-red sweater - a little touch of eye shadow - a little spritz of perfume. I fed the dogs and got them settled, and off I went, right on schedule. Maintaining a death grip on the steering wheel, I concentrated on what the GPS, aka "Myrtle," was telling me to do. My date sent me a text message telling me he, too, was on his way, and he "couldn't wait" to meet me. (As if I didn't already have enough butterflies!)
And suddenly I was there! And he was there, leaning against his car, waving, with a big smile on his face. All of Elaine's admonitions about not getting into his car went out the window immediately, (did I mention that he and I had previously spent more than THREE HOURS talking on the phone with each other a couple of weeks ago?) He knew where to go, about 10 blocks away, to a neat little restaurant in Chevy Chase - so I hopped in with him and off we went.
It was another three-hour event. The conversation came easily, comfortably - it was as if we'd known each other for years, rather than hours. The waitress kept checking on us - and he said, "We're going to be here for awhile."
"Yes," I added, "We haven't seen each other for a lifetime." We both laughed.
We went on to the concert together, and it couldn't have been more perfect. David-the-flutist was magnificent - I've known him since he was in elementary school with my daughter, and I've kept track of him as his musical career has developed. My date and I loved the music, happily closing our eyes and listening as David's magic flute transported us somewhere out in Never-Never-Land. (I highly recommend a flute-and-piano concert for a first date, if you're both into classical music.) The reception afterward afforded time for a wonderful reunion with David, and introductions all around - and a cupcake and some apple juice and/or wine.
And all too soon, it was time to say good-night and part company. At my car, I just easily stepped into his outstretched arms for a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek - it felt natural and comfortable - and we both went our separate ways. We talked on the phone while we were both en route to our homes, and the conversation was full of plans for our next get-together.
So my instincts were right - this was a "good guy" - interesting, fun, gentlemanly, enthusiastic about life - and please, God, let there be date #2. It's so nice to have something to look forward to.
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
The Dating Game
Okay - it's been a little over two years now, and although the LAST thing I want is another husband, I'd sure love to meet someone to at least go to the movies with. He doesn't have to be an Adonis - just someone reasonably intelligent with a sense of humour, who understands words of more than one syllable. So I take a deep breath and sign up for a journey into the vast mysterious world of on-line dating. On the advice of a friend, I sign up on one of those over-50 sites, which promises "perfect" matches and love and romance beyond my wildest dreams. Well, hey, who wouldn't want that?
So I fill out the "dating history" form - (what "dating"? I was married for the better part of 50 years, and whatever dating I did prior to that is pretty dim in my memory - except that in those days we had "rules," about what "nice" girls did and didn't do.) And I go through all the choices about who/what I'm looking for, age ranges, and geographical distances. And what are my interests? And do I like children? What do I read, what movies do I like? Do I like dogs? Blah-dee-dah-dee-dah. I specifically state that I am NOT looking for marriage, and I have an aversion to men in muscle shirts who ride motorcycles. I am painfully honest about my age, # of children, # of grandchildren, and indicate that I'm looking for someone who is well-read and has some vitality.
Well, Holy Moley! There was no way I could have known what I was getting into. Each day, when I opened my e-mail, there would be 5 "matches" awaiting my perusal. Now don't get me wrong - I LOVE men. But I've found myself wondering if these guys have ANY idea of what appeals to women. Some of the pictures defy description. Others show some guy squinting into the sun with a decidedly angry look on his face. Some look like those "Wal-Martian" horrors we all share on the internet. Some guys have teeth, some have so much facial hair you'd be hard-pressed to define any facial features. Some are these old codgers proudly holding up a freshly-caught fish. (Yeah - now THAT'S really appealing.) Some are dressed like pimps we see in the movies. And my favourites are the guys in "do-rags" and muscle shirts proudly standing astride or in front of their gleaming Harleys. Some wear gold chains and earrings - others look like Hell's Angels. Or axe-murderers. One guy's photograph just showed his bald head, his eyebrows, and the tops of his glasses.
As time went on, I found a very few that piqued my interest, and availed myself of the "Send A Message" service. Most didn't respond, and those who did seemed to have a major literacy problem. What I ultimately realized was the seemingly illiterate ones were immigrants - and English was their second language. That didn't bother me so much - I understand how tough the English language can be for those who didn't grow up speaking it. What did bother me was what I've come to believe is a cultural difference. These guys immediately launch into barely-understandable poetic word images of love and passion, expressing their desires to show ME how beautiful I am! And how I am a "treasure" to be cherished and loved and "caressed." Huh? What?!! Wait just a minute here! Who said anything about "caressing?" The only thing I know about you, pal, is that you're 68, and you live in Dundalk! You want "caressing," you'd better choose another stranger. Good grief!
I switched dating sites. The pickings were moderately better, although one of the latest candidates lives so far down south, he'd have to have a Lear jet to meet me for coffee. He's also an absolute "hunk," whose photos look professionally produced - and he's looking for someone to help him raise his motherless teenagers. The red warning flags are waving in my brain. Do I look like a football player from Notre Dame?
All hope rests on a man who seems to be a "regular guy." No fish, no motorcycles, no earrings - and not one word about "physical chemistry," passion or "caressing." English is his native language. He's in the right age range, geographically feasible, intelligent-looking, and interesting. We're going to meet at a half-way point for lunch this weekend in a very public restaurant, and we'll see what comes of it.
The inner me wonders how I came to slide down this rabbit-hole - and it's hard not to feel sorry for myself. What am I doing here? How many Tweedle-Dums and Tweedle-Dees will it take to find a movie companion for this aging grandmother who'd just like to have some fun? I have plenty of "chemistry" in my daily pill regimen - and my dogs love to be caressed. I'm passionate about my grandchildren and good music. It'd just be nice to have someone to share it all with.
Okay - it's been a little over two years now, and although the LAST thing I want is another husband, I'd sure love to meet someone to at least go to the movies with. He doesn't have to be an Adonis - just someone reasonably intelligent with a sense of humour, who understands words of more than one syllable. So I take a deep breath and sign up for a journey into the vast mysterious world of on-line dating. On the advice of a friend, I sign up on one of those over-50 sites, which promises "perfect" matches and love and romance beyond my wildest dreams. Well, hey, who wouldn't want that?
So I fill out the "dating history" form - (what "dating"? I was married for the better part of 50 years, and whatever dating I did prior to that is pretty dim in my memory - except that in those days we had "rules," about what "nice" girls did and didn't do.) And I go through all the choices about who/what I'm looking for, age ranges, and geographical distances. And what are my interests? And do I like children? What do I read, what movies do I like? Do I like dogs? Blah-dee-dah-dee-dah. I specifically state that I am NOT looking for marriage, and I have an aversion to men in muscle shirts who ride motorcycles. I am painfully honest about my age, # of children, # of grandchildren, and indicate that I'm looking for someone who is well-read and has some vitality.
Well, Holy Moley! There was no way I could have known what I was getting into. Each day, when I opened my e-mail, there would be 5 "matches" awaiting my perusal. Now don't get me wrong - I LOVE men. But I've found myself wondering if these guys have ANY idea of what appeals to women. Some of the pictures defy description. Others show some guy squinting into the sun with a decidedly angry look on his face. Some look like those "Wal-Martian" horrors we all share on the internet. Some guys have teeth, some have so much facial hair you'd be hard-pressed to define any facial features. Some are these old codgers proudly holding up a freshly-caught fish. (Yeah - now THAT'S really appealing.) Some are dressed like pimps we see in the movies. And my favourites are the guys in "do-rags" and muscle shirts proudly standing astride or in front of their gleaming Harleys. Some wear gold chains and earrings - others look like Hell's Angels. Or axe-murderers. One guy's photograph just showed his bald head, his eyebrows, and the tops of his glasses.
As time went on, I found a very few that piqued my interest, and availed myself of the "Send A Message" service. Most didn't respond, and those who did seemed to have a major literacy problem. What I ultimately realized was the seemingly illiterate ones were immigrants - and English was their second language. That didn't bother me so much - I understand how tough the English language can be for those who didn't grow up speaking it. What did bother me was what I've come to believe is a cultural difference. These guys immediately launch into barely-understandable poetic word images of love and passion, expressing their desires to show ME how beautiful I am! And how I am a "treasure" to be cherished and loved and "caressed." Huh? What?!! Wait just a minute here! Who said anything about "caressing?" The only thing I know about you, pal, is that you're 68, and you live in Dundalk! You want "caressing," you'd better choose another stranger. Good grief!
I switched dating sites. The pickings were moderately better, although one of the latest candidates lives so far down south, he'd have to have a Lear jet to meet me for coffee. He's also an absolute "hunk," whose photos look professionally produced - and he's looking for someone to help him raise his motherless teenagers. The red warning flags are waving in my brain. Do I look like a football player from Notre Dame?
All hope rests on a man who seems to be a "regular guy." No fish, no motorcycles, no earrings - and not one word about "physical chemistry," passion or "caressing." English is his native language. He's in the right age range, geographically feasible, intelligent-looking, and interesting. We're going to meet at a half-way point for lunch this weekend in a very public restaurant, and we'll see what comes of it.
The inner me wonders how I came to slide down this rabbit-hole - and it's hard not to feel sorry for myself. What am I doing here? How many Tweedle-Dums and Tweedle-Dees will it take to find a movie companion for this aging grandmother who'd just like to have some fun? I have plenty of "chemistry" in my daily pill regimen - and my dogs love to be caressed. I'm passionate about my grandchildren and good music. It'd just be nice to have someone to share it all with.
Thursday, November 15, 2012
Harry Chapin's Song
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..."
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..."
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.
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