Monthly Archives: September 2015

Making My Bed

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I am making my bed tonight, with the freshly laundered duvet cover. It is a queen size duvet and it is a struggle to get the duvet cover onto the duvet single-handedly. I struggled with this job the first four years after Bill’s death, and about six months ago I searched on YouTube for a solution.  There had to be an easier way. You can find almost anything on YouTube, from cleaning patios with a power washer to cleaning out plumbing lines to getting a duvet into its cover single-handedly. 

Bill and I used to do this job together, each of us grabbing a lower corner of the duvet and then quickly stuffing it to the upper corner of the cover. Then we would race to button the buttons on the opening, each trying to beat the other to the center of the row. Finally, together we would grab the corners of the duvet in its cover and shake it vigorously to fluff it out. The whole process always felt like a timed competition, but we got the job done.

Tonight I follow the directions from YouTube:  I lay the inside-out duvet cover on the bed, with the opening at the bottom of the bed. Lay the duvet on top of it. Tie the cords of the duvet to each loop of the four corners of the duvet cover; mine has cords and they keep the duvet from sliding around. Then I start at the top and roll the duvet and cover, like a jelly roll or burrito. When I reach the bottom, I reach inside and pull the cover over each of the ends, and then start rolling it back to the top of the bed-—this last part is the tricky bit and confuses me, but it comes out all right in the end. The duvet cover is on the outside, and I slowly button the buttons on the opening, working from right to left, calmly, quietly. I am reminded of the tea ceremony Bill and I  attended in China: every movement calm and measured.

At last I grasp the bottom corners of the duvet and gently fluff it into the air, white against the peach walls of my bedroom. It settles quietly on the bed and lies still. My bed is made.

Road Trip

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A few days ago I returned from a road trip that covered over three thousand miles, from my home to northern Minnesota and back. My thirteen year-old granddaughter Emma was with me.

 It was a trip that Bill and I had taken many times over the years, and that I had driven one-way a few times when our children were in their teens. Bill was always the principal driver; I was the relief pitcher, who took the wheel during the long boring stretches through western Indiana. Once in a while I drove more challenging sections, but Bill always did the tough parts, like getting through and around cities.

I thought about that as Emma and I tried to make our way through Indianapolis, where I think the motto must be “You Can’t Get There from Here.” But we did it, after heading up the wrong interstate and having to reverse ourselves. I tried to keep each day’s drive to eight hours of driving time, maximum, having learned my lesson from last summer when I drove ten hours one day.

new car

On the return trip, we took a two day break, something that Bill and I never did. We dipped south and spent two days at the Kentucky Horse Park in Lexington, patting the soft faces of many mares and geldings. In a way, the trip symbolized the strong independent person I have become. I can drive every mile, even the toughest ones.