December 20^th, 2014

The furnace sounded as though pots of water were boiling at high temperatures. It is a boiler that has two circulating pumps for the two zones of my house—living and sleeping zones. It had been making funny noises for about three weeks. It sits right next to my living room and kitchen, in a small closet. I could not remember ever hearing the boiler making such noises, but perhaps I was imagining it. Perhaps it always had made those noises? Had Bill been alive, we would have talked about it and compared impressions. But when you are living alone, you can only talk to yourself. I thought I would call my furnace company after Christmas and ask them to check it out.

That evening my son called, and I described the problem which seemed to be getting worse. “It sounds like an air bubble in the system,” he said, “call the furnace company.” The noise was so annoying that I decided to take his advice. It was after business hours, so I sent an e-mail, and early the next morning I got a phone call: the tech would be at my house between nine and twelve.

Jon the tech showed up at 10:00 am and spent over three hours diagnosing the problem. It was more than an air bubble. Part of the house was not receiving any heat. The pipes that ran through the attic to the addition were cold, and temperatures that night were expected to be in the 20s. Jon finally tracked down the problem to one of the two circulating pumps; he said it was running backwards. I am still trying to figure that concept out.

Jon went off to the supply store and brought back a new pump. Meanwhile my Memoir Writing Group friends arrived for our annual holiday party. Many kept their coats on because there was no heat, but I had cleaned and decorated the house, and it was very festive.  Jon left at four o’clock with the furnace now running, while the party was in full swing. The bill was $536.28.

I woke up this morning. The furnace was running quietly, bringing the temperature in the house to the daytime setting. Outside the temperature was 22 degrees. Had I not called the furnace company, the pipes in the attic might have frozen.  Next time something seems not right, I will listen to my instincts.

November 21, 2014

“Let the wind take care of them!” That was Bill’s approach to the autumn leaves that covered our lawn. And the wind did take care of many of them, blowing them off the lawn, onto the pasture, and then into the woods. Bill drove the lawn mower over the rest, shredding them into the grass. But the leaves of the maple tree in our back yard that fell onto the perennial beds below were too thick to ignore. They had to be raked and/or blown and hauled away. Since Bill’s death, I have been paying my lawn service to remove the leaves; it is too much work for me. They mow some of the leaves into the lawn and haul the rest to my woods.

A year ago I decided that I should turn those maple leaves into leaf mulch. I blew some of them onto the stable apron, out of the rain, and had the lawn service blow the rest of them to that spot, too. It was an impressive pile of leaves. I ordered a leaf shredder and set it up. It worked well, but shredding leaves is a messy process. I had to don a face mask and protective glasses. I wore old clothes and covered my head with a bandana. And I topped that off with protective ear muffs. I need to take a selfie!

I produced about twenty bags of shredded leaves before the weather turned so cold that I abandoned the job. And there the leaves sat until spring, getting in the way when I hauled the snow blower out of a horse stall, tripping me up when I carried the boxes of Christmas decorations to the house.  I finally shredded the rest of the leaves last April. I was slowed down one day when I inadvertently dumped a spool of nylon cord into the shredder; it was hidden among the leaves. There was a horrible racket and smoke before I could switch the shredder off. Then I spent an hour patiently picking melted nylon cord, strand by strand, off the central core of the shredder. Fortunately the shredder was not damaged.

Now the lawn service crew has just finished blowing the new crop of maple leaves onto the stable apron. I look at that massive pile of leaves and I remember all the tedious, dusty hours of work, bending down and picking up leaves in the plastic “bear claws,” dumping them into the shredder, removing the finished bags and stacking them. I wonder if I am crazy. But I also remember spreading those carbon-rich leaves on the raised beds in my vegetable garden, and layering them around the native plants in Bill’s memorial garden. Tomorrow I will don the old clothes, face mask, protective glasses, bandana, and protective ear muffs, and I will turn dead leaves into gold.

Enjoy this beautiful song recorded by my friend Sarah Jebian.

http://https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=owZW1iHTfCs&feature=youtu.be

November 13, 2014

Bill and I were lucky: for most of our lives together, we both were healthy. But there were some medical procedures.  When I had foot surgery twice, Bill was in the waiting room during the operations. He was there to hold my hand when the stitches came out. When I had a run-in with a wheelbarrow, Bill took me to the doctor and held my hand while the doctor stitched the v-shaped wound. We drove each other to colonoscopy appointments. He sympathized with all my dental procedures, while shaking his head at the costs.

And then came the night the tumor ruptured. It had been growing for years on Bill’s liver. When it ruptured, the cancerous cells scattered throughout his abdominal cavity and found new homes. I drove him to the emergency room, stayed by his bedside through the long night, waited while the surgeons operated. I went with him to all his appointments with the oncologist. He enrolled in a clinical trial at a nearby VA hospital, more to help with cancer research than with any expectation that the trial might benefit him. I went with him to most of those appointments. And I was by his side in our home, holding his hand, when he drew his last breath.

I thought of all of this yesterday, when I had laser surgery on a vein in my left leg. I missed Bill. I missed his holding my hand. I missed the love in his eyes.

October 30, 2014

We are lined up in our orange life jackets, wearing layers of jackets and fleeces, caps and hoods over our heads, waterproof mittens and boots on our hands and feet. The line of 130 people extends from Deck 4 down to the stern of Deck 2. I am standing on Deck 3. Black zodiac boats with their drivers at the tillers bob on the dark waves. The sun which had been shining cheerfully now has disappeared behind thick dark clouds. It is past six o’clock. No one is talking much. We are waiting for the captain of the expedition ship Via Australis to decide whether or not we can board the zodiacs and land on infamous Cape Horn. If the waves are too high and the wind too strong, we will not go.

Cape Horn is a small island, not a cape, and is the southernmost point of South America. To its south lies Drake’s Passage and Antarctica. Cape Horn is one of the stormiest and most dangerous passages in the world.  Winds blow cold and constant between 35 – 125 knots. Waves typically are between 80 to 120 feet rising out of freezing cold water and the likelihood of survival once overboard is minimal. Before the Panama Canal was dug, sailing ships rounded the Horn to reach the Pacific Ocean and California. Over ten thousand people have perished in these seas from shipwrecks.

Now we tourists are hoping to land on this treeless rock of an island and visit the memorial to the lost sailors. Though I have not heard of any tourists drowning, there have been many accidents—broken arms, broken legs, broken fingers and ankles. On the last landing our trip leader made, a tourist from another group broke her leg very badly, a compound fracture. My own accident on a bridge in the Amazon jungle in 2011 is vivid in my memory.

As we wait, I feel more and more apprehensive. The dark clouds and the shower of rain add to my worries. I can see Cape Horn quite clearly. I don’t need to land on it. The voice of caution in my head says, “Turn around. Get out of the line. Stay on the ship.” But I wait, hoping that the captain will take the decision out of my hands, and tell everyone not to disembark.

Finally there is a shouted command, and the line begins to move. Around me are my fellow travelers with whom I have been adventuring for over a week. Their presence gives me some courage. Also, we have boarded and disembarked from the zodiacs several times the past few days, though never with so difficult a landing, and I know the crew are strong and take good care of us. I will trust my life to them.

To my right is the board holding the cabin numbers of the passengers. I hesitate for a moment, then unsnap the cabin tag from my life vest, and hang the tag from the hook below my cabin number: 417. It will await my return.

The line stops moving abruptly. The zodiacs have backed away from the ship again, and the ships’ engines are roaring; the captain is moving the ship to better position the stern for the oncoming battering waves. We wait, and then the line begins to move again. The metal steps are slippery with rain, and I walk down carefully, leading left foot, left foot, like a child. My knees are bone on bone, with bone spurs, and this trip has been very hard on them.

The zodiac is lashed to the ship with a rope, and a crew member extends his arm to me. I grasp his forearm with my right hand, and step onto the rubber rim of the zodiac, then down into the boat, sit down on the rim and slide to the stern, up against one of my shipmates. Loaded with twelve passengers, we back away from the ship.

I grab the rope that runs around the top of the zodiac rim with my right hand and hang on tightly. The waves are rough and the driver zigzags the boat to keep from being overturned. To my left one of the German women is bent all the way over into the zodiac. I had heard her talking to her husband earlier, obviously pleading not to go. He replied that it was the highlight of the trip. I could make that much out, even though I don’t speak German. She is plainly terrified. So am I.

Some of the German tourists start singing loudly. The zodiac driver is laughing. I am saying a four letter word over and over, under my breath. As we reach the cove of the island, the waves are not as bad, but the water still is very rough. Two of the crew are clad in wetsuits and standing in the water, up to their waists, to help secure the zodiac and hold it next to the landing site.

With the help of the crew, the passengers disembark. One by one we slide to the bow of the zodiac, as far up as we can, swing both legs to the left over the side, and step onto the water- swept ramp. I have short legs but I manage to disembark without getting my feet very wet. The ramp leads to the wooden stairway that climbs the side of the cliff.

I start the long painful climb, being careful because the wooden stairs are slippery with rain, and in some places rotten. I am thankful for the railing which I grab to pull myself up each step. On the lower part of the stairs there are landings where I can stop and rest and take some photographs. I lose count of the number of stairs.

Finally I am at the top of the cliff. From here to the right, a wooden board walk and steps leads to the sailors’ memorial erected in 1992—a round metal disc with the center perforated by a stylized albatross. To the left the walk leads to a chapel and the lighthouse, where a member of the Chilean navy and his family currently are stationed. When I step out of the shelter at the top of the stairs, I am blasted by the wind. The wind was bad on the steppes of Patagonia, but it is much worse here. It is difficult to stand still and take a photograph.

The passengers are bent over and staggering along the walkway, where there are no railings. They look like figures in the final scene of Bergman’s movie, The Seventh Seal. I debate whether or not to go all the way to the memorial and finally decide against it. I am on Cape Horn, I do not need to go any further, and I need to save my strength to descend the steps safely.

Already some of the passengers from the first few boats are returning to go down the cliff, and after taking a few more photographs, I turn and start down the stairs. A few feet below me, one of my fellow travelers slips on the wet stairs and slides down a few feet. She says she is not hurt. I hold the railing a bit tighter. The sun has partially emerged from the clouds; it is much lower on the horizon. Our hour on the island is almost up.  

I get into a waiting zodiac, swinging both legs into the boat. The waves seem to be bigger now, and I lean into the boat, as the German woman did. Now I am repeating softly my mantra from The Hobbit: there and back again, there and back again. The zodiac bobs and leaps toward the ship.

The rope to secure the boat is lying by my foot, and I lean over to pick it up and throw it toward the bow, but my body is blocking the motorman’s view of the ship’s ladder. He shouts at me to sit up, which I quickly do. He tries several times to get the zodiac close enough to the ship for a crewman to climb down to help us. Finally one of the crew climbs into the boat.

When it is my turn to get out, I slip and fall, my right knee landing heavily on the black rim of the boat. I can feel the blood welling to the surface, but I clamber upright and take the extended arm of the crewman, grasping the ladder of the ship with my other hand, and climb up to safety.  

That night is our last on the Via Australis. We toast the success of the expedition with champagne. The boat crews are ecstatic and beaming; they achieved a rough landing with no one injured. And me? I am ecstatic, too. I made it, there and back again.  

  Poem at the Sailors’ Memorial

I, the albatross that awaits for you at the end of the world…

I, the forgotten soul of the sailors lost that crossed Cape Horn from all the seas of the world.

 But die they did not in the fierce waves,

 for today towards eternity in my wings they soar

in the last crevice of the Antarctic winds

Sara Vial Dec – 1992  

For me, dinner time now is the hardest part of the day. During my 45 years of marriage, dinner time was not just consuming food, but a ritual, a time for the family to sit down together at the dining room table, to eat and talk. Sometimes there were arguments, but we were together. After the children were grown and out of the house, Bill and I continued the traditions that we had begun in our first year of marriage: lighting two candles, saying grace, having dinner together, whether soup or hamburgers or something fancier that Bill who was the more daring chef was trying for the first time. The radio would be on, playing classical music, but the television never was on during dinner time. 

Now my dinners are very simple—a frozen pizza, a scrambled egg, prepared soup from the grocery store. They certainly are not well balanced. A nutritionist would give me a good scolding. Sometimes dinner is microwave popcorn. (I was relieved to hear from another widow that she often eats popcorn for dinner.) Food is not very interesting when you are the only one eating—at least that is what I have found. Sometimes I sit on the couch and balance a plate of food and my iPad, watching a TV show via Netflix.  Other nights I sit at the dining room table, in one of the comfortable teak chairs I purchased after Bill’s death with a book by my plate. I cannot bring myself to light a candle, though I light the candles when family or friends are here for dinner. And how pleasant those gatherings are! Also wonderful are lunches with friends. I usually eat enough at those lunches that I don’t need any dinner.  

I am interested in hearing how other widows or women who find themselves alone after a divorce cope with the dinner hour.  Perhaps in time I will be able to light the candles for dinner for one.