March 17, 2014

When I was growing up, I seldom had a room of my own. For a brief time when I was ten, I had a room of my own, the alcove off the living room. During my high school years, I shared a large room with my younger sister. In college, I had a single room my freshman year, but after that I shared a room with my roommate.  And of course after our marriage, I shared a bedroom with my husband Bill, first in apartments, later in houses.

Two months after Bill died of cancer in our bedroom, I had a strong compulsion to re-decorate the room and I went about it without stopping to figure out why. I brought home samples of peach paint and painted sections of foam board so I could move the boards around under different light. I removed as much furniture as I could and painted the ceiling a light peach and the walls one shade darker. I painted the already white woodwork a crisp white. I replaced the pleated white window shades, dingy from years of use, with Shoji style shades made of paper and bamboo. I ordered a white and brushed nickel ceiling fan, and my son installed it for me. I bought sliding mirror doors to replace the heavy wooden doors on the closet. I did not rearrange the teak furniture, only moved the bed slightly closer to one wall—Bill’s side of the bed.  A friend helped me re-hang the oriental artwork, and I found woodcut style decals of three swallows to put on the walls.  I worked very hard for almost a month.

At the time I did not puzzle about why I was painting and redecorating. Only later did I wonder, and discussed the compulsion with a friend. “You had to make it yours,” she said. I think that is right. The room had been my room and Bill’s for thirty-three years, and now I needed to make the room mine, in order to stay in it. I needed the room to be familiar and yet different, more feminine.

Now in the morning I wake up and admire the peach walls and ceiling as the sunshine gradually fills the room. The sun shines through the eastern window that Bill gazed at during his last days. I turn my eyes to the opposite wall where the Chinese calligraphy that I ordered from Hong Kong now hangs above the mirrored closet doors. The calligraphy offers a blessing for a long, healthy, and peaceful life. May it be so.

February 9, 2014

 Bill and I were married 45 years, and on the whole they were happy years. Of course there was sturm und drang especially during the children’s growing up years. But the years after Bill’s retirement were especially mellow and happy.

 Before he died of cancer, Bill said he was sure that men would be buzzing around me like bees around a honey pot. I guess that was because he thought I was special. But no bees have shown up, and I have not gone out looking for any. I was lucky to find the best man in the world for me when I was only nineteen—that is how old I was when Bill and I met. There may another man out there for me, but frankly I don’t have the energy to go look. One widow I know said she had started dating again, and I felt an involuntary shudder. To start dating again at the age of 71! It was terrifying enough the first time around.

Several widows I know have remarried. One met a man in her new neighborhood a few years after her husband’s death.  They enjoy travel and golf and their blended families. Another remarried a year after her husband died to the new man next door. Another much younger widow has found a new love, and I am very happy for her; she is way too young to spend the rest of her life alone. 

But I am content to walk this path by myself. Bill is gone, but not his love. It was his love that helped me to be the strong resilient woman that I am. I look at the bird bath sundial I gave him for an anniversary gift one year. Engraved on the rim are the words “Grow old along with me, the best is yet to be…”

January 23, 2014 

This week about six inches of snow fell on my hilltop, with record cold temperatures. When a snow was predicted, Bill used to put the snow shovel by the back door, bring in some fire wood, and park the truck and car so they aimed downhill. So on Monday, I got out the snow shovel, brought in fire wood, and aimed the car and truck downhill. In addition I bought fresh gasoline for the snow blower and got it out of the horse barn.  

I wish we had had a snow blower in February 2010. That was the year a record blizzard hit our area, dumping more than two feet of snow on top of an earlier snow so that accumulations were almost four feet. A lot for the Mid-Atlantic area. Thousands of people lost power to their homes, including Bill and me. We were without power for four days.  We had a portable generator, but during our storm preps we had neglected to move it from the horse barn to the back door of the house before the storm hit. Bill who had stage IV cancer had to dig a wide enough path to get the generator out of the barn and up to the house, so he could plug it in. That meant digging a 20 foot path through four feet of snow.  We had only one large container of gasoline for the generator, and thus could only run the generator for limited periods of time.

On Day Two after the storm, we were relieved when our son and one of his friends came slogging through thigh-high snow with four full containers of gasoline; they had hiked in from the nearby subdivision through unplowed roads, a real act of heroism and stamina. With the new stores of gasoline, Bill and I could run the generator for a limited number of circuits, but at least we had running water and some heat. We cheered when the power company crew appeared on our lane. Even after power was restored, we were snowbound until the snow plows cleared our road.  

Five months later in the month of June, Bill started the process of having a whole-house stand-by generator installed at our home. He died of cancer a week after the contract was signed.  

When snow falls, I no longer have to worry about being in the dark and cold alone, or going outside in the middle of the night to add gasoline to a portable generator. That stand-by generator was Bill’s last gift to me. Thank you, honey.

January 11, 2014 

My birthday is a few days after the turning of the year, and so each New Year I get a double whammy: a new year with all its promises, and the fact that I am a year older. This year with my 71^st birthday it hit me that there are many more grains of sand in the bottom of the hour glass than in the top– I am indeed growing older… and that this is an hour glass that I will not be able to turn over and start again. (Of course, Shirley MacLaine may be right and I may already have lived a number of lives.)

 How long might I live? Should I look to my family tree? 

Both my parents died in their early eighties. My father had a hemorrhagic stroke followed by paralysis and dementia, and died of pneumonia. My mother who died a year after my father had a faulty heart valve and died of congestive heart failure. They spent much of their seventieth decade traveling extensively in Europe. One year they rented out their home and were gone for six months. My parents were frugal travelers, but they were intellectually curious, independent travelers, and I think if I could ask them, they would have no regrets about the money they spent for travel.

My paternal grandmother lived to a very healthy 97. When she was 96, she flew with my aunt to the East Coast to see me and my family. Her mind and body were in excellent shape right to the end. She was writing her memoirs when she was 96. There is a possibility that the sands in the hour glass will last that long for me, too. And barring a major breakdown in government pensions and stock markets, my funds will last. But my health may not.

I have been reflecting on the fact of the dwindling sands of time this week, because I have been composing a list of all the home repairs and improvements that should be done or that I would like to have done. On another paper is the list of all the places that I would like to travel; I have been very fortunate to have traveled widely in my life, especially over the past seventeen years, but travel is my passion. I consider it an essential part of my continuing education. Do I spend my limited resources on my home? Or do I spend the minimum on my home, and push my travel up to two big trips a year, while I still am well and strong? One of my widow friends laughed when I posed the question. “If we knew the future,” she said, “then we would know how to spend our money.” 

I think I will follow my parents’ example, and travel as much as I can, while I can. Home improvements, beyond the necessary essential repairs, can wait. 

Carpe Diem

Yesterday was Christmas Day, the fourth Christmas without Bill. I know some widows decide they have to start new traditions, change the old patterns because they hold so much pain. They leave their homes and go to other cities, or they go to the homes of friends and relatives, or they go to a resort or on a cruise.  Perhaps that works for some. But for me the Christmas celebration is intertwined with home.  It would be much more painful for me to leave than to stay home for Christmas.

And also I know that “wherever you go, there you are.” You cannot run from sorrow and grief, you carry it with you.  On the first anniversary of Bill’s death, I was in Baja, Mexico. I had not planned for that particular family vacation to fall on the anniversary week of Bill’s death, it just happened to be the only time that we could arrange for the condo rental. I enjoyed the ocean breezes, the sunsets over the beach, and time with my daughter and family. But my heart was heavy with sorrow, and finally at one dinner I sat at the table with tears flowing silently down my cheeks, while my granddaughter stared, puzzled, until my daughter explained.

I think it probably is best to do whatever brings you the most comfort. For me at Christmas that means decorating my home, baking the traditional cookies, inviting family and friends here. And I take comfort from the memories of all the Christmases that Bill and I shared together. If you are a widow, what brings you comfort during traditional holidays?

Now– facing the New Year is another story, and I will write about that later.

A widow winds up buying some strange things. Here are some of the items I have purchased in the last three years, since my husband’s death.

1. A snow thrower. My son urged me to buy one three months after Bill’s death. I used it the first winter, but the last two winters we had very little snow. I can start it and run it, though it takes some muscle to turn it around. And my son has to do the annual maintenance. This was an expensive purchase.
2. A hand-cranked drain auger, or snake. So far I have cleaned out one clogged drain with this handy gadget, but it works well and is worth the money.
3. A Black & Decker screwdriver, battery powered. OK, this one is still in the packaging, but I have a plan to use it very soon! The battery powered drills that Bill used are just too heavy and bulky for my hand.
4. An electric pressure washer for patios. This works very well. The trick is getting a location to plug it in (extension cords don’t work) plus a water source with a long enough hose.  I wrote about this pressure washer in another posting, “Nothing Is Ever Easy.”
5. An electric leaf shredder by Worx. This product is easy to set up and shreds dry leaves quickly. It is dirty, dusty, and noisy work, but produces good leaf mulch for my flower beds.
6. An onboard fully automatic battery charger. I bought this for the old pick-up truck, at my son’s suggestion. He hooked it up to the truck battery, and I keep the charger plugged into household current. This was the solution to the dead battery problems, because I don’t drive the truck very often or very far. When people comment on the plug hanging out of the truck’s grill, I tell them it is an electric truck.
7. A Black & Decker cordless electric sweeper for exterior hard surfaces. Lightweight and easy to use, I can clean off three patios in ten minutes.

And my favorite is? I think it is a tie between the battery charger for the pick-up truck (it is so nice not to deal with a dead battery!) and the electric sweeper. The sweeper has a slight edge because the patios need to be swept frequently, and this handy tool actually makes the job fun.

Here is the ironic part of this story:  for my 30^th birthday, Bill gave me an electric blanket with dual controls. “Look!” said two and a half year old David, “an eyectic ba-ba!” I had given birth to our daughter two weeks earlier just before Christmas, and I really wanted something soft and feminine. I was not thrilled with an electric blanket, dual control or not.  I told Bill never to get me anything that plugged in unless I specifically asked for it.

Look at that list above. Six out of seven of these items plugs in.