I have had the privilege of life-long good health and strength. Chalk it up to the vigilance of a mother, who before it was “cool”, in vogue, best practice believed in the benefits of unprocessed foods, fruits and veggies, seasonal eating and cooking “from scratch”. I was a child who had avocado and tomato sandwiches on pumpernickel bread for my lunches as a school kid. Often there were prunes or dates as a sweet—items I liked though secretly longing for a “Twinkie” or a “Ho Ho” like my classmates. We ate eggs throughout the era of “one a week to protect one from heart attacks”, butter in moderation, olive oil in our homemade dressings and bananas “a perfect food” as my mother used to say. She believed that what is most natural is God-given and messing it up with preservatives can only be harmful. Hence, perhaps my years of optimal wellness.
FIRE PIT MEMORIES...
The air is light, fragrant. Smoke, curls high up into the trees. Our clothes will retain this smokey fragrance. We talk of everyday things. We talk of important matters. We may need to iron out a misunderstanding. Often we are silent, listening to the crack and sizzle and spitting sounds ’til a chill drives us inside.
The “now” intrudes. The fire pit is a metaphor. A talisman of days gone by. A reminder of the never again-ness of life without my best friend. The ache I feel is there still. It’s been four years.
WIDOW TALES, ON BEING A WIDOW AT CHRISTMAS, YEAR 4...
Christmas has just past. New Year events lie ahead. I’m listening to George Winston’s album, December that I must have played a hundred times over the years since it first came out. Music can pull me powerfully into another era, draw out memories once buried, cause me to relive the once upon a time, long ago’s of my 57 years of loving Bob.
LINGERING SPRING, YEAR THREE, WIDOW MUSINGS…
Spring comes hard to the Midwest. This morning a 29 mile an hour wind buffets oaks, slants rain horizontal, creeps into window crevices, plummets temperatures to high 30’s. It could snow tomorrow! I clutch hot coffee with both hands. Watch from my bed nature’s onslaught. Defying the golden hope of warmer days, benign winds. Defying a spring when all of Nature’s varied greens abound.
CAR TALES, WIDOW MUSINGS, BEGINNING YEAR THREE…
My old Jeep Cherokee sits forlorn, hunkered among the gleam and glitz of models who glare new-ness in the afternoon sun. My old Jeep served us well. Never mind leather worn seats, a nick or two on her body. Never mind I’ve put money into her since Bob died, me on yet another learning curve called “car maintenance”.