Looking Ahead

Alyce is here. She is working on her wedding reception. She is smart and organized and is thinking of everything.

I am a good listener, and, when the snow is not swirling and covering everything in about five inches of itself, I can take her places. Such as we did yesterday. We found the little lights for the Chinese lanterns. We bought vases for the gorgeous yellow roses she'll have here and there. She also bought a cute little outfit for herself. (But that was beside the point, sort of.) We went to four hotels looking for their wedding night lodgings.

That was yesterday. Not today, though. The snow is swirling and laying itself over everything.

Mostly, I am her Idaho sounding board. I hope that is a good help. Well, I'm also the purse for out here.

May 1, 2009. Her wedding day. I think of the beauty. This place, the season, mostly our daughter.

Christmas Past

Music. It has blessed my life. And I love the music of the Christmas season, love to hear it and to sing it. Always I loved to sing the carols. We did that every year at home. My mom would play, and we would all sing.

Of course, I wanted to go caroling. When I was old enough to go to Mutual, I got my wish. We would gather at the church, climb into cars, and meet at the houses of friends, get out and sing, load up again, and drive to the next place and ooh and ah at the Christmas lights as we went. No snow to worry about. This was southern California.

The best times were the hayrides because we were out in the cold air, together with friends, singing carols through the town. And sitting on hay bales. Not sure why, but that made it so much better.

I grew up in Santa Monica, a beach town, so a hayride seems unlikely, but we did it. Our ward got a big flat-bed truck, stacked hay bales on it, and we kids piled on of a Christmas Eve. Then we met at someone's house at the end for hot cider or hot chocolate and cookies.

Always in our family, with our children, I wanted to go caroling on Christmas Eve, and usually we did. We made a decent little choir. My kids can sing, you know. As they grew, we grew from mostly melody to parts, with altos and tenors and more basses than one. (We'd always include "Far, Far Away On Judea's Plain," because we liked to hear our boys sing those low moving parts on the Glory to God refrain.)

Often we had snow to fuss with--Idaho is no beach town--and always we had to bundle up, but that was just part of it. When we got home, Daddy would light a fire. We'd peel off our coats and mittens and mufflers and caps, and have our own hot chocolate and a bowl of chili.

I love that we did it, love the memory of those times.

The Christmas Tree

It was always Wayne's job to string the lights on the tree.

We had differing ideas about what made a good looking tree. He liked sparse and open. I liked full and bushy. We usually compromised and got the kind I liked. We’d set it up together, and then he’d get the lights on. In the early days we had strings of lights with screw-in bulbs. They were Christmas lights, but they were bigger than what we use now. Once they were on the tree, I’d unscrew every bulb, put a reflector behind it, and screw it back in. I liked the reflected lights; they took me back to my own childhood Christmases. But those lights got hot, actually melted the needles of the fake tree we had for a while at 722.

I mention it because yesterday morning I finished putting the lights on the little tree I bought. Lola and Bryan came and helped me set it into the stand, and I keep it in plenty of water. The fragrance of it has sweetened the air in my house, which is why I always like a fresh tree. I’ve put it in the east corner by the front window. A good place, one we never used before, and I have fixed it so the light switch turns the tree lights on and off. Handy.

My wreaths are up already, and today I’ll finish trimming the tree, put the skirt around the bottom, vacuum the room, and set out some familiar Christmas pieces: the old snow globes, a few Santas, and my nativity set—made for me in 1979 by my friend Joyce. Then the house will be looking like Christmas.

But the lights. It’s a hard job for me to do alone, not impossible, but hard. I kept looking across the room as I worked to where the tree stood that last Christmas we had with Wayne. I knew he wouldn’t be there. It's nearly six years, after all, but I looked anyway, half expecting to see him. Well, that’s just what happens when you want something so much; you think it might happen.

I can see him in my memory, standing by the tree. That year, 2002, I came home a few days before Christmas. I had been somewhere out of town, visiting one of our children, I think, and had Christmas on my mind as I headed home. We’d need to get a tree, get going on things. You know how the mind goes home before you get there.

I walked in and there stood Wayne beside a big beautiful tree. He had chosen it—a compromise tree, sort of—brought it home, and decorated it entirely, lights and ornaments and everything else. It was all done. A surprise for me, a gift for me. I will not ever forget his face.

Now the rest I do not exactly remember. What I hope is that he saw in my face that I was pleased and very glad for his gift. No buts, no reservations, just “how wonderful it looks, how wonderful that you did this, oh thank you.” That is what I needed to say, to show him, because I saw in his face a clear, open plea for exactly that, for me to be happy with it. Oh how I hope I showed him that I was.

Stop! He Said To the Pea Juice As It Flowed Into the Mashed Potatoes

You probably didn't know this, but I grew up in a family where we all mixed our cereals, and so I thought cereal mixing was a universal practice. Not until Wayne and I were married did I learn the truth: it is not universal. Apparently it was a Brimley thing. It was not a Wayne Gordon Schiess thing. He did not mix cereals. Surprised I was, but I knew I could adjust. After all, such practices are a matter of choice. I did think he was missing out on something pretty okay. He did not think so, and the vehemence with which he declined to mix is what really stunned me. He was adamant, would not even entertain the thought of it.

He was equally adamant against sharing food, as in trading bites. That seemed to be more fundamental to me. I mean, if you love a person you might like to share. Not so with him. I tried to take his attitude not personally, and eventually I did. It was, for me, a matter of understanding and acceptance of him. My sister Lucile recalls that Wayne didn't like his foods to touch on his dinner plate. I'm not sure what prompted his attitude or his strictness in it. That's just the way he was, a phrase I became well acquainted with in the many years I knew him.

It's true. We are not all alike, and they say that's a good thing. Families have their customs and quirks, and those get passed along. In the Brimley family we liked to invite people over to share a meal. I wanted to invite people over for Thanksgiving dinner or Christmas. He did not want to, so we didn't. About the cereal, some of my kids mix, some don't. I think they're food/bite sharers. Not actually positive there.

This post is prompted by Ann's Cereal regulations. Carol's Corner will have more to say on the subject of cereal.

Thanksgiving Report

The day has passed. Thanksgiving. It saw us actually giving thanks some. Ann's doing. Wow.

And it brought my granddaughter Cory for a Saturday stay, and, because she was here, all who live here and are affiliated with this family came to see her. All except Michelle, who was sick, and Jeremy who was working on his school project due today.

We did draw names and have the customary debate associated with that activity. The subject is not always the same, but there is just about always a debate. We did laugh a lot and tell stories, do a dance step or two, chase after the little kids, eat sandwiches and yum-yums, and mostly just sit around. I guess that's our main way of having a good time.

Twenty-four sleeps until Christmas, Clayton.

Thanksgiving Approaches

Four more sleeps from now, to be exact.

Be it known I have much that I am thankful for, of which I will cite only two things: 1. That about 12 people from the Park Center Ward came yesterday and raked up all my leaves; 2. Mostly and always, my family. It's a right bunch of people. Strange, as we know, but funny and bright and good.

I believe some of my family will come to my house for turkey dinner on Thanksgiving Day. They'll bring side dishes and such. We'll visit and eat and draw names for the Christmas gift exchange. We've done it all before. Pretty traditional. Nothing terribly exciting and nothing disconcerting, I hope.

We'll mention Wayne, no doubt, probably comment on the Pumpkin Pie, which I will likely buy at Costco. It will be good, I'm sure, but it won't be his, and that is certainly worth a mention. But I expect we'll have a fine time together, probably eat too much, maybe even talk about what we're all thankful for. Just kidding.

Keeping Up

Standing in the check-out line at Winco yesterday, I heard someone call my name. It was George Huff, recent widower of Gretta. She was 96 when she died two months ago; George is 13 years younger, as he used to like to mention--before she died--and for the last three or more years has done everything, which he also liked to mention. "And I mean everything," he would say, "inside the house and outside. It's wearing me out."

Toward the last, he couldn't keep up with all that needed to be done, so they had someone come in for a while in the mornings. Hospice, I suppose.

Since her death George has cried a lot. I have seen it, how it comes over him unexpected, and have been sad for him but glad he misses her. I mean, doing everything did not wear out his love--that it would not may seem obvious, but I mention it anyway.

Yesterday he was chipper, chatty, his usual self, and he offered to take me for my basal cell surgery Wednesday--with his daughter Carolyn, of course, because it wouldn't be proper for just the two of us to ride alone in a car. He told me again about his recent skin adventures. This was the second time he had told me, and I won't be surprised if he tells me again when he sees me after my surgery. A red head, George has had many skin adventures, I'm sure, in his 83 years. I thanked him for his offer and declined.

We talked more as I placed my food items on the moving belt. Then I noticed the Star Trek-like gizmo attached to his left ear. "George," I said. "You're wired."

"Oh, yes," he said. "I'm a real tech-y."

I told him he is very cool.

I knew he had a cell phone now. It's Carolyn's way of keeping track of him, making sure he's okay. But the ear piece is new. Very direct, her calls going immediately into his ear. Carolyn, a nurse, is working nights, he told me, and calls him in the morning when she gets off work before she goes home. Just to know that he's okay.

It's a good idea, I say, as long as he remembers to put the thing on.

Poem

Etude
Carol Schiess
for Wayne, for Carol

I
Sleep is a deep spinning dive
through dark water to a cavern
bright with the light of you,
where the sudden saving breath
inhales the scent of you
lingering on the skin,
where the quickening touch
is your fingers
wiping water from my face.

II
In sleep the muscles relent,
tissues, cells give over
to all they resist waking.
The body can move
through fire,
absorbing heat,
until it throws back the covers,
spreads the arms wide
in welcome.

III
At the piano a small girl sits,
playing again again and now again
a certain passage, the notes
before her. Someone weeps.
Perhaps she
weeps. Tears run
down the page, notes
blur, fingers turn
wooden,
hearing fails, her mother--
not there before--
walks from the room
shaking her head. Sleep
is a reaching, an invasion
of fears, of loss, of something
never found.

Jeff's Mom

Jeff is my son-in-law. His mom died last Friday. Shirley. And it makes me sad. She's 67, still young. Lola says Shirley was always so happy, so easy to be around. People were drawn to her. It's sad to lose someone like that. I hope Jeff can talk about it with his Nevada relatives, that is if he wants to.

No, I'm not going to carry on or wallow in the sadness I feel about it, because that would just take me right back to losing Wayne. But I will say--not for the first time--that for me death is the hardest part of life. It is the trial of my faith.

My friend Mike, in his early 50s, is ready to go, he says. Anytime. Not that he's looking for ways to die. No. But that he does not fear it. "Whenever He wants to take me," he told me the other day, "I'll be ready and more than glad to go." That has never been my view of things.

Do you think there is a way to change one's point of view on this issue? I mean, what good does it do to be afraid?

Shirley had projects, things she wanted to do, stuff she was working on. I say good for her. And I think I can hear her say, "Life is short. Live. Do things now."

Milque

I just now poured myself a glass of milk, took a drink, and was suddenly back at 722 drinking goat's milk. Yes, that's what today's glass of Kirkland milk tasted like, and I wondered if the dairy people ever slip goat's milk in with the cow's milk before sending it to the place where they pasteurize and homogenize it. Probably not.

Not that the milk tasted bad, just that it tasted like our goat's milk.

We had two goats: Cookie, a big, cantankerous alpine, and Carni, a chocolate brown Toggenberg with a gentler temperament. She was small and clearly not the alpha female. Cookie was, and a good milk producer, too, but she may have thought she was a billy, the way she acted like the boss of everything and liked to play ram tough with Paul.

We also had the Davises' two goats at our house, well, in the pen. Cookie ran their lives, too. And, incidentally, four goats make a lot of goat poop, if you'll pardon me. But that is a story in itself and will have to wait to be told.

Our milk was good or not so good, depending on what we fed our goats. We sought and bought the freshest, sweetest hay we could find. Sometimes hay was hard to get, and always it cost more than we thought it should. We could have thrown grass clippings over the fence; no doubt the goats would have eaten it. But we didn't do that, at least not very often. We were selling the milk and drinking it ourselves, so we were careful.

We had a nectarine tree and would give the goats a nectarine now and then, which they seemed to like a lot. We'd watch Cookie chomp the fruit and spit the seed out the side of her mouth. (How else, Carol?) She would bump Carni out of the way when we came with the nectarines, so we had to be quick and sneaky to get a treat to Carni. We didn't give nectarines to the Davises' goats. Why should we? By the way, we bought the goats from Phyllis Friend. She named them. We didn't.

Wayne built a couple of milking stands--he and Terry Davis did--which stayed on our patio. Every day, twice a day, we'd go down and drag those goats up to the patio for milking and try to get them there before they ate the peach tree we were trying to grow at the top of the slope near the patio. Terry didn't seem too concerned about that tree, seemed to think it was okay for his goats to eat it. Before long, we had to take it out, what was left of it.

We'd feed the goats oats with honey, which they loved, while we milked. We couldn't dilly-dally at it. Get the milking done before the oats were gone and hope the goat didn't step in the milk bucket. Then we'd weigh the milk, keep a record of how much our goats gave. I don't know why.

It started out that Wayne and I did most of the milking. I believe our children do not remember it that way. Soon enough they were all involved, and the only one who really wanted to milk was the one who couldn't. Ann. Too little. I think even Alyce milked sometimes. Not sure. But I'm sure of this. They all have their own stories about the goats, milking, drinking the milk, and so on.

We had to buy a new fridge, one without a freezer, so we could keep our gallon jars of milk in it. Goats were expensive, we found.

Sometimes the people who bought our milk just didn't show up, and we would have an awful lot of milk on hand, so to speak. I made cheese and more cheese. I made ice cream a'plenty, and goat's milk, with its richness and high fat content, made wonderful ice cream. But you can't make it every hour, you know.

About the fat. Fat particles in cow's milk are big, and they adhere to the body's mucus membranes and so cause allergies, ear infections, etc. Fat particles in goat's milk are very small and are easily digested. That is why doctors recommend it for babies and children who cannot tolerate cow's milk or who are having chronic ear infections. Which is why people bought our milk.

We took our goats out to Phyllis Friend's and had them bred. I say baby goats are the cutest animals ever. But we had no room for more goats, so we sold the babies, even though we knew the buyers were going to eat them. Don't think about it. Davises kept one of Carni's babies, Martha. Eventually, they built a new house with a goat pen and moved their goats down there.

But the day came when we had to give up the goats. We were not selling enough milk, and, as I said, people sometimes didn't show up, even after they had called to be sure we had their milk. I never understood that. What it meant was we had too much milk and could not afford to keep the goats if we were going to pour the milk down the drain, which we had to do now and then.

I don't remember who bought them. It was the end of what I always considered a good time for our family, one of those times when we all worked together on something. I don't know if they all see it that way. I'm pretty sure Wayne did.

I Took Him With Me, Sort Of

Just back from my 50-year high school reunion. I liked it, seeing the place again, the ocean, the neighborhoods I knew--many changed, many not, but more people there in Santa Monica by far than when I grew up there. Fun to visit with the people I grew up with. We met for dinner Friday night at the end of Santa Monica Pier and for the reunion proper Saturday night at the Marina. Beautiful days and nights, beautiful air, good people.

Big graduating class: about 750 people. We had about 300 there.

At the reunion, I didn't really expect people to mention Wayne, but clearly that was what I wanted. Some did. Some were reticent to, no doubt. I saw Danny O'Mahoney. Oh yes, he remembers Wayne very well. Got reaquainted with Bob and Bruce and Chuck and others I went to school with from kindergarten on.

I vow, every now and then, to keep moving forward, however one does that. I vowed that again at the reunion.

George and Gretta

I sat down beside George Huff yesterday before church to see how he was doing. Last Sunday he said he was doing fine. Yesterday he said he was okay, which, I'd say, is less than fine. I asked him, and wished I hadn't, how it is now living in that house without Gretta. He began to cry and could not speak. I put my arm around him and said, "Oh George, I'm sorry."

He was a few moments recovering, then said, "It'll get better, won't it? You know. You've been there."

I said, "Yes, it will get better, but it might not be tomorrow."

I patted his back and looked up at his daughter, Carolyn, who is still coming to our ward, this time for him instead of Gretta, and who, I am sure, is staying very close to him. She looked at me and frowned in sympathy for her dad.

Something Small

It was January 12, 2007. I lost Wayne’s ring, his wedding ring which I have worn on the middle finger of my right hand since soon after he died.

I had gone to bed early but woke with a start at about 10:45 p.m. and thought to feel my hand for the ring. It was not there. Funny how such a thing can wake you from a sound sleep. I threw back the covers and felt all over the bed, looked on the dresser, on the floor, in the closet, in the pockets of everything I had worn for the last two days. I had no idea when it had slipped off.

I thought it might be in the gloves I had worn to shovel snow. No. Not in the car. Not in the washer. Not in the hampers or the jewelry box. I went to bed again. In the morning I looked again in the gloves and pockets. No. I prayed to find it, but I didn’t have much faith, I’m afraid.

The whole thing made me sad. You know.

Next day I went to Lola’s, to Costco, to Office Max, and came home. The driveway snow had melted by then. I had items in the trunk, so I walked back to get them and saw the ring on the driveway pavement about five feet behind my car. I had driven over it backing out and coming in.

Small thing? Sure, but it felt like a little miracle to me. Could I live without the ring? Sure, but I am glad I don't have to.

Track and Field

In my jewelry box I have a small silver medal.
Engraved on its back:
1958
2nd Place
High
Jump

It's Wayne's from the East Los Angeles track relays of 1958. That was the year before he left on his mission to Uruguay, which means he was on the track team from Santa Monica City College. He had spent a year at BYU and had come home to go to school. I'm not sure why.

I polished up the medal several months ago and wore it on a chain around my neck to church. It's not classy, not real jewelry, but I like it. If you're trying to picture the medal, don't think round.

Wayne had other medals, but this is the one I have. He gave it to me, which was a big deal. You know?

In high school Wayne ran cross-country one season and was on the track team the next. He ran the high hurdles and pole vaulted and did the high jump. He was a good hurdler with his long legs and good form. I don't know if he pole vaulted at the ELA relays, but he was pretty good at it in high school. I have a newspaper clipping with a picture of him sailing over the pole. I always thought it a complicated event: run at just the right speed carrying that long pole in front, plant the pole at just the right instant, then use your muscles and the spring of the pole to get yourself over that bar way up there. And these were the days before the modern fiber glass poles or whatever they're made of now. The pole he used was wood. I think his highest vault was 14 feet.

I used to sit on the brick wall at our school and wait for him. He'd come up after practice, and we would walk home together.

Addendum.
A conversation with Andrew has caused me to say it was likely not 14 feet. Not that high.

Just One of Those Things A Person Remembers

Wayne worked at Everest & Jennings Wheelchair Manufacturing Company before his mission and for a short while after we were married. That's where he knew Lester Madison, Cody's dad. We went to school with Cody, a rough-edged wiry blond kid you couldn't help liking.

Wayne said Lester told him many things as they worked together every day and Lester swore pretty much, but I only know one thing Lester said. He was worried about his daughter and told Wayne she might have to go to the hospital because she had a cisk on her ovulies.

Wow! It's Fifty Years

September I will go down to Santa Monica for my 50-year high school reunion. For that occasion, I am Alyce Brimley, Samohi class of ’58.

I went in 2004 to our 46-year reunion, an unlikely number, but obviously this class likes to get together. Maybe the reunion organizers—Monica, Bob, Donna, Janice, Jim, and others—are afraid too many of our 630+ members will die before we can meet and say, Wow! It’s fifty years.

In 2004 I took my three daughters because I could not handle going alone. Wayne was dead, and we wouldn’t be walking in together. Lola, Alyce, Ann—they were good to go with me, and we visited my Aunt Allie in La Cañada, and we visited Disneyland, Lola’s favorite place. But the death part is what I meant to say something about.

There was a written program, and on it a mention of people in our class who had died. Wayne was not in our class, he was class of ’57, but as my husband his name would appear there. I looked. It didn’t. But Kent Woolley’s did. I knew Kent wasn’t dead. He had visited me in Boise, told me about his heart attack or stroke or whatever it was. Yes, he had been ill, but he wasn’t dead. Someone on the committee thought Wayne was ill and Kent had died. It seems funny, but it's kind of a big mistake, don't you think?

This year I will actually have to go alone. I have reservations for my flight, car, and hotel, but I'm feeling a little apprehensive about it. I suppose I should do some mental imaging, see myself getting there in good order, driving safely up to Marina del Rey, wearing something smashing (it could happen) as I enter a room full of people I used to know, and then see myself feeling okay about being there. It would help if I could be thin by then. Superficial it may be, but I don't want folks to say, "Look what's happened to Alyce since Wayne died."

Missing Wayne, But Don't Worry About Me

1. His hands

2. How he would take his wedding ring off his finger and put it on the top of his ear to hold the pinched skin together.

3. His dry, corny wit. I’d love the hear him tell a joke, like the one about the guy who didn’t like the doctor’s diagnosis and said he wanted a second opinion. “Okay,” said the doctor, “you’re ugly, too.”

4. His physical presence here in our house

5. Looking out the kitchen window to see him out there in his straw hat mowing the lawn. He mowed it better than anyone I’ve hired since his death, of course, but that’s only part of it. The other part was just seeing him out there, such a comforting thing to me. Don’t know why.

6. The smell of him on his pillow

7. I think of him every time I go into any bathroom in this house.

8. He loved the shower in our bathroom.

9. His cooking, how he made such a mess in the kitchen. He had bought several books about cooking and food, ordered this or that machine.

10. His hymn playing, “Lord Dismiss Us With Thy Blessing”

11. He loved to sing.

12. I hear a Subaru start up or see one like his and start talking to him, asking him why he is not here.

13. Watching him write

14. His feet. I always told him he had ugly feet. Funny.

15. Hearing him get confrontational on the phone with tele-marketers

16. His voice

17. The way his mind worked. “Logic dictates,” you know.

18. His perpetual concern over his health

19. His love of his grandchildren

20. There is always more.

Las Viudas

At the top of Mt Roberts in Juneau, Alaska, I met four people—three women and one man. They were speaking Spanish, and I said to Alyce that they were not from Mexico, probably somewhere in South America. So I asked them, just to be sure, and yes, they were from Peru, the place of the purest Spanish, they told me, and, apparently, the cultural seat of the universe, etc., etc. But I couldn’t really fault them for their national pride.

As we chatted, my Spanish faltering at times but their charity growing, one of the women asked if I traveled a lot. “No,” I said, “soy viuda.”

“Somos viudas también,” two of them said. "We are also widows, and she [pointing to the third] was a widow until she married my brother." Then he spoke up, putting his arm around her (she must have had extensive face work because she had the Wayne Newton permanent smile, and she wore a lot of makeup, all in an effort to appear younger; can’t fault her for that, either), “She’s my second wife.”

I said, “Claro,” meaning, “Of course,” meaning also that I had made certain assumptions.

The two widows then told me they travel extensively, go all over together, having great fun and good companionship. “You should find a widow, too,” they told me--a thought I had never entertained. Two or three came to mind, all in their 80s.

I guess I’ll have to start looking for a younger widow. Or not.

One Bird

I saw a western tanager today as I turned onto Greenwood Circle. He flew into the big evergreen—or maybe the old apple tree—around the corner, where the guy with the big mouth bass mail box used to live. A male bird, wearing his summer colors: bright red head, yellow breast, and black wings with two white bars. I looked him up and learned that towards autumn, he won’t appear quite so vivid, head and breast fading some, which is like what we all do with the movement of time.

One year, I remember, not long after we moved here, I saw a whole flock of tanagers in that very same part of the neighborhood, a quick blur of yellow sweeping across the street right in front of me—they were in the air, of course—and I have been watching for them ever since. So today was good. I saw only this one bird, but he was enough to make me smile and say out loud, “Oh, how beautiful. Thank you.”

My neighbors told me that while I was gone on my cruise a big wind blew the crow’s nest out of the cedar tree. Hooray, I said. Then they told me the babies didn’t survive. That did make me feel bad, but not bad enough to wish them back.

Happily, the crows have not rebuilt in the cedar, choosing instead a large ash tree in front of my neighbor’s house on the east side of my property. That is farther away, and the tree does not hang over my fence, is nowhere near my fence. But it is close enough, and they can still be heard, you know, their loud warnings.

Who invited them here anyway? I do not know if they will come back next year. I hope not. I do not know if I can hope they are far enough away from my yard so that the other birds will come back this year, if I can expect the return of the robins and quail and sparrows and finches this year, but maybe next year. Who knows? Maybe next year will bring a flock of tanagers. Yes, there is always next year.

This day

The day Wayne and I married 46 years ago. A good day, you know.

In Dreams

I fell asleep on the family room couch this morning, a wakeful nap, and dreamed about Alyce, her accident, her teeth, her sometime dismay. In the dream I became aware that Wayne was not here; he was away and had been for a while. It seemed he didn't like me anymore and had not given me a way to contact him. Again, dismay, this time mine.

I wanted him here, of course, needed him here for Alyce's comfort and for mine. He would put his arms around her and tell her it will be all right. He was good at that. And for me, if I could see him, then I would know--something anyway. Sometimes a dream of him can be so real that I wake in great sadness to find he is not really here. This time waking brought relief of sorts. It troubles me to think he does not like me. I suppose such thoughts are not uncommon among widows.

Happy Birthday, sort of

May 18 approaches. Wayne’s birthday. He would be 69.

When Wayne and I were brand new together and I learned that his birthday was May 18, I likely thought he and I were meant to be together. May 18 is also my brother Sterling’s birthday, the brother I idolized in my childhood. After Wayne and I married and attended BYU, my sister Lucile, also there with us, met and married Eric Eastman, whose birthday is May 18. I have always liked that. I don’t know if she idolized Sterling; I don’t know if Eric’s birthday being the same as Sterling’s and Wayne's pleased her as it did me; I don't know if it mattered at all.

Whatever.

The day approaches, next Sunday, in fact, and I shall spend it in church. Perhaps in the early morning, if my allergies are controlled, I’ll go to the cemetery. Not really a place of celebration for us Schiess people, but I can check on things, see that the grave is still cared for, the stone clean. There isn't much more I can do. Going to the cemetery is not something I do for him, not something I do for me. No doubt that is why I don't go often. I don't need to be there to think of him. Know what I mean?

For instance, yesterday, as I was blowing my nose . . . again, I remembered that Wayne used to say there ought to be some way to use all the mucus my body produces, some way to make a profit from it, plentiful as it was. Maybe mortar for bricks. I told him I didn't think it would sell.

Something About Love

Lola and I went to the cemetery on that January day a couple of years ago. We took yellow roses and a jar of water to be the vase. She cut the roses while I tied on Alyce’s Sorel boots to tramp through the frozen snow to his grave. The stone had been cleared of snow, and we found a small snowman in the upper left hand corner. He had melted some, but clearly he was there by intention. Then Lola saw the writing in the snow, I LOVE YOU DAD. We knew right away it was Andrew, and when we got back to the car I called him. Yes, he had been there a few days earlier. “I didn’t have flowers,” he said, “and I thought dad would like a snowman.”

Back Then

Today I was in the Caldwell area--long story--and drove out Cleveland Blvd (Nampa/Caldwell highway) towards Nampa. When I passed Midway Lunch I slowed a bit. It is still Midway Lunch, although the building looks newly painted. I figure the interior is much the same as it used to be. I let my mind go back and saw us sitting in that second room at a big table or in two booths. I don't suppose the woman who always asked us, "You likey fly lice?" is still there. After we figured out what she was saying, we always did likey. I loved their pork and seeds. I remember a hamburger or two served up, Richard. I also remember their restroom. How about you, Ann?
Midway Lunch. I think it's where we learned to like Chinese food. I know Dad always thought Chinese food fixed him after he'd been sick.

A Notepad

In my church bag I carry a small green notepad. It was Wayne’s. In it he worked out ideas for talks and teaching, kept notes from meetings, commented on scriptures and other reading he was doing. He even has a note to me about something I should teach to my Sunday School class. One page is a list of physical problems in the various buildings in the Boise East Stake—that was his High Council assignment, Stake PFR. The lights in the stake building’s scoreboard needed replacing, Broadway Ward’s noisy foyer heater needed attention and that building also had a door handle with a problem and two stoves that did not work.

Another page is titled, Lake Powell To Do and Take.

Renew prescriptions [with a red check]
Medication from Wagnild
Airline ticket. Money [red check]
Razor. Sport shoes
Deodorant. Pencils
Liquid soap. This notebook
Toilet paper. Toilet paper [really, that’s what he wrote]
Panty liners.* Wallet
Solarcaine.* Questran*
Hygiene cleanser pads*
Cases of water. Cipro*
Pajamas. Lomotil*
Pillow. Hat (2)
Blanket. Sun Screen
Long sleeve blue shirt
Tee shirts. Tithing [red check]
Underwear
Scriptures & markers
Toothpaste
2 books

*The asterisks are mine. I use them to indicate items related to his colostomy, and he didn’t list the adhesive, scissors, bags, rings, etc. Travel, let alone a week on a houseboat, had become very complicated for him.

Wayne did not often write in cursive. He printed in upper case, and that is what he did in this green notepad. It is the last of his writing that I have, reason enough to keep it.
Here’s his last page:

What does it mean to be a
‘True’ Disciple
True Carpenter
“ Mechanic
“

He didn’t finish

Does a chicken have lips?

A question I had to answer frequently. I might ask Wayne this or that, and, of course, I never knew which question of mine, or which kind of question, might prompt his returning query, “Does a chicken have lips?” It was an impossible thing, because if I said, “No,” he would probably say, “Well, then.” And if I said, “Yes, I saw a chicken with lips just the other day”--if I ever thought that quickly--he would probably say, “Well, then.” And if I slugged him, he would probably hug me.

Such an exchange may seem unsettling, but if I was ever unsettled or irritated by it, I have long ago forgotten that part, and, of course, I cannot recall any of the questions I asked him. What I remember is that this was my husband's way. Kind of corny, kind of fun. It lightened the moment and always let me know he was still the guy I knew.

Tamale Pie, Me vs. Martha Stewart

I like tamale pie. My husband loved it. When I made it, say, a few times a year, we had seven kids running around the house. I don’t think any of them were crazy about tamale pie; a couple probably refused to eat it. With seven you’re bound to have a few picky eaters. So, when I made it, it was clearly for their dad.

I do not claim any originality in the stuff, no recipe that I created. Mine was a combination of recipes I tried, the right mix of ingredients that came together over the years. Ground beef, not a lot, onion, corn, cheese, black olives, a can of whole tomatoes which I would mash, and the corn meal topper, some of which I often just stirred into the meat mixture.

Whenever I fixed tamale pie, Wayne would say he could eat it once a week, that and Spanish rice. I guess I should have fixed it once a week.

Anyway, he liked my tamale pie. But he never raved over my recipe, my rendition of it, as he did over Martha Stewart’s when I made hers. Come on, it’s not really her own made-up recipe. She has people who do that. And I didn’t like it much because it had green olives instead of black and white cheese instead of yellow. To me, the stuff had no Mexicanness about it but took on some other flavor. And it did not taste very homemade, Martha. Tamale pie gone fancy. And what could be the reason for that?

Besides, why would he like hers better than mine? That was just dumb of him. I know, it's only tamale pie we're talking about here, not world peace. But the moment did establish policy in our home: No way was I going to make Martha's tamale pie every week. And I didn't.

Not Forever

The sky was dark and clear

this morning as I walked,

stars bright and white,

like on a winter night

when the moon and stars

seem fixed

in a blue/black sea of air,

never to move or fade,

always to blink out their light,

always to be up there as surety and comfort

for sailing ships and airplanes,

for walkers in the early morning dark,

but, of course, we know they won’t.

They’ll dim, fade,

disappear, like first love,

like my mother

when she died.

The Starting Place

Some people think that being sad at the death of your loved one is a denial of your faith. It isn't. And it isn't a sin. It's natural, understandable. I think sadness cannot be the end of all we feel, but I see it as a necessary starting place. And I see value in writing of it. Like this.

1/27/04
It’s a year now. Widowhood does not suit me. What am I supposed to do, to be like? I always knew that as I aged, people would lose sight of me. And I always knew that if I appeared ordinary—can’t find the right word—when they saw me with Wayne, I would be, somehow, more acceptable, better looking, legitimized. If I resented it, I banked on it too. Now, I am really aging, and he is gone. I cannot put my arm through his or walk along side of him or look across any room and see what he’s up to. He’s gone and I am the widow. I do not believe widows count in our society.

Beyond that, I miss him. No, it was not a perfect marriage, if such a thing exists. But that is not the point. What is the point? I’m not sure, but I say this: we were part of each other. Now he is not here, waking or sleeping, though something of him is in every room of the house. I don’t mean only the physical bits and pieces that indicate he lived here; I mean the sense of him, the feel of him. It’s in the air here. It moves through the walls and if I ever have the sense that it touches me I am one happy woman—for a few moments.

Lonely. No one here to grumble at or smile with. No one to rub my feet or ask me if that is something new I’m wearing and tell me how nice it looks, how nice I look. No one to prepare food for, do laundry for, consult with on this or that, look to for answers and safety and that kind of comfort I knew when he was here.

It Is Green

Some kind of grass. That’s all I know, unplanted, unwanted, uncultivated but outgrowing the rest of my lawn—and spreading. My mower guy drives away and this stuff starts in. By evening it’s sticking up an inch above the other grass. By the next week it’s twelve inches tall, waving in the breeze. And I am not kidding.

So far it has been identified as quack grass, tall fescue, common something or other, and nut sedge—and all by the lawn experts, one telling me that the other probably doesn’t really know.

There’s my lawn mower guy, the owner of the company, in fact. He said, “It’s not tall fescue, it’s quack grass. Go up to Zamzow’s and get a quack grass treatment.” Okay, I thought, a little exasperated, I can do that. Later, after he finished mowing, he said, “Carol, call your Emerald Lawn people. They should be treating for that already or at least should have something on the truck to take care of it. Just tell them it’s quack grass.” Good idea, I thought.

But, over the phone, the Emerald Lawn girl said, “Well, you chose not to have the mid-spring treatment. That probably would have taken care of it.” Oh great. Whatever the heck it is, it’s my fault.

I said, “Well, you may remember, I did that because we had a dog at the time and no grass in the back yard to treat. Besides, my lawn mower guy says it’s not tall fescue but quack grass.”

“Well,” she said (the snippy little thing), “I’m sure Dave knows more about it than your lawn mower guy.”

Dave is the one who last year called it tall fescue.

“But my lawn mower guy is the owner of the company,” I said. “He’s seen a lot of grass.”

“No,” she said. “Dave would know.”

“Okay. Ask Dave to call me, please,” I said.

Two weeks passed, and Dave never called. Meanwhile, the stuff is out there . . . growing. Finally, a few days ago, the Emerald Lawn guy, name of Keith, sprayed something down (I wish I had been home) and left a note. “Carol,” the note read, “I didn’t find any crab grass, but I found and treated the nut sedge. Don’t water for four hours.”

Crab grass. Who said anything about crab grass? I know it isn’t crab grass.

So, did the Emerald Lawn girl—who knew everything—write crab grass instead of quack grass? Or didn’t she write anything? Does Keith know what he’s talking about? Whatever. Either they got it wrong or they got it right, and I still don’t know what the heck it is, but I know it grows. And it’s still out there. So I must conclude that Keith’s treatment of it—nut sedge or whatever it is—was very kind treatment, indeed, because the stuff is flourishing. Silly me. I thought "treatment" meant the stuff would be dead. Dead, however, is not the word for it, no, not the right word at all. Thrive. That word comes to mind. Threatening. That word also comes to mind as I find new patches of it throughout the lawn.

And I haven’t even mentioned the gardening lady who writes for the local paper. I emailed her about it. She wrote back, “Who told you it was tall fescue?” (Should I feel defensive?) She said it was probably not tall fescue; it was most likely common . . . I really don’t remember. She said to put some Roundup in a small bottle with a sponge top and swab each blade of the whatever by hand. Is she kidding? She needs to come out here. Then we can talk about swabbing.

If my husband were here, it would all be different. He would be my lawn mower guy, as he always was. Which is not to say he would know what the stuff is, but he might. Maybe he would put down a little weed and feed, and that might do the trick. But even if he didn’t know, my concern about this whole matter would be filtered. I would do my worrying, my fussing, my complaining to him. Maybe I would mention it too often. Maybe I would become slightly unreasonable, expecting him to just take care of it so that one day I’d walk out to the front lawn and the stuff would be gone.

But he’s not here, and the trouble with that extends well beyond whatever is uglying up my lawn. All things, it seems to me, were less difficult than they are now. Whatever it was, whatever we had to deal with, if he couldn’t fix it, at least he was here at the end of the day. And that fixed a lot of things.