Just the way it is

Yes, it's true. I think about my husband every day. Every day.

Surprised?

Sometimes I just miss him. Yesterday I grumbled at him because I had to grab a big spider with a kleenex and smish it and get it to the toilet. So unpleasant. His job, you know.

Sometimes I'm in tears. Sometimes laughing at some silly thing he said or did. Sometimes remembering things from very long ago, like playing checkers in our little basement apartment in Provo. He would get mad if I beat him. Or how we laughed as we listened to our Bill Cosby record or the Smothers Brothers. Same place. Before children.

Sometimes I think he didn't know what he had. I'm talking about me. And sometimes I think I didn't know what I had. I mean him.

To Think About

Yesterday I read this poem to my son. It's one I wrote not long ago. At first, I thought I wouldn't ever show it to him or read it to him. I thought it might offend him or elicit strong denials. It did neither. We talked about it and he made no denial. We said a lot of things. A good conversation.

Of course, a poem is brief, a capsule. Enough said. Here it is.

First Child

Carol Schiess

Fifty-one years old and

not quite over the shock

of learning you were not

the whole world

to your parents.

For two years you were

exactly that. Then

one quiet April day

changed everything for you. 

Suddenly, you were

one of two,

now a part of their world,

a treasured part,

but you did not

seem to know that.

Eventually, you were

one among . . .

only one,

you poor boy,

among seven,

which seven became, yes,

their whole world.

It has been a bitter pill

and I do not know

when

you will actually

swallow all of it.

I try to understand,

my son, my dear son, but  

I was never first,

you know.

The fourth child

always has to share.

Small

Wayne liked prunes.

I like prunes, too.

Everyone knows Sunsweet Prunes are the best.

Wayne said they are not the best. He preferred Del Monte prunes.

Recently I had prunes at Janeen's house. Kirkland prunes (Costco brand) and they were good. I came home and bought prunes at Fred Meyer, their brand. They were very good. Then a week or so ago I bought Sunsweet because they were on sale. I mean, it's prunes. How could they go wrong? I mean, prunes are their business.

But Wayne was right. These Sunsweet prunes are not as good. They're harder, for one thing, and haven't the rich flavor of the others.

So, if I ever finish the box of Sunsweet prunes, I'm going back to Fred Meyer.

Just Thinking

The essay I'm working on says, among other things, that we can never really know another person.

My neighbor comes close to putting the lie to that statement. If we had enough time, she would tell me everything. I already know more than I think necessary. But for her it is needful to tell.

I will add that she knows little about me. Really. That's my choice, after all, and underscores the truth of my statement.

We don't know other people, partly because they don't let us.

So there.

The Widow's Morning

Tim was just here. From Orkin. You know, to spray around the perimeter of the house and keep me bug and spider free, mostly. Too bad they don't have a snake spray.

Anyway, when I answered the door I had a handful of blueberries. Tim said, "Oh, blueberries. They're good for you. My wife eats them all the time. She's a health nut. She makes my life miserable. She won't let me eat chicken with the skin on."

I said, "Good for her."

He said, "Blueberries are . . ." and here he struggled to find the word, couldn't find it, and finally came up with something like anti-toxic. "They kill the toxins," he concluded.

I said, "Yes." Because I couldn't think of the word either.

Tim went about his business of spraying, and I believe he was thorough. While he was spraying I thought of the word, anti-oxidant. When he rang the doorbell again to give me the bill, I said, "It's anti-oxidant." He looked puzzled. "The blueberries," I said. "They're anti-oxidants."

He still looked puzzled, then said, "They kill the toxins."  

We chatted about the "big slab of concrete" and the marks on the wall near my front door, marks of finch poop. I said, "I've tried to wash it off, but I'm having my house painted." He said, "I used to do that, too." I offered him some blueberries. "No, thanks. I'm good," he said. And "have a nice day."

I had learned something about Tim last night when he called. Twice he called. First to tell me he was coming and to ask if I lived on South Greenwood Circle or East Greenwood Circle, because the address card they gave him showed both. I told him to ignore the south and east and just turn off Boise Avenue onto Greenwood Circle. And did he know what time he would be here?

He said he'd figure out his schedule and call me back in 30 minutes.

An hour and a half later he called back. He'd be here at 9 and he had lost my address.

So what I learned is that he is methodical, dependable, and not as quick as some people.

What I learned today is that he is methodical and dependable and that I like him.

Now, back to the anti-oxidant blueberries. When I told Tim blueberries are anti-oxidant, I saw the word spelled in my mind--that's weird, isn't it?--but what I saw was anti-occident, which surprised me and confused me a little, because I knew that was not right. It also made me think of Occidental College and Occidental Life Insurance Company.

Weird. I wonder how often we see the words we say spelled in our minds.

Well, anyway, my house is sprayed and my bread is baking. So there.

A bit of philosophy, mine, and a memory

Our 52nd anniversary yesterday.

Who ever thinks of being old enough to write such words? I mean, when you're young, you're young and have no reason or context to imagine being old.

I can remember much about being young, and getting old was never part of my daily imaginings. Even if we saw our elders daily, we did not live their lives. Besides, young people are so much wrapped up in their own lives, their own world, that they have a hard time seeing out, if they ever try. I confess that is true of me in my youth.

About yesterday.

I drove home from Utah and had 4 hours and 40 minutes to myself. I listened to a lot of Bach, but even so my head had plenty of time to think, to remember, to wish Wayne were with me. More than once I spoke to him--you know--and wished he were here to clarify the memory of some incident or outing with our children.

Like what exactly we did on the occasion of our picnic the day we drove up to go tubing and found not enough snow. We ended up at a picnic site on the Payette River, bundled up and hooded. Eating was probably secondary to staying warm, but I suppose the kids had a good time.

We took two cars, of course, his little Subaru, I think, and my huge, heavy Chrysler station wagon. We decided to explore two separate areas, so he went one way and I went another.

That's the time we, in my car, nearly plunged over the side and down into the canyon and water below. The road, if you can call it that, came to an end, suddenly. I hit the brakes and held down the pedal, but the car just kept sliding. I never knew what made it finally stop. Just stop. Right at the edge. Or, actually, a little bit over it with one wheel.

Scared. Terrified. I backed up with great care and we met up, drove down to the river, and had our picnic as if nothing had happened. He was in a different car, and I'd like to hear today what he thought about this whole thing.

Fifty-two years hold a lot of memory. Of course, Wayne was here with us for only forty of those years. You knew that.