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.