She asked him not to design the house--he's an architect--because she knew it would be big and grand, and she thought she could be happy with something small, a house with no upstairs because her rheumatoid arthritis makes going upstairs difficult. She could be happy with a small mortgage, too, and knew that if he designed the house a small mortgage would not happen.
He designed the house anyway. I suppose because he knew this would be their last house, and he wanted it to be the way he wanted it. He put their bedroom on the ground floor.
It is a wonderful house, big and beautiful inside and out. You could see it if you drove out Boise Avenue and looked for Talavera Way.
And, yes, it had a huge mortgage.
Until last month.
Last month changed a lot of things. That's because of his beautiful, in perfect condition and driveable antique 1909 White (the name, not the color; it was actually green) steam car. I saw the car. A big open limousine, really a wonderful car. Something he was nearly as proud of as he was of the house.
But he sold it. To Jay Leno. Jay Leno really wanted it, and after a few telephone conversations--"call me Jay, please"--Jay asked what he wanted for it. And he told Jay. That--what he wanted for it--is exactly what Jay paid. And happily. He has called several times since to talk about the car, and he has driven it, like at 60 mph--too fast for a steam car--and broken the throttle. No problem, though. Jay Leno has 150 antique cars and several mechanics to keep them fixed.
She didn't tell me how much money it was, but she did say this. "We paid off our mortgage; we've helped our kids (all three and their families); he's on his way back now with a new antique car, which cost $65,000." And, she said, "We have some money now. We could travel."
The new old car? 1911 Hudson.
Hmm. We had Hudsons when I was about 15. Two of them, both 1952. Kind of wish I had one of them now.
Actually, I've been online looking at 1911 Hudsons, and I'd just as soon have one of those. Beautiful.
Saturday, May 19, 2012
Thursday, May 17, 2012
Wayne Gordon
It's the eve of my husband's birthday--he would be 73--and I commemorate it here, as I do every year. If he were alive, I would likely not be writing about him. Funny, huh.
Perhaps I have said before, maybe every year, that I would so like to write something important or good here. But nothing is good enough. I simply do not know the right words.
And nothing will bring about what I truly want. That whole thing goes without saying.
For the last few days, and not because his birthday approached, I don't think, I have wished him here to see whatever small scene or incident has passed before my eyes. I have spoken to him about it. Out loud--and sometimes very loud--saying, "Oh Wayne, I wish you were here." This several times in the day. Then, in moment or two and in a quiet voice, "But you're not."
I don't know why I feel the need to say that part. I mean, obviously he is not here, or I would not have this Widow's Chronicle blog, and I would not be alone in my house at this moment and nearly every moment of the day and night. I am not whining, just saying what is true. So why do I think I have to verbally and often orally acknowledge that he is not here?
I don't know.
It's nine years and four months. I still miss him very much, still think of him every day, a lot every day. He was the only man I ever loved. That should be clear because I said yes to his marriage proposal.
I hope he still loves me.
Perhaps I have said before, maybe every year, that I would so like to write something important or good here. But nothing is good enough. I simply do not know the right words.
And nothing will bring about what I truly want. That whole thing goes without saying.
For the last few days, and not because his birthday approached, I don't think, I have wished him here to see whatever small scene or incident has passed before my eyes. I have spoken to him about it. Out loud--and sometimes very loud--saying, "Oh Wayne, I wish you were here." This several times in the day. Then, in moment or two and in a quiet voice, "But you're not."
I don't know why I feel the need to say that part. I mean, obviously he is not here, or I would not have this Widow's Chronicle blog, and I would not be alone in my house at this moment and nearly every moment of the day and night. I am not whining, just saying what is true. So why do I think I have to verbally and often orally acknowledge that he is not here?
I don't know.
It's nine years and four months. I still miss him very much, still think of him every day, a lot every day. He was the only man I ever loved. That should be clear because I said yes to his marriage proposal.
I hope he still loves me.
Friday, May 11, 2012
Type
In high school I typed my essays on an old, old typewriter. I suppose it had been my dad's. Not sure, though. He, by the way, was a typist with capital T. I will always remember the fast sound of his typing.
I took a typing class during the summer after 7th grade, so I knew how to type. But mistakes were inevitable. And in college, a messy, erased paper is not to be desired. Thank heaven for the computer we finally got some time in the 1980s. Yes, married with seven children, I was back in school.
In the interim, I had a little baby blue Olympic typewriter. Portable, with a gray case.
My mother had one, too. Same color, same kind of carrying case. The typewriter clicked in and stayed put, and you could type with the machine in or out of the case.
My type was regular; my mother's was script, kind of like this but more so. Almost like someone's very neat handwriting.
When I worked at the Rand Corporation, I used an Electric typewriter. I may have thought that was the epitome of typing luxury. But nothing beats a computer.
I thought of these typing matters the other day in these terms: I wish I still had that little blue Olympic. Or my mother's. Or both. Not for any $ value. Just because. Maybe we get rid of certain things before we recognize their place and value in our lives.
However, I think if I had kept everything I sometimes wish I had kept, my house would be fuller, even, than it is now.
I took a typing class during the summer after 7th grade, so I knew how to type. But mistakes were inevitable. And in college, a messy, erased paper is not to be desired. Thank heaven for the computer we finally got some time in the 1980s. Yes, married with seven children, I was back in school.
In the interim, I had a little baby blue Olympic typewriter. Portable, with a gray case.
My mother had one, too. Same color, same kind of carrying case. The typewriter clicked in and stayed put, and you could type with the machine in or out of the case.
My type was regular; my mother's was script, kind of like this but more so. Almost like someone's very neat handwriting.
When I worked at the Rand Corporation, I used an Electric typewriter. I may have thought that was the epitome of typing luxury. But nothing beats a computer.
I thought of these typing matters the other day in these terms: I wish I still had that little blue Olympic. Or my mother's. Or both. Not for any $ value. Just because. Maybe we get rid of certain things before we recognize their place and value in our lives.
However, I think if I had kept everything I sometimes wish I had kept, my house would be fuller, even, than it is now.
Thursday, May 10, 2012
But that's Spring in Idaho
Yesterday we hit 82 in Boise. Wow, what a day. The very day we had been waiting for.
Today we're in the 50s, hoping to get up to 62. The wind has whipped up the pollens and made out noses run and our eyes itch.
When summer hits it will be hot, and that will be something else to complain about.
Today we're in the 50s, hoping to get up to 62. The wind has whipped up the pollens and made out noses run and our eyes itch.
When summer hits it will be hot, and that will be something else to complain about.
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
It's Only Liver
I like liver. My kids don't, I guess.
Sometimes, while they were growing up, I did fix liver for dinner. Liver and bacon or liver and onions. I fixed it because I believed then--and still do, I suppose--that the organ meats are good for you. And, as I said, I like it.
Trust me. I did not fix it often, but when you don't like something, any of it seems too much of it. Like tuna casserole. I fixed that, too, not because I like it but because Wayne liked it. Alyce seems to think I fixed it all the time. That's like Ann and liver. On our tour she told someone I fixed liver a lot.
Not true.
All this to say I had liver last night. Liver and onions. First time in a very long time.
It was good enough, but I live alone, you know, and one small plastic container of calf's liver could feed four. I don't want liver for the rest of the week. But I may have it.
Sometimes, while they were growing up, I did fix liver for dinner. Liver and bacon or liver and onions. I fixed it because I believed then--and still do, I suppose--that the organ meats are good for you. And, as I said, I like it.
Trust me. I did not fix it often, but when you don't like something, any of it seems too much of it. Like tuna casserole. I fixed that, too, not because I like it but because Wayne liked it. Alyce seems to think I fixed it all the time. That's like Ann and liver. On our tour she told someone I fixed liver a lot.
Not true.
All this to say I had liver last night. Liver and onions. First time in a very long time.
It was good enough, but I live alone, you know, and one small plastic container of calf's liver could feed four. I don't want liver for the rest of the week. But I may have it.
Sunday, May 6, 2012
Choose the Right, don't you know
I met Bob on the flight from SL to Boise. I was going home after two weeks away. He was going to work.
At first I judged him to be someone who did not want an old woman sitting by him, let alone talking to him for the hour flight. But after I got settled in, I said, "Hello."
And we talked. I told him where I had been; he told me of trips he has taken with his son. And when I heard him say Peru, I said, "?Habla espanol?" He did. So we talked in Spanish a while. Some time later I learned his last name is Garcia.
Turns out he liked talking to me and had many stories. One story involved a visit he and his son made to Barcelona.
"I got pick pocketed," he said. "Couldn't wait to get out of there."
But they took his wallet and passport, so he was in trouble. Here's how they did it. Two guys. One hit Bob in the leg, near the knee, and the other hit him in the thigh. Hard hits. He crumbled. Then they simply ripped open his pocket--the kind on the side of the pants about halfway down the thigh--and took everything.
Very painful and very quick.
He and his son called for help and were told they must go to the American Embassy. Turns out, they were not the only Americans there and not the only ones trying to get help with stolen wallets and passports. This promised to take hours, at least.
Then Bob looked at the hand of the guy helping him and saw a CTR ring.
"Are you LDS?" Bob asked.
"Yes."
"So am I."
"Come with me," and he took Bob through the system in short order. Happy ending. He was issued a new passport on the spot. Others had to wait hours and days.
But, no, he didn't get his own papers, credit cards, or money back.
Good story, though, huh.
At first I judged him to be someone who did not want an old woman sitting by him, let alone talking to him for the hour flight. But after I got settled in, I said, "Hello."
And we talked. I told him where I had been; he told me of trips he has taken with his son. And when I heard him say Peru, I said, "?Habla espanol?" He did. So we talked in Spanish a while. Some time later I learned his last name is Garcia.
Turns out he liked talking to me and had many stories. One story involved a visit he and his son made to Barcelona.
"I got pick pocketed," he said. "Couldn't wait to get out of there."
But they took his wallet and passport, so he was in trouble. Here's how they did it. Two guys. One hit Bob in the leg, near the knee, and the other hit him in the thigh. Hard hits. He crumbled. Then they simply ripped open his pocket--the kind on the side of the pants about halfway down the thigh--and took everything.
Very painful and very quick.
He and his son called for help and were told they must go to the American Embassy. Turns out, they were not the only Americans there and not the only ones trying to get help with stolen wallets and passports. This promised to take hours, at least.
Then Bob looked at the hand of the guy helping him and saw a CTR ring.
"Are you LDS?" Bob asked.
"Yes."
"So am I."
"Come with me," and he took Bob through the system in short order. Happy ending. He was issued a new passport on the spot. Others had to wait hours and days.
But, no, he didn't get his own papers, credit cards, or money back.
Good story, though, huh.
Thursday, May 3, 2012
Zip it up
I just now discarded a used Ziplock sandwich bag and thought of my mother.
No such bags existed when she made my school lunch. Sandwiches were wrapped in waxed paper, neatly folded over where the edges of the paper met, with the ends twisted to keep the wrapping secure.
If she sent cut up vegetables or cookies or a piece of cake, they also stayed fresh in waxed paper.
This is no big thing, just a memory and a small tribute to my mother for the extra time and, yes, extra effort she gave to my lunches.
Sure, sometimes I ate in the cafeteria, but that was only in elementary school.
By the way, my mom's sandwiches were always good. Especially avocado and bacon on her homemade whole wheat bread. Those I had to hide from my high school friends.
No such bags existed when she made my school lunch. Sandwiches were wrapped in waxed paper, neatly folded over where the edges of the paper met, with the ends twisted to keep the wrapping secure.
If she sent cut up vegetables or cookies or a piece of cake, they also stayed fresh in waxed paper.
This is no big thing, just a memory and a small tribute to my mother for the extra time and, yes, extra effort she gave to my lunches.
Sure, sometimes I ate in the cafeteria, but that was only in elementary school.
By the way, my mom's sandwiches were always good. Especially avocado and bacon on her homemade whole wheat bread. Those I had to hide from my high school friends.
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