From Tattoos to Cemeteries, Oh My!

It finally happened. I went on a senior hall outing that turned out to be a waste of time except for the fact that writing about it will take up space in my blog. We took part in a pilot program at the art museum that involved viewing of a classic black and white movie plus an extra hour to check out the museum’s exhibits. I’m not a fan of black and white films but I signed up because I haven’t been to the art museum since the last century---I love saying that. It makes me feel old and wise to have lived in two centuries. (I know that’s crazy. Everyone old enough to buy beer can say the same thing.)

Before my husband’s stroke we used to love going to the old art museum but after seeing our new one, I don’t care if I ever go again. The beloved permanent collection is gone and they had a whole gallery devoted to “collections”---mostly filled with tennis shoes and tiny rubber toys none of which were as old as the bra I was wearing. I’ve got better collections in my house. The other main exhibit was all about a tattoo artist who lives in Hawaii and has popularized tribal tattooing. People from around the world apparently pay good money to go there to take one of his classes and get a small, trademark tattoo to prove they’ve met him. I hate tattoos and I especially do not understand people who feel the need to turn their skin into a facsimile of a zebra or an ancient piece of pottery unearthed in an archeological dig. Tattoos in an art museum: we’re supposed to respect the artistry but the term ‘circus freak’ crossed my mind a time or two while viewing the photographs. But what the heck, if I had stayed at home all I would have done is knit and feel guilty about wasting that time. 

One of these days I’ve got to have a serious conversation with myself about what I’d have to do to feel like I’m not wasting my time. The older I get the more often I think of my days as wasting my time and I suspect that bothers me because it’s closely connected to the term “bidding my time” which is scary close to saying I’m just sitting around waiting to die. But I’m not gonna go there today, not when I’m celebrating the rebirth of my ergonomic keyboard. I spilled water on it, gave it firstaid then stopped at the computer shop for an expert opinion on whether or not I’d electrocute myself testing it out, and after impatiently waiting the required four days they suggested I leave it sitting upside down and wrapped in a towel, I’m now using it. They said it could take a week for malfunctions to show up so I’m not out of the woods yet. 

Whether I’m debating on political sites or blogging, sitting at my keyboard is one of those times when I vacillate between feeling like I’m accomplishing something and wasting too much time. When I’m blogging, the computer prompts me to leave the house at regular intervals because the cold, hard fact is I need a life in order to have something to write about it. It’s a catch-22 and I'm okay with that. Blogging has been the single most driving force in widowhood that keeps me from drying up like an unidentifiable object in a vegetable crisper. That may be a little melodramatic but it was one hundred percent true in the first few years after Don died. Now, I recognize that getting out and about is reconnecting me to the life-long learner part of my personality. It’s always been there, but during my years of caregiving I was learning things I didn’t necessarily like having to learn. My do good days are behind me. Pencil on some eyebrows, put on some Bert’s Bees lip gloss and I’m out the door.

Speaking of learning things, this week I also went to a travelogue about eastern Canada---a Maritimes and Newfoundland tour covering New Brunswick, Nova Scotia and Prince Edward Island. It made me homesick for our old motorhome and the days when Don and I poked around wild and woolly places. The video was filled with untouched land, lighthouses, water, sunsets, sailboats, birds and beaches. And I don’t know why it never occurred to me that Canada also has places where you can whale watch. Duh! This tour also stops at Halifax, Nova Scotia, to the maritime museum and the cemeteries where people are buried who lost their lives when the Titanic sunk. 1,500 people lost their lives that night but only 328 bodies were recovered and 118 of those were never identified. I used to collect North Star Lines memorabilia and that stop at Halifax calls my name. I’m glad the White Star Line set up a trust to maintain those gravesites. Jeez, that’s the least they could do!

Now that I’ve taken this blog entry down to death and dying I might as well share something I got in the mail recently. A survey from the funeral home I used for Don’s service, mailed out shortly after his 5^th sadiversary. “In order to assist others with sensitive, caring and professional help when they need it, we need to know real thoughts and feelings of individuals like you.” My first impulse was to write across the top: IF YOU WANT TO BE SENSITIVE, DON’T SEND WIDOWS SURVEYS NEAR THE ANNIVERSARY DATES OF THEIR SPOUSE’S DEATH! I didn’t do it, but the stupid survey still sits close at hand taunting me. ©