Sadiversary Number Twelve

Last summer the IT guy here on the continuum care campus was messing around with my computer for some Mickey Mouse reason when he said I don’t have the requirements needed to upgrade my operating system to Windows 11. I didn’t care. I don’t like change. I hate it when they become a necessary evil in the computer world. I told him all that and he said just keep it in mind if you see a great deal on a new computer. You’ll need one when Microsoft quits supporting Windows 10. I wanted to ask him if he thought I’d live that long but he’s my computer doctor not my medical doctor so I let it pass. When we were having this conversation I thought we were talking about something that would happen five or six years from now but---yikes!---I just looked it up and they quit supporting Windows 10 October 14, 2025! 

This conversation was floating around in my head because since New Year’s I’ve been wondering if the operating system known as my brain has run out of room. They say our brains are like computers and for the past couple of weeks I couldn't concentrate and thoughts seemed to be running around in a loop, not finding a place to land. Even the deck top in my den mimics the disarray inside my head. It looks like it belongs to a slob with its piles of notes, mail and papers that need to be put in my filing cabinet or in the shredder, both of which are within three feet from the desk. Wouldn’t you think if I can walk that close to where something goes I could take it all the way to its destination? I get this way every once in once in a while. I’ll “file” stuff to the right room but won’t bother to deposit it where it belongs---in the right folder so to speak. For example, I bought a bottle of eye drops recently and instead of putting it in the medicine cabinet I put them on the counter top in front of the cabinet. 

You’d think  by now I’d recognize the signs…that I get totally weird the first two weeks of January which “just happens” to lead up to the Sadiverary of when my husband died. It’s been twelve years since I lost him and while I can say I’ve succeeded in earning my Widow’s Wings by moving on, building a new life for myself that for the most part makes me happy and contented, not a week goes by that I don’t think about Don. How could a person not? He was literally in my life for half of it. I’m 82 and we were together for 42 years. 

In hindsight I think the lack of snow we've had up until now deepened the windup to my Sadiersary. It reminded me of the winter we had the year he died. I always thought Don custom-ordered that weather pattern as a parting gift for me so I didn’t have to fight the elements to plan his funeral and take care of all the duties a widow has to do during and afterward. He was into following the weather big time, being in the snow plow business most of his adult life. Of course, if we had gotten a blizzard instead of an El Nina winter that year I would have found a way to romanticize that as well. It’s how I roll. 

The Sadiversary takes me by surprise every single year. Why? Does my brain block it out until I can’t ignore it any longer? Sounds logical, although I've never been good at remembering birthdays and anniversaries. If I had a do-over and it wasn’t in January I probably would have established a yearly ritual to commemorate the day so it could be penciled in on the day planner where it couldn't sneak up on me. I do that a week in April when both our birthdays and our anniversary happen. I plan a trip to the butterfly exhibit where I pretend that the huge blue butterflies that fly in pairs and follow the brick path around and around the glass enclosure are Don and me. Yup, I have a bit of melodrama going on inside my head that wishes it would manifest itself Emily Dickinson style. Try as I might, my poetry is amateurish at best and sucks at its worst. And can you believe it, I totally forgot to go to my Creative Writing Group this past week? The group I started and lead! I had my stuff-to-share ready to go and when the time came to leave my apartment, it never crossed my mind. One of the members called me afterward to check up on me because it was the first time in two years that I’ve missed it. 

Now that the Sadiversary has passed, I feel different---like someone poked a hole in my brain and let all the hot air out. I looked around this morning and saw a cleaning session in my future.

 

Until Next Wednesday. ©

 

After great pain, a formal feeling comes

by Emily Dickinson

 

After great pain, a formal feeling comes –

The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs –

The stiff Heart questions ‘was it He, that bore,’

And ‘Yesterday, or Centuries before’?

 

The Feet, mechanical, go round –

A Wooden way

Of Ground, or Air, or Ought –

Regardless grown, A Quartz contentment, like a stone –

 

This is the Hour of Lead –

Remembered, if outlived,

As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow –

First – Chill – then Stupor – then the letting go 

 

Photo Note: Not sure what year that photo was taken but I'm guessing it was in the mid-'80s. That was the smallest of Don three front end loaders. That's all snow behind us, piled up by one of the larger loaders.

Creative Writing Groups and Poetry

 

Six months or so ago I started a creative Writing Group here at the continuum care complex. We’re a small group with a core of four but we are faithful in our endeavors. Two of the members say the group has helped inspire them to start writing and keep writing---something they had planned to do in retirement but hadn’t gotten around to doing it until I started the group. One of them is a woman who has been working on writing several short-but-connected stories and claims it’s the first time she’s tried to write anything. She’s good! So good I have a hard time believing she’s as green as she says she is. On the other hand she was a librarian her entire career and as Stephen King says the best way to learn to write is to be ferocious reader. The guy who credits the group for keeping him writing does poems and brings a half a dozen to group each time we meet, usually written a few days before our get-togethers. I wish I could write that fast.

Another women in group is a pastor here on campus and she’s been writing for years, even had a column in the daily newspaper back in the '60's and '70s. She’s a true asset to our group, especially when it comes to critiquing the rest of us with her positive observations. Sometimes she shares beautifully written stories about her life that’s been full of dark twists and joyous turns like you wouldn’t believe. Other times it’s a sermon she might be working on that she shares. I’m a duck without water when it comes to helping with her questions on the latter topics. She knows I’m an agnostic which I told her in a one-on-one long before I started the group. I’ve written about her before labeling her with the name Ms Angel. And she is one. I fan-girl her because she’s wicket smart, has great recall and empathy and is non-judgemental. If she didn't wear an obnoxious perfume I'd probably pursue a one-on-one friendship with her. She's suggested coffee so I know she feels the same pull but sitting next to her for an hour of group is almost more than I can take of that perfume. It gives me a headache and you can smell her coming from eight feet away.

I’m the forth one the group---Chatty Cathy dropped out a long time ago and the guy who said he’d come back if she dropped out got voted off the island, so to speak. We had two others sample the group but they didn’t come back. We’re planning a poetry slam in the fall, open to all the residents to read their favorite poems. We’ll, however, be reading original stuff at our fireplace gathering place in hopes that will get some more people interested in joining us. It will take me from now to then to write something that might have universal appeal and to practice reading it out loud. Talk about breaking out of my rut and comfort zone, this will do it in spades.

A month of so after I was hospitalized I wrote a ‘dark’ poem and recently shared I it with my Creative Writing Group. When I finished, no one said a word for the longest time. Finally someone says, “I don’t know what to say” and another person was quick to agree. The third comment was, “It’s very different than anything else you’ve written.” I was embarrassed. What I usually share are humorous little poems and occasionally a slightly revised blog post. When I do the latter I call them slice-of-life essays because no one here knows I keep a blog, nor will they ever if I can help it. Half the time I wish I hadn’t started the group because it’s harder than I thought it would be to keep that secret. But the rest of the time I’m vain enough to enjoy the status I get from being known as "the person who has that writing group" even though I tell people, “It’s not my group, we share equally.” And we do. I’m proud of the way we interact with one another.

I was in a creative writing group back about ten years ago. We had eight members and I know if I had read my ‘dark’ poem (The Call) to that group they would have spent fifteen minutes dissecting it, tearing it a part piece by piece until I disclosed who was right in figuring out the caller and helping me decide if I need a third stanza or to drop the last line of the poem. (I still can’t decide.) I honestly expected it to be an easy poem to discuss/figure out/pick apart and I would have loved that but I was sorely disappointed by the reactions it got. So I made sure after that third comment that we moved quickly on to the next reader. Lesson learned: stick with humor in that group. With that introduction, I’m giving you guys a taste of my poetry. The first is titled Forensic Digest---a stupid title, I know, but long-time readers know naming creative things is not my strong suit. The second one is The Call, the poem that left my group speech-less. ©

 

Forensic Digest by Jean R

 

It’s a billboard screaming

an old person lives here ---

nail clippers, a forgotten mug,

a big button remote

with a crossword puzzle

next to a magnifying glass,

a shoe horn, eye drops and

and a potato chip

that lost its bag a week ago.

Cluttered chair-side tables

talk and tell stories

to our La-Z-Boys

who don’t care if they’re

partners in this classic

display of old people gear.

 

© The Misadventures of Widowhood

 

The Call by Jean R

 

He bays like a hound in the night

begging me to hear and come

along leading me to

where I know I must go.

In bed I listen to the notes on the wind

hoping the ghosts in the shadows

will lead the messenger astray.

But he’s playing his song calling to me

and it’s time to pay and go on my way.

 

A thousand memories keep me awake,

a hastily written memoir of fate

while the ghosts in the corners

listen and mark their slates

for the caller to add up their weight.

Is there enough to pay the way

through to the end of the line

or will I be left out in the cold,

a blind kitten alone in the dark?

© The Misadventures of Widowhood

 

Until next Wednesday...

My Mary Oliver Moment

It seems weird to be writing this post to go live two days after my carpal tunnel and trigger thumb surgeries but it's on my dominant hand and it will be out of commission with a splint on it for a week. The problem with writing ahead is that I generally have to wait for more ‘life’ to happen for me to have anything to write about. I need at least a spark---a tidbit in a conversation, some quality people watching---to inspire a post. And as a secondary excuse, I’ve been sidetracked trying my hand at writing poetry and reading Mary Oliver books. She’s immensely popular and, to be honest, I can’t figure out why precisely. Poetry is a tough genre to make a name in and she’s managing to make it to the top of the modern heap. 

When I was a teenager I wrote long poems mostly about unrequited love and they were all rhyming verses with meter and metaphors. My very first attempt at writing a poem was for a high school assignment. It’s documented in an early 1950s diary and starts out, “Oh, how I hate to sit at home and rack my brain to write a poem.” One of the first poems I remember studying in school was Robert Frost’s Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening. It’s included in Mary Oliver’s book, A Poetry Handbook. Here’s some gobbly-goop she says about that classic poem: “The initial four lines are rife with w’s and th’s; f is there and v. Three sets of double ll’s. The heaviness of the vowels is increased by the use of diphthongs.” Blab, blab blab. It’s too deep in the language weeds for me and it’s hurting my head to break down Frost’s poem into mutes and semivowels the way Mary does. 

Frost:

Whose woods these are I think I know

His house is in the village though;

He will not see me stopping here

to watch his woods fill up with snow.

 

Me:

 

Oh, how I dearly hate to sit at home

learning the proper way to write a poem.

Even with Mary Oliver trying to teach me

I am like a blue bottle tossed out to sea

bobbing one way on the waves, then another 

as I recall the poems written by my brother.

My brother really could write heart-felt poetry and I don’t know where he got that ability or the desire to create them. He wasn’t the best student in high school---had the brains but he was more into  cars and girls instead of English Literature. And I’ve never known him to be much of a reader over the years. It wasn’t until the ‘80s when I got the rude awakening that he could write better poems than me. I was working on a family history book and had asked everyone in the family to submit something I could include…poems, essays, photos, special memories, recipes, answers to a questionnaire. That request revealed a lot of hidden talent. Both of my nieces sent me poems and one of their husbands did, my brother too, even my dad recited a poem on a cassette tape he wrote in the third grade. It was printed in his hometown newspaper where they called him the new Longfellow. We ended up with twenty poems and only four were written by me and I can honesty say my brother’s blew mine out of the water---thus the metaphorical bobbing in the waves (above).

From my superficial and extremely brief research I learned that poetry has been around in the spoken form since the twelfth century and much earlier in the form of verses sung to tell stories with its humble beginnings in ritual and religious chants. I have no trouble visualizing roaming bands of troubadours discovering words that rhyme and pleased the ear could bring more coins into their purses. I have no trouble visualizing monks doing their lovely chanting and receiving food offerings in their 'begging bowls.' Considering that music is universal in all cultures it safe to say that free verse and poetry is innate in all of us. In other words, we all could write it if we set our minds to do it, especial the newer free verse style where if there are any rules I haven't found them. Yet. It might not be good poetry but if we write about love, loss and life experiences other readers will find their stories in our words. If nothing else it’s good exercise for the brain to try to be our own versions of Mary Oliver. Or we'd accidentally write a few good old country western songs.

And guess what, I just finished writing a generic post for the week when I’ll be recovering from my trigger thumb and carpal tunnel surgeries. The eighth was the big day.  I'll try to update you in the comment section, should anyone leave one. ©

 

Dew Drops and Tear Drops

I used to be a night owl before the pandemic. Going to bed at 3 AM was not unusual and a throwback to my working days…or I should say working nights. I did a lot of writing after midnight and I like the quietness of the neighborhood when everyone is tucked into their beds. No little kids dominating the sidewalks, no barking dogs. No lawn mowers or snow blowers filling the airwaves. You learn a lot about your neighbors in the middle of the night. The young couple across the street, for example, are afraid of the night. They leave their porch light on from dusk to dawn. The neighbors next door are very trusting. They leave their garage door up all night, confident no one will come along to steal the guy’s fancy tools and medieval gear---they run renaissance festivals across three-four states. And, yes, I’ve seen more than a couple of sword fights out my bedroom window. They’re interesting people and if you want to weave your own fabric, spin your own yarn or make your own chainmail, they’re your go-to couple. 

When the pandemic first started I couldn’t fall asleep and when I did I’d wake up an hour or so later then worry would take over my mind and not let go. So I got into the habit of taking sleeping pills and sometimes even that didn’t work. Long story short now I’m falling asleep at midnight and waking up at seven and I’ve almost weaned myself from taking the Ambien bottle out of the drawer except on full moon night which is why it was prescribed in the first place. Seven o’clock in the morning has a lot in common with the middle of the night. For the first hour anyway and I have to admit it’s a pretty time of the day. The dew on the lawn before the sun tops the trees to burn it off is the stuff poets write about. 

"How cunningly nature hides every wrinkle of her inconceivable antiquity

under roses and violets and morning dew!"

Ralph Waldo Emerson

 “Let your life lightly dance on the edges of Time like dew on the tip of a leaf.”

Rabindranath Tagore

When I was in my twenties I wanted to be poet when I grew up. I never felt like a grown up until my husband had his stroke. I had adult responsibilities—the job, the house, the car---but not having kids made me feel like a kid looking for the next great learning experience as I waited for my ‘real’ life to begin. I can’t say I didn’t go through a mourning period for what never happened, but it was short lived on the missing parenthood front. Of course, the dream of being a poet had no medical excuse holding me back. I held on to that dream a lot longer although now I acknowledge if I have any writing talent at all it’s not in the poetry genre. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe as Lord Byron once hinted at, maybe I can make my wordsmithing mark without having to rhyme. 

"But words are things, and a small drop of ink,

Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces

That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think."

We might not all want to reach thousands with our words but the desire to communicate with our fellow man, to be understood and to understand others, is rooted in our prehistoric past. How exciting it must have been to develop a language when there was none. I visualize a caveman grunting out the word ‘hunt’ and being understood for the first time like Helen Keller at the well when she first made the connection between the letters w-a-t-e-r being spelled out on her hand to the water running through her fingers. As she wrote in her autobiography years later, “That living word awakened my soul, gave it light, hope, joy, set it free! There were barriers still, it is true, but barriers that could in time be swept away."  

If you’ve read the introduction at the top of this blog you know my husband lost his ability to speak and write after his stroke. When you lose that connection with someone you love you mourn a part of your relationship. Family caregivers know all too well you let go in stages until the final moment comes and you mourn one last time. I went to the cemetery to visit my husband’s grave this week. The pandemic lock-down prevented me from going in April when I’d normally go to dig up the quackgrass around the stone and for the first time ever, I sat in my car crying. I cried for him. I cried for me. I cried for the whole bloody world. I cried like I haven’t cried since 1983 when my mother died. And I cried because I really, REALLY wanted a Little Miss Debbie Swiss Cake Roll to fill the emptiness I felt. ©

Ordered this tee shirt the next day, figured I needed the reminder. Thanks to the Boomer Girl's Guide blog for the link.