Sentimentality, Traditions and Gifts for Widows

I’m so darn sentimental it’s embarrassing. Some of the things I’m sentimental over makes sense like my childhood doll and her fur trimmed coat that was made out of my mother’s wedding suit, but some things would have others scratching their heads, wondering why I hold on to something with so little value. An example of the latter literally got turned into a pile of rags this week. It was a t-shirt of my husband’s that I’ve been using as a nightgown in since he died almost five years ago. For a couple of months I’ve been planning to cut it up for rags but it took the dog barfing all over the place before I could actually get myself to do it. That’s not the end of it though, before I took a pair of scissors out of the drawer I went online and bought another t-shirt just like it. 

Do I think I’ll fool myself when the new and improved t-shirt is folded on my shelf, waiting for a warm summer night? Can I pretend it’s still connected to my husband in a weird, twisted kind of widow logic? I think I can and as evidence of that I offer Exhibit A: A Mickey Mouse watch. My husband had a dozen watches but this one was his favorite to wear when little kids would be around and unbeknown to me he actually had two of them. I found the second one in a shoebox of junk he probably picked up at flea markets and after finding it, I gave the one he actually wore to the son-I-wish-I-had. His own kids loved that watch when Don wore it, now they are grown with babies of their own and Tim is having fun wearing it around a new generation. The watch I didn’t know existed now hangs in my computer wardrobe and even though Don never wore it, it still queues up great memories.

The t-shirt is one of two Christmas presents I bought myself. Ancestry.com was offering a holiday discount on their DNA kits and I’ve wanted to do one of those for a couple of years. Not having any children, it seems like a waste of money but on the other hand, I’ve been doing genealogy research since I tagged along behind my mother going to court houses back in the ‘60s and not long ago I had books printed up, one for each side of my family tree. DNA seems like putting a period at the end of a sentence, the end of a very long project. 

I’m getting used to spending Christmas day alone---this will be my fourth one but compared to seven decades of never being alone on the holiday, four Christmas’ is a drop in the bucket. Is it any wonder Christmas is a downer for so many widows and widowers? I try not to care about the holiday but I wish I could un-see the photos of candy cane shaped bread in various stages that a Red Hat sister posted on Facebook that she’s making for gifts. Avoiding Facebook in December helps but there is always something to remind me that joyful holidays are in my rearview mirror. Like an article in the newspaper about a project patterned after the Angel Trees for children where people pull a tag off the tree with a child’s name and age written on it, then they buy them a gift to be delivered by the “angel network.” Only this Angel Tree was for elderly people living alone. At first I thought, that’s a great idea, followed by sadness when I read that the tree is only for low income elderly people. I was thinking of another four-year widow I read online who had a major pity party---and that’s not an exaggeration---because a club she belongs to decided not to exchange gifts this year. Ya, I know her pity party goes deeper than a missed gift but that’s where she’s placing all her widowhood anger and resentment.

Although I’m quite used to buying my own presents, I think the no-one-to-give-me-a-gift thing bothers me, too. Last night while watching a movie until three in the morning I wanted to order everything they advertised. The Lumo Lift for slumping shoulders and a Google Home. No, Jean, those are fads you’d soon tire of. ThinOptics---Seriously, Jean? You don’t need another pair of reading glasses no matter how cool the design. A Water Pik. Maybe. But the biggest clue to my Christmas mood is that I ate the small box of chocolates I bought to have on hand in case someone unexpected stops by with a token gift---like cane candy shaped bread or a tray of cookies. The emergency-gift-on-hand tradition is something I inherited from my mother and it’s not supposed to be opened until New Year’s Day. That’s “The Rule” if the candy is not given away in December. My old doll caught my eye as I popped the last chocolate in my mouth, her intense stare telling me that Mom would not be pleased. Do we ever get our mothers' voices out of our heads? ©

From Dogs and X-cons to Light Bulbs

The day after a city has dug itself out after a snowstorm and a bright sun has turned the white landscape into sparkling crystals you can’t help smiling. All the postponed errands and canceled appointments go back on the table, we’re out and about and happy about that. Yesterday I dropped Levi off at the Canine Foo-Foo Beauty Parlor, then I took myself out for a western omelet with an English muffin and orange marmalade. I ask for a takeout box right away and put half the omelet inside before I’ve had my first bite. Out of sight, out of mind because old habits die hard---if it stayed on the plate I’d keep eating beyond what it takes to satisfy my hunger. My check came to just under ten dollars and I left a three dollar tip. It doesn’t matter if the check comes to six or sixteen dollars, I leave the same three dollars. Basing a tip on how much you eat seems stupid to me. The waitress comes to the table the same number of times to take and deliver an order, to refill coffee and leave the check. Once in a while I’ll add a fourth dollar if I’m sitting next to someone from the Lunch and Movie Club who just leaves a dollar behind for the waitress to split with her busboy.

My favorite place to have omelets always has a couple of heavily tattoo busboys and/or cooks. Arms, hands, necks and faces tattooed everywhere. It’s a local, three restaurant chain and I've been going to the chain for over thirty-five years. My husband and I suspected that they hire right out of an x-prisoners-needing-jobs catalog. Years ago it was the only place that was open all night long and we’d go there to get our coffee thermos filled during the night or to get breakfast at dawn when our lots were all plowed. The place was just down the street from the police station and the officers were doing the same thing so it didn’t take long to get over the fear of being around scary looking, inked-up guys who knew how to cook and clear tables but seemed not to know how to talk to customers. They remind me of a line from Shawshank Redemption when a newly paroled guy was bagging groceries and asked, “Permission to piss, boss” and the grocer replied that he doesn’t have to ask to use the bathroom and the x-con thinks but doesn’t say out loud, Forty years I been asking permission to piss. I can't squeeze a drop without say-so.

I have no discipline what so ever today. Here it is 1:00 in the afternoon and I still haven’t had breakfast or gotten dressed. But my keyboard is hot from being on the computer since nine this morning. Don’t get alarmed. My not getting dressed isn’t an old-lady-loses-interest-in-life thing. I come from a long line of bathrobe dwellers. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. I did manage to feed the dog and give him fresh water. Levi's too mouthy for me to ignore in the morning. Thanks goodness for that or he’d look like one of those malnourished dogs in a Humane Society ad campaign to get donations.

John Grogan, author of Marley and Me wrote near the end of the book: “A person can learn a lot from a dog, even a loopy one like ours. Marley taught me about living each day with unbridled exuberance and joy, about seizing the moment and following your heart. He taught me to appreciate the simple things---a walk in the woods, a fresh snowfall, a nap in a shaft of winter sunlight. And as he grew old and achy, he taught me about optimism in the face of adversity. Mostly, he taught me about friendship and selflessness and, above all else, unwavering loyalty.” 

Clearly, Levi has taught me many of the same things but he’s also taught me that barking in front of the cupboard where I keep his Milk-Bone Trail Mix is as annoying as a kid beating on a drum. He’s taught me that barking at cats, rabbits and other dogs all require a different pitch of intensity and that when someone comes to the front door it requires a combination of excited yipping  and tail chasing. Even if a tattooed x-con came was standing on the other side of the glass, Levi would happily welcome him or her into his circle of people to judge by their actions and not their looks.

The day I dropped Levi off at the groomers I still had a couple of hours to kill before I could pick him back up again, so after my omelet I went to Lowe’s in search of a full spectrum light bulb. They say they are good for wintertime depression and since I’ve been doing a couple of hours of knitting every evening, I thought I could kill two birds with one stone…err with one light bulb. While looked up and down the row of bulbs I ran into something called a C-Sleep light bulb. They are Bluetooth enabled to work with an app on your phone that helps you change the bulb between three settings, one of which is supposed to set you up for a sleep cycle before bedtime. I didn’t buy one but I went home thinking that the world is getting too complicated. Can you imagine spending forty years in prison and coming out to all the new devices and app tricks we have now? Heck, I’m still bummed out that we can’t get telephone directories with white and yellow page sections anymore. ©

Photo Above: That's Levi after having fun digging in the snow.

The party that wasn’t

Winter has officially come to my street. It’s covered with deep, heavy snow---officially 12.2 inches fell in 48 hours. All the schools are closed and even the rabbits that usually roam my yard are staying home. I shoveled three times yesterday and more has fallen since which means I’ll have to shovel again today. My driveway service has been here. Twice. And the sidewalk along the street was done by a neighbor and his snow blower, but I have to clear the walkway from my front door to my driveway, again---in case I need to call an ambulance or the Reader’s Digest Clearing House decides to deliver one of their giant checks. I also have to shovel three feet along the front of the garage that the driveway service won’t touch, no doubt because it wouldn’t take much to slide right into the door and a costly repair. Last but not least I need to keep a path to my bird feeders open and to my dog’s yard but I won’t be totally dug out until the county truck clears the street and since I live on a cul-de-sac that won’t happen until later today or over night. When we get plowed out, I’ll know the entire city is open for business and I will have lost a pound or two from all the exercise. Yay!

Levi was supposed to go to the Canine Foo-Foo Doggie Beauty Parlor today but I rescheduled for tomorrow, smack dab in the middle of the time I was supposed to be at the senior hall Christmas party. Not to worry, I lost interest in going to that party when I found out that the location where it’s going to be held will require us to take a shuttle bus from a parking lot to a church’s banquet hall. The shuttle bus holds 25 and 225 signed up to go the party. I did the math and can’t imagine standing in a line waiting for the bus when the temperature will be in the low 20s. Okay, I admit that I’m a pansy and if you’re wondering what’s the difference between standing in a line and being outside shoveling snow, I’ll tell you. It’s a matter of clothing. When I shovel, I’m wearing two layers of clothing plus gaiters, boots with ice fishing cleats on the bottom, ski gloves, a hat, a hooded jacket and a scarf tied around my face so only my eyes are showing. Still, when did pansy-itis set in? When I was a kid I could go sledding, ice fishing and skating by the hours. When I was in my twenties I hung around the ski slopes. Next came a decade of snowmobiling followed by seventeen years when I plowed snow and I spent more than my fair share of cold winter nights standing in the snow holding a flashlight while one of the guys laid on the ground repairing a broken hydraulic hose. Being bone cold is something I never want to do again.

The Christmas party is always the same, so I don’t feel badly about missing it. A choir of people in their 80s sings first and if I was one of them I’d be embarrassed. Next comes a choir of high school kids and unlike the first one, to get in that choir the kids have to audition and they are excellent---the best 20-something singers out of a school of a 1,200 students. But I’m not a glutton for Christmas songs so by mid-December I’ve had my fill. Then dinner will be served, probably turkey that may or may not be cold and last but not least they’ll draw for the door prizes which takes forever because they have so many---either cookie tins or poinsettias. But the biggest reason I don’t mind missing the party is I hate the idea of being separated from my car. What if I was in the bathroom when the last shuttle leaves? I don’t live near public transportation, the last time I saw a taxi cab was in 1975 and I don’t have an Uber app. The senior hall shuttle bus waits for no one. That’s the rule.

Cold weather and being outdoors always reminds me of the hot cocoa with marshmallows of my youth. My mom made it several ways but my favorite was made with whole chocolate milk with a touch of vanilla. I went to a baby shower last winter where they made it the same way, in a large coffee pot to keep it warm and we had our choice of liquors and spices to add to our hot chocolate. If they had that combination at the ski lodges of my youth, I probably wouldn’t have ever made it out to the slopes. I make cocoa quite often on cold, lonely winter nights but instead of it giving me pleasure like comfort foods are supposed to do it makes me feel guilty for consuming the calories so close to bedtime. Everything that goes in my mouth makes me feel guilty except for the spinach and pineapple protein shakes I make for breakfast. Oh, well, I’ve got seventeen days before my goals, diet and activities will change with the new year and the grumbling about the changes will begin. ©