plainmainegirl

(Note:  For my eldest and only brother, who will always have a special place reserved in my heart; who has been there whenever I’ve needed him and who I know would be if ever I needed him again.)

From the time when I was very young, I was fortunate to have three of the very best lifelong friends I could ever hope for. I didn’t necessarily choose them or meet them by chance. Life’s circumstances didn’t bring us together and we weren’t drawn to each other by common interests or personality types. Throughout our lives, we have had our differences, have grown apart by distance or other outside influences but have never strayed too far, and in our heart-of-hearts, know we are bonded together, forever. These lifelong friends are my sisters, and we have been “stuck” together from my very earliest recollections.

When I was growing up, as far back as I can remember, four of us girls shared one bedroom in a modest-sized ranch home. I don’t know how we did it, four girls in one room. Today, four people can barely live in a whole house together without thinking they don’t have enough space. Children today “need” their own bedrooms. Not only did we share a bedroom, but our home only had one bathroom for seven people, a thing almost unheard of in today’s society (as most know it) However did we survive? (How did my brother survive with four girls? No wonder he left and joined the Navy after he graduated!)

We all had to learn, at a very early age, how to get along and share with each other. I marvel at our living situation now and also our parents, who had to be the most patient people on the planet. Aside from being tolerant themselves, they taught us how to appreciate what we had and not think we were missing out on anything. I don’t believe we ever knew any other way but to be accepting and get along. It was the way of things.

Once my brother left home, my oldest sister inherited his room and then there were three of us who shared one room. When she left, it was the next in line and so on. Since I was the last one, I never did inherit “the” room. Eventually, I just ended up with my own room my default.

My thoughts of growing up are only fond ones which I could write a “once upon a time” story to. It wasn’t all perfect of course, but the memories of my childhood truly are rosy, growing up in a loving home with a close-knit family. Our parents were the two most loving, supportive people we could ever hope for and we were the fortunate ones to have them. I don’t know why. I still marvel at this today when I think of how special they were; for all of us to grow up in a loving home with devoted parents. We ate our meals together, spent holidays together, celebrated birthdays together. We did things as a family, shared as a family, grew, played, laughed and loved as a family. I remember sitting in the cold brook with my sisters out back making clay mud pies, rolling down our hill in a barrel, swimming down to the lake, ice skating on the pond in the back field, sledding, riding in the boat, snowmobiling, sharing the minibike and riding my horses (sometimes falling off at very inopportune times – like the side of a busy road). Countless memories and the many trips we took together or just the Sunday afternoon rides to go for ice cream.

Growing up and being the youngest I often sought the sage advice of my sisters. I learned much of the essential “girl” things I needed to know from them along with many non-essential things I probably wasn’t supposed to know about. My parents may have been the greatest people in the world but they were also brought up in the age where kids didn’t discuss feelings or share every detail of their lives like they do today. If I needed to know the answers, I relied on the people who had already had the experiences.

I won’t deny we fought as children because we were so very different (as much as I make it sound as if our lives were a storybook). I don’t know how many times I heard, “I’m telling Mom,” or how many times I might have said those words myself. I found an old diary I kept back in the 70’s (I think I was about 10). In one of my excerpts I talk about my sister closest to me in age. Part of it reads: “She thinks she’s so big around everybody and swears in front of them. Big Deal! I could throw up sometimes when she talks to them. I always leave because I don’t want to listen to her. She always asks to have a cigarette just when they come so she can act big. She always calls me stingy because I don’t give her things. She always hogs everything. If she ever tells on me (about what I don’t know) I will tell Mom (maybe) that she smokes. She calls me a baby when she always tells Momma everything I do because she can’t take care of her own problems.” To my knowledge, I never told on my sister. Whatever our petty differences, there were some trusts you just didn’t break, so matter how annoyed you got with each other.

My sisters and I have always tried to accept each other for the way we are; good, bad, happy, miserable; whatever our circumstances. My sisters don’t always agree with my decisions and I don’t always agree with theirs. They have tried to give me advice throughout my life (sometimes I wish I would have listened more often), but whether I do heed their advice or not they are there to support me in happiness and in sorrow – never to pass judgment; never to sit back and say “I told you so.” They don’t revel in my disappointments but are the first ones to be there to offer comfort when things do fall apart. Like my parents, their only wish is to see me happy and my greatest comfort is having no doubt of this; no doubt of their unconditional love. This is what we were taught; family sticks together and is what matters. Family is who will be there for you when the rest of the world is nowhere to be found. Family is who you love no matter what the outside influences of the world might throw at you. You forgive, move on and let go, remembering those bonds you forged as children.

My sisters have been there in my greatest joys; all members of my wedding party, celebrating one of the happiest days of my life. They were supportive during all three of my pregnancies and were each, in their own way, instrumental through the births and lives of my children. My sisters have offered comfort in my greatest sorrows, including the devastating death of my husband and the loss of our father. They have helped me through hardships I wouldn’t have been able to endure on my own. When I had to sell my home, they were all there pitching in however they could, whether it was financially, helping me move or both. A year later, in-between rentals, it was one of my sisters who let me move in with her for several months until I figured out where the next phase of my life would take me.

When our mother was dying of cancer, we all took turns staying with her (along with my brother), so she could remain at home. We worked together to clean out our family home. Where other families get torn apart over material items, we made it a game of sorts. I recall my brother dumping piles of items from the closet in the middle of living room floor for us to sort through or all of us “drawing lots” to see who got Mom’s car. We might have had our share of internal grumblings, but nothing that ever came close to harming our relationships. Too many relationships are destroyed by external forces or by wounds which aren’t allowed to heal.

I do find it sad when I hear about broken relationships in families, especially those among sisters because our bonds have always been so strong. I don’t know what tears families apart or why some never make that same kind of connection we have. Apart from my petty annoyances and normal growing pains and disagreements with my sisters growing up, I don’t remember feeling hate or resentment towards them. Certainly nothing I would ever hang on to, (except in old journal notes I can now read which make me laugh). I don’t believe there was ever any place for such a thing in our home. We depended on each other and learned from each other. We wore each others hand-me-downs. (Egads! I remember my mother’s sewing stage and some of the frightening clothes we wore). I think of my sisters and how precious they all are to me.

The four of us have been on numerous trips together, creating some of the best memories I will always hold near and dear. These are the precious things which are irreplaceable; those special times spent with the people who know you best. With our mother gone all these years, I often think of the trips we took to Florida and I am so grateful for the opportunity I was given to spend time with her and my three sisters. Perhaps with our own expanding families we find it more difficult to get away together, but we still find a way for periodic family functions; we call on a regular basis to check up on each other and meet for an occasional sister Sunday afternoon coffee or, since we all love to gamble, we might all venture to the casino to see who can lose the most money.

Throughout my life, this is the way it has been. I won’t say there haven’t been a few wrinkles here and there because there have been. And those times have been very, very painful. But we always mend. That’s what family does – that’s what sisters do; they love each other unconditionally; accept each other for who they are and realize each is different but each is an integral piece of the whole which makes up the family, the memories, the love on which the foundation of our lives have been established.

Perhaps ours is a unique relationship. I can’t speak for all sisters. Maybe, my sisters and I just learned from two incredible people how important it is to accept and make time for family and those who truly love you. We enjoy each others company. We like each other. I find, after all these years, being in the company of my sisters still is a place which brings me a sense of joy, comfort and reassurance. No matter where I am in my life or what’s going on, it is the place which always brings me a true sense of home. My sisters mean the world to me. Their love, friendship, unceasing commitment and bond to family has remained unbroken through the course of our lifetime. I love them all so very much.

(Previously published but one of my favorite pieces I wrote about my Dad.)

In memory of my father, Vernon Boynton

The day was cold to tired lungs so the old man sat in the warmth of his car, waiting for the football game to start.  His grandson was playing today.  His grandson, with his young skinny legs and his strong pink lungs.  Fathers leaned on the hoods of their cars talking about their sons, each trying to subtly outdo the other, waiting for their young heroes to give them the glory of a win over the opposition.  These men stood out in the chilly air, unaffected, while the old man sat, incubated.

A tinny, abrasive voice came over the loudspeakers, announcing the playing of the National Anthem.  As I heard the announcement, I saw that old man – my father – open his car door and step out.  Even though my father passed away several years ago, I will never forget that image.  He stood in the cold in his blue, quilted, flannel shirt and took off his cap, the one that read RETIRED across the front, and placed it over his heart.  The Star Spangled Banner rattled and crackled, but the tune was the same.  It meant something to my father.  While other men continued to sit, baseball caps intact, my father, a World War II veteran, stood for his country.

My father enlisted in the Army in 1940 when he was eighteen.  He soon became part of the 1st Infantry Division – the Big Red One. (“No mission too difficult; no sacrifice too great; – duty first!”)  Dad was in Company C 1st Medical Battalion through the whole tour:  Oran, Tunisia, Sicily, Normandy, Northern France, Ardennes, Rhineland, and Central Europe – from November 8, 1942 to May 7, 1945, a total of 443 days of combat as a division.  He drove an ambulance in the war.  He used to say, “Driving that thing with the cross on it was like giving them a big target to shoot at,” even though the enemy was supposed to respect that red cross.  Dad said his ambulance was full of holes – holes of respect, I guess.  Many nights he had to drive around with no headlights.  “Came within a couple feet of driving off a cliff one night,” he says with a half smile on his face, just like all his funny war stories.  Dad never mentioned the bad stuff.  Growing up, I was oblivious to the horrors of war.  His Army hats and pins were play things for me, except for those Big Red One patches.  Dad showed them to me but then they were put back in their metal container and stashed away in the back of his drawer.

When I was old enough to appreciate the realities of war, I wondered what my father really lived through, what he saw, how that time had affected his life.  My husband asked him about Normandy Beach once.  “The water was red that day,” he said shaking his head, “And the bodies were stacked like cord-wood on the beach.”  “We drank a lot.” I heard him say, “We drank to forget.”  For the first time in my life, I saw a hint of the pain my father endured.  That was all I ever heard Dad say about real life in the war.

After my father passed away, I inherited all of his war mementos, including letters he sent home.  A telegram dated 12/18/42 – “Am well and safe somewhere in North Africa.”  A letter dated 5/30/43 – “Now that this thing is over with over here I guess it is safe to tell you that I have been in the middle of it from the start to the finish.”  (Little did he know at the time that it was not over!)  “…I had some pretty narrow escapes…more than once I thought my days were numbered but I always managed to get out.”  A letter dated 6/25/43 – “If he (his brother) thinks this stuff is a bed of roses he is badly mistaken.  Tell him to mind his own business and stay at home as long as he can where he can do the most good.  There are plenty of other fellows to fight this war…”

When my father returned home in 1945, my grandmother said she would hear him pace back and forth upstairs in the middle of the night, as though with each step he could erase a day of the war and find his way back home, but I don’t think my father ever forgot.  Those memories were stashed away, just like those Big Red One patches.

Dad was a gentle soul, had an easy going friendly nature and not much bothered him.  Perhaps it was his make-up or maybe everything he lived through in those years made him value even more those things he held dear and helped him overlook the small things in life which seemed so inconsequential in comparison.

I wonder how many young people today realize how fortunate they are.  The majority of us grow up complaining about trivial things while men like my father lost that whole part of their lives.  How many of us stop to think and sincerely appreciate what our veterans have lived through?  Do we all stand reverently to honor them when the National Anthem is played?

But there was my father that day, standing in the cold, while others did not move or were unmoved by the song’s stature.  To my Dad, each note was a comrade dying, a wounded man screaming for help, a day of innocence lost.  I will never forget that moment because I think I finally understood.  That war was tattooed on Dad’s heart and soul; as permanent as the skull and crossbones he had inked on the inside of his forearm (which we only ever knew as Oscar the Octopus).  It wasn’t just something he lived through, World War II was a part of his life forever.

There may be those who don’t honor the flag, or question our government and their leadership, or those who don’t hold any value in what this country represents.  For those who find no reason to stand when the National Anthem is played, I ask that you stand for a Maine farm boy who gave over four years of his youth.  Stand for a scared young soldier who helped to care for the wounded and dying.  Stand for a simple man, who somehow managed to survive the horrors of war, and had the courage and strength to return home to live a simple life.  Stand and remember him – my father – a man of honor.  In my heart he will forever remain a hero. I stand for him.

It’s hard saying good-bye to an old friend, a loyal companion who has been part of your life everyday for the last 13 years. The thing is, I never thought of myself as a dog person. As much as I like dogs, I never had that crazy bond people get with them. Brutus, however, was a different story.

We always had dogs growing up, but they were my father’s or my brother’s. My father was a beagle man. Back in the day, he trained them for hunting rabbits. I vaguely remember a dog named Daisy and Dad hooking up some system with an old crank telephone and a deer leg so each time Daisy touched the deer, Dad would crank up the phone and she’d get a shock; no chasing deer for her. My father was a clever man. My brother’s dog was Taffy, a skinny, tan, mixed-something breed, about the size of a border collie. I just remember her tippy, tippy nails on the wooden floor and every time there was a thunder-storm, she would pant to excess, hide under the bed and throw up everywhere. (Ah, great dog memories.) My father’s next beagle was Chloe, a runt in a litter I picked out. Chloe was afraid of guns which was fine, because Dad no longer hunted much and just wanted a dog. Chloe was a big baby that slept on all the furniture and if you said “Chloe, who’s coming,” she would do that old beagle howl where her mouth would round-up – “rooo, rooo, rooo.” I admit I sometimes did it just to get her going because it was so funny to watch.

When I got married, my husband had a Chesapeake Bay retriever. He thought his dog was the greatest dog in the world. (He was mistaken.) I could probably write 30 pages on the escapades of Mascia, named after my husband’s best friend. My husband was an avid duck hunter and Mascia was a great water dog and retriever; very well-trained in that aspect. The problem with Mascia was he liked to roam and my husband seemed to give him every opportunity to do so. He would go on jaunts and get into trouble, like breaking into camps and stealing chicken off tables. Living in Florida was the worst because my husband would be gone for a week at a time and I had to control that beast. He could break through screen doors and chain leashes. I tracked him down in swampy ditches. We had neighbors make threats to poison their trash. My breaking point was the phone call telling me Mascia had gotten their dog pregnant and I would have to pay for an abortion. There were days I loathed that dog but my husband loved him and I knew it. Perhaps they are together again somewhere.

I got a dog for my son when he was about 6 years old. Luna was a lab/springer mix. She was a cute dog but it was tough having a puppy. Even though I raised three children, raising a puppy was another challenge. She was jumpy and annoying most of the time but calmed down as she got older and became a decent family dog, always getting along with other animals I brought into the house. She absolutely loved the water. We lived on a lake and she would stay in there all day if I let her, swimming around with the kids. Luna’s other distinguishing quality was greeting people who came to the door with a shoe in her mouth. She would stand there wagging her tail, waiting until you took the shoe out and, if you didn’t, she might continue on outside with it to go pee. We lost a few items that way. If a shoe wasn’t available, she’d grab a sock, a bread wrapper, anything, but she had to have something. As she got older and a little more senile, I brought her dog crate back for her security to sleep in. Many times I’d find her, the old cat Macintyre and a shoe all in there together.

Brutus came along because my boyfriend at the time always wanted a Newfoundland. He also thought it would be great for him to have a camp dog, although the only time Brutus ended up going to camp was when I took him. My sister saw an ad in the paper for a free Newfoundland, so we called and the owners came to interview us and see where I lived. They were living in an apartment and couldn’t keep him anymore. He was 2 years old at the time. Upon first inspection, it was fairly obvious Brutus was more lab than Newfoundland. He was a unique looking dog however, because he was much bigger than a lab, with a very thick, black coat and a bushy tail that curled upwards. He seemed like a good-natured dog and, even though I really didn’t want another one, I agreed to take him. Besides, he wasn’t supposed to be my responsibility, (that didn’t last too long).

Brutus adjusted quickly to our household and my boyfriend did work with him in the beginning, training him on basic dog tricks and manners. He and Luna became fast friends and he got along with all the other animals, which was an unspoken rule among pets in my household. All creatures big and small got along, with the exception of the bitchy, black cat who would often swat at any animal that walked by her. Brutus, who was about 10 times her size and could have easily crushed her under one paw, wouldn’t go by her to get to his food. He would stand and wait until I cleared her from the path.

He became more a part of the family and I became more attached to a dog, something I could never dream possible. Brutus loved to play. He was always a puppy at heart even when he got older. When he was young, he loved to run around and was incredibly fast. (He loved chasing those pesky squirrels.) He loved playing games and would run inside the house chasing me. My house was designed so we could run from room to room in a circle. I’d hide around corners, he’d chase me again. It was our version of hide and seek. He would do these incredible spins, which you couldn’t think possible for such a big dog and made you laugh because here was this huge dog doing these silly spins with that fluffy tail tucked between his legs. When he got excited he would do a prance, as though he was doing a little tap dance – sometimes with all 4 paws but mostly with his front ones, which again looked comical because of his size. He was wonderful with my kids, with any children. I never knew him to be mean or threatening and most kids couldn’t resist that fluffy tail. He loved playing with Luna, although he sometimes did forget he was almost three times her size and had to be reminded not to play too rough. He did normal dog things but was kinder and gentler than most big dogs. He was a lover, not a fighter, but was also quick to protect those he loved. I remember when he thought I was threatened by another dog, (which kept jumping on me), he intervened by standing up against me, refusing to let the other dog from getting too close.

I had never seen a dog who loved the snow as much as Brutus. Perhaps it’s common for dogs with fur as thick as his to lay in the snow or on top of snowbanks, which were his favorites because he had a good vantage point. He seemed to have the most energy as colder weather approached. His fur got even thicker to the point you wondered if there was dog underneath, and his tail, if it was possible, got even bushier. I dreaded spring because I knew all the fur was coming out, in mass quantities. Sometimes I would just sit and pick it from him, like I was out in a field harvesting cotton. I could have made a wool Brutus coat three times over by now. Summers were the worst for him, even when I had him shaved down, (he almost seemed embarrassed when I did), because even though we were told he loved the water, he would stand outside in the blazing sun but refused to go in. Sometimes, if we weren’t looking, he’d walk in there like a dainty lady, just above the paws. He tended to go in more when the water was very cold. The only time I ever saw him jump in the water was to save his girlfriend Luna, who was being chased by a party guest’s uninvited dog. I happened to witness the scene. She ran to the water to escape the dog and, before I could get there, Brutus came out of nowhere, zoomed down the hill and bounded into the water after that dog. I never saw anything like it. It was the only time he ever went in the water like that – to save his friend.

There was something about this dog that exuded personality. He was scary at first because of his size but he grew on you because he was so friendly and loveable. He had a “boyish” charm that won everyone and anyone over. Brutus was a handsome dog, majestic in stature but there was something about him which made him approachable. Perhaps it was his happy, trusting face and the way he tilted his head as if to say, “Hey, want to me my friend?” Maybe it was the shaggy coat of black hair that made him resemble a bear (a big teddy bear) or that bushy, curled tail, (my sister called him fat-tailed dog), that people couldn’t resist wrapping their hands around just one time and was always wagging whenever he saw anyone. His demeanor was the best. He was the ultimate gentle giant. It was the incredible character of Brutus which made him so special. I don’t know how many times he won over people who didn’t like dogs or were afraid of them. Everyone loved Brutus, wanted to pat him, feel that bushy tail or just be around him. In our former neighborhood, they called him the “love pig.” He just loved people and people loved him. When I couldn’t find Brutus, I’d go to the neighbors and find him hanging out with the guys in the garage. Sometimes he’d just walk in my neighbor’s house, if she had her door open, lay down and make himself at home. He played with their little dog, which was about the size of a cat. Their chickens would sometimes follow him home. I came outside one day to this scene: my 2 dogs were laying on the lawn in the sunshine with 2 of the cats, my 3 chickens were grazing around them, my neighbors 8 or 9 chickens were picking further down the lawn and my rabbit hopped by both dogs. They both just lay there as if it was all very typical. I suppose it was at my house.

Brutus didn’t like being alone and always wanted to be near somebody, (hence visiting the neighbors if I wasn’t immediately available). He had to be touching some part of you and would often lean on people. You didn’t necessarily have to pat him, he just wanted some form of human contact. He would often lay on my feet or inch his hind end onto the couch until the whole dog was up there and he was sitting in your lap. Nothing like a 90 pound lap dog! He had his naughty moments where he ignored me but not many or those times he’d come into a room like a bull in a china shop, knocking things over because of his size and that wagging, bushy tail. Typically, he was good-natured and easy-going, not “high strung” like so many dogs. He was friendly without being an annoying kind of friendly. He wasn’t jumpy and didn’t bark unnecessarily. He was a lover and a leaner. I could take him almost anywhere with me because he was so well-behaved. He was welcome in several of my friend’s homes, including my close friend and her dog Cocoa. They both seemed disappointed whenever I didn’t bring him with me. I would take both dogs for ice cream, which was their special treat because I didn’t feed them table scraps. The both loved to ride in the car and each dog would pick a back seat window. People would be surprised when Brutus stuck his big head out the window waiting for his little treat. As big of a dog as he was, he was never a glutton. Luna would always finish her ice cream before him. Brutus was a picky eater and took forever to eat his food, especially when he got older.

I had a longer relationship with Brutus than I did with any man, even my husband. (The man who wanted Brutus was asked to leave, Brutus was asked to stay.) He was a better friend than many friends can be. He was reliable to be sure, but he was also resilient through anything and remained the same happy-go-lucky, devoted dog as always. No matter what mood I was in or what I was going through, he wanted to be by my side. Brutus seemed to sense when I really needed him and some moral support. However, as much as I asked of him, he never was a needy dog or required too much. He did love to be loved for sure, but wasn’t a pain in the ass about it. He just liked being close.

He went through lots of changes in his life and I’m grateful he got to live out his final years at a friendly home on the water, with another dog; a place where he got to roam around like he did when he was younger. He followed his chocolate lab girlfriend Missy around everywhere, and was treated with love and compassion by my boyfriend. It made me happy knowing his final years were good years.

Throughout his life, particularly in his age and decline, Brutus never whimpered even when I knew he had to be in extreme pain. It would take him several minutes just to lie down and getting up was a chore also. Sometimes he just couldn’t do it, would start to get up, lay back down, look at me as if to say, “Just let me lay here.” I still took him and Missy for short walks and there were times, towards the end, he tried running again to keep up with her, only to stumble or he’d hurry up the stairs and his back legs would give out and he’d fall down in a heap. (My boyfriend installed a ramp for him.) It was sad to watch because even though he was always a pushover and a love pig, he was so majestic in his own right, but age can be cruel and “dehumanizing” even to animals. It was hard to see him get old yet look at his face and sometimes still see a sparkle in his eyes that said “I’m still here. I want to be a puppy but my body is failing me. I can’t make my legs work so we can play and run around the way we used to. Remember what a great dog I’ve been; what a great and true companion.”

Brutus just kept going and somehow I think would have kept on going no matter how hard it was for him because that’s the kind of dog he was. He would have remained at my side for as long as his body would have possibly allowed him to. It was extremely difficult to make the decision I made and I struggled with it, even though everyone who knew the situation told me I was doing the right thing for him.

I was there with him at the end. As with all things in his life, Brutus was good-natured and gentle. He lay down when he was asked and put his head in my lap. I held that big head and talked to him. I told him I loved him, told him it was okay to leave me, the one thing he just didn’t know how to do. I held him tight and felt him take his last breaths. It took all of my reserve not to cry, to let him go and walk away from my faithful companion, knowing I’d never see that fluffy tail wagging at me again and he’d return to me in a little wooden box.

The loss of my beloved side-kick has had a significant impact on me, much more than I thought possible. I try to rationalize it’s not proper to mourn the loss of a dog. (Having lost several people I love, I know it isn’t the same thing.) I try to tell myself I’m more emotional because I’ve gotten older and more sentimental but I know that’s only part of it. Brutus was a faithful friend who never let me down. He went through everything with me for 13 years and was always at my side – if I had nobody else, I had Brutus. I miss him very much. I sit on the couch looking for him at my feet or drive home at night thinking I’m going to see him standing in the driveway, wagging his tail, waiting for me.

If Brutus had been a person, he would have been one who had a great outlook on life, was always anybody’s friend, who never complained even if something bothered him or if he was in a lot of pain. He would have been a loyal companion who protected his family and put them first, being true to those he loved. He would have had an easy going, kind nature and people would have felt good just by being in his presence. People would have been drawn to him. I suppose he didn’t have to be a person for that. He was all those things as a dog. He was a gentle giant; my big, lovable teddy bear. He had the greatest spirit of any dog I will ever have the pleasure of owning and of loving. He was a one of a kind – my one and only.

[I apologize in advance that, although relationships are varied,  this only addresses those between men and women.]

I’ve never read the Venus and Mars book(s) but I know what it’s about – how men and women are different and how to recognize those differences. The thing to remember is this: as much as women want men to be more like them and vice-versa, that is not likely to happen.

Everyone knows relationships are based on friendship, trust, loyalty and love.  If you don’t have some combination of those, then perhaps it’s time to re-evaluate the situation.  However, the one thing often overlooked and equally important is a respect for the other individual for being who they are – a simple common courtesy that we often afford to our friends, co-workers, sometimes even complete strangers, but when it comes to our mates, we can be less appreciating and much more condemning.

It’s taken me some time to learn and accept how things are, but age mellows a person and you realize certain ways about people and the world around you. When we are young, we only have the ability to perceive and appreciate our own beings and the invisible bubble we live in. We have this impression that everyone is supposed to have the same thought process we do and, although that’s a wonderful concept, it just isn’t the case; particularly when it comes to men and women.

Talking in extreme measures, women are emotional bitches and men, on the other end of the spectrum are insensitive bastards. These are, of course, the extreme ends of the spectrum and somewhere in the middle lies the truth for most of us. As with anything, there are those who truly are at the polar end (run away from them) and those rare exceptions that anyone would be lucky to have as a partner because they don’t quite fit all the stereotypical male/female personas.  Coming from a women’s perspective, perhaps this is slightly biased.  However, I have always preferred the company of men and, other than my sisters, there are very few women I have close friendships with, so perhaps these observations would be considered a fair assessment.

Women like drama, they thrive on drama, they are drama queens. Life is about crisis and worry and panicking and any scenario of what might happen. Men are pragmatic, they worry but it’s almost always about money or anything related to money. Otherwise, whatever it is will work out and they have better things to do like check the scores of last night’s game and most often men don’t want to be involved. Perhaps men could practice a little more understanding and patience when women are in a crisis and women need to realize men do care, they just don’t always show it well or get worked up like they do.

As a general rule, men are terrible listeners. Women sometimes just want someone to listen to them, to sympathize and say “Wow, that sucks dear, let me give you a hug.” Women don’t need someone solving their problems; telling them what they should do or how they could do it better. (Man speaking: “Well if it was me, this is what I’d do…blah, blah, blah.”) That’s why you’ll find women bitching in their little girlfriend circles. (See further below.) Men need to just sit and listen or at least pretend to listen once in a while and women can pretend to be thankful that men are pretending to listen instead of saying “You’re not listening!”

When things go wrong as they sometimes will, women can remain upset for days, holding on to things forever and a day. Men like to move on, get past things. They figure if they just have sex and don’t talk about it, then everything is fine; case closed. Although I’m not totally convinced men forget things as they claim. I believe they stash them somewhere waaaay back in some corner of their brains.  Typically, men don’t withdraw for days (months, years) or hold grudges like women do. I know from personal experience it isn’t healthy hanging on to things. I suppose I’m still guilty of it at times but I think I’ve gotten better. Too much time is wasted holding on to anger and blame – the “who is right and wrong” syndrome.  Let go and move on or opportunities will pass by.

Don’t ever ask a man to find something that’s lost. For whatever reason men suck at finding lost things. The item in question can be right in front of them and they will somehow overlook it. Maybe it comes from a man’s lack of noticing things. Unlike women who sometimes notice everything. You know those type – the ones who give you the once over right down to your shoes when you meet them on the street. (What in hell is someone doing looking at my shoes? I could never figure that out.) There are women who notice every single thing when they step into your house (nosy bitches).  Perhaps both sexes can work on noticing more or less, whichever the case may be.

Women are also more gossipy than men because they like drama and, as I have said, they tend to notice more. However, I do believe men are more gossipy than is believed. Not like women of course: “Did you hear about so-and-so?” “Oh my, how scandalous – do tell.” No, men are far more subtle and nonchalant about it: “I guess Jim-Bob’s wife is leaving him.” “Really?” “Yup, she ran off with the neighbor’s wife.” “Huh.” “Did you see that game last night?” Of course everyone knows gossip is not good for anyone and we could all learn to do a LOT less judging of others and focus on what’s going on in our own lives.

Women want men to know what they want, what they feel. From the women’s train of thought, when she is upset, if her man really knew her, he would know what was wrong; she wouldn’t have to explain herself. Women are sensitive and men don’t like women being so sensitive, (“Oh, don’t be so sensitive!”). Well, that’s what a woman is; she cries easily, her feelings get hurt. Men expect women to be as literal as they are which isn’t possible because they are women. You know that old cliché from a man’s perspective – “I’m not a mind reader.” Perhaps that’s because their minds are too distracted by their jobs, or the ballgame last night or whether or not the car needs an oil change. It isn’t too difficult for a man to pay more attention to what’s going on right in front of him.

I think women have expectations of men. They always seem to hope for more and most of the time what you see is what you get. Women have illusions of grandeur, thinking romantic dinners and getaways will be planned for them; that somehow men are going to spontaneously combust into some imaginative, dreamy guy because that’s what they want. Unfortunately, this is not the case and women often end up getting disappointed. They blame the man, but really a man is just being himself most of the time.  It’s the woman who is putting all these expectations on him. If only a woman would say – “This is what I want,”  or make plans herself and say “Let’s do this.”  Most times men will happily go along and it will make life so much easier.

With men, life seems to center around money and being practical. Men are typically planners. Some men will let years go by, let their whole lives go by so they can save and save for their retirement. (I was with one of those once. Not a pleasant experience.) All well and good to plan ahead as long as you are enjoying life and your family along the way. Women, on the other hand, like to spend. They think money is growing in a garden in the back yard and have no concept one day everyone is going to grow old. Woman like to plan for trips and parties and other fun things, but the future? Retirement? Not so much. Women are more frivolous and spur of the moment. So many relationships fail over money problems. There is definitely something to be said for good communication, trust and common ground.

Men might be known as the strong ones in the relationship (while women are often considered weak and needy) but when they are sick, men are the worst. Typically, they think they are dying when they have a head cold. Mostly, men just want to be babied and pampered. And really, is it that difficult for women to offer a kind word and a little sympathy? Men want women to acknowledge them. They want a woman to say “Hey honey, thank you.” He doesn’t need a woman making him feel badly all the time by telling him all the things he’s not doing good enough. However, women tend to be very good at finding fault instead of saying what they appreciate – regardless of how small or irrelevant it might seem. Some women do love to nag…nag, nag, nag. There are those women who are never satisfied and complain about everything no matter how much a man does for them. How much better would it be to say thank you once in a while (or in some cases not say anything at all).

Women do love to bitch.  (And let’s be clear that bitching and nagging can be two different things – depending on if the woman really is a bitch, then they’re probably the same thing.)  Women love to get together with their friends and bitch. Daughters love to bitch to their mothers. Sisters love to bitch to sisters. It is the nature of the beast. Most of the time, there aren’t even any bad intentions on all these little things being bitched about; it is just a woman’s makeup. From a man’s perspective all those negative thoughts aren’t productive, but to women it’s a way to release and move on. Men don’t bitch like women do and they probably don’t understand all that women bitching. Men bitch about their job, money or world affairs. So men get together with other men and talk about men stuff – sports, sex (only the good stuff, of course), work and hunting. Maybe because it would show a sign of weakness to their own species if they bitched about anything too “personal.” Typically, men like to bottle that stuff up and keep it to themselves. Perhaps that’s why their life expectancy isn’t as long as a woman’s.

Two other big stumbling blocks in a relationship between men and women are over sex and how to raise children.  Sex usually plays an important role in any healthy, passionate relationship, particularly for men but also for women.  If there’s no sex (but still important to one or the other) and absolutely no passion or at least a solid friendship, perhaps it’s time to reassess.  When children are thrown into the mix, it can cause many outcomes.  Some relationships are made stronger by family bonds but then there are others who falter; those parents who never agree on how to raise children and can even use their kids to play the “good” parent against the “bad” one.  No wonder there is so much stress and miscommunication between men and women (and so many strained relationships). The reality is we can both be selfish and self-centered at times; very unwilling to appreciate, respect and accept we are different people with different needs.

I had a friend who once explained her relationship like this: “I don’ know if he’s such a bastard because I’m such a bitch or I’m such a bitch because he’s such a bastard.” Funny how some people seem so incompatible yet stay together. It’s hard to know all the reasons why people choose to remain unhappy together in this short lifespan. Perhaps it’s because the unknown is scarier than what’s in front of them. There are couples who have strange ways of communicating. I remember visiting relatives with my husband, sitting on the couch and watching them argue back and forth like a ping pong match gone rabid, wishing we could be invisible and slide out the door. I guess to them it was how they communicated because they are still married all these years later and appear to be very dedicated to each other. A friend told me her relationship was not so much based on sexual attraction, as people believed, but more so in the comfort and ability to communicate with her partner – which was another woman. So consider that when choosing who you plan to spend the rest of your life with.

What some women and men never come to understand is that we are different. It is just the way it is. Don’t get me wrong, there are people out there who are “anomalies.” My father was brought up to do everything just as well as any woman. He could cook and sew and tend to us children, but I still think Dad learned from Mom how to be more thoughtful and know the things that made her happy. He paid attention to her; they paid attention to each other, accepted flaws and enjoyed being together. Perhaps that’s why they were married for over 50 years. My husband was an extremely thoughtful man and my son is that way also, although growing up in a house with three women might have contributed to his insight. He is extremely creative and anytime there are special occasions, he will do unique, thoughtful things for people because he knows what they like; he pays attention. I find that to be rare.

I think men and women would get along so much better if they would both understand they are actually different and there has to be a level of acceptance for being who they are; a level of understanding and even forgiveness. I’m far from perfect, but I like to think I’ve grown some and learned a few things along the way. I’ve learned you can’t change personalities; you either accept the way someone is or you move on. We are all individuals and have certain flaws and interesting traits which make us who we are as people and also as men and women. This is what real life is like so deal with it – which isn’t to say Sally can’t try harder and doesn’t have to be a princess bitch or Bob can stop being an insensitive ass just because he’s a man. We can all learn to pay attention to the people we love and appreciate them a little more. We need to know our partners, realize our differences and special personalities, and respect each other as individuals; show some common courtesy.  Perhaps men and women are created equal under the law but we are separate and unique species with distinctive personalities, some parts great and some less than stellar, but it sure does make life a lot more interesting.

We are a materialistic society.  We can tell ourselves we’re not, but we are.  We cling to our things like wrapping from a new DVD sticks to your fingers.  We hang on to our homes, money, possessions, whatever it might be.  We’ve worked for them our whole lives, we’ve earned them, we deserve them, we are so afraid of losing them.

I lived with a man once (or should I say he lived with me) who’s goal in life was to make a quarter million dollars by the time he retired.  That was what mattered to him.  I wrote him a story once called “The Path” about a man who walks on a narrow path in search of his goal.  He tells himself he can’t deviate from the path, even when he’s hungry, thirsty or tired and sees a banquet of food, water or a beautiful place to rest.  In the end, he is expiring, his goal just beyond his reach, the path grown up behind him, having passed up all those things that could have helped him on his journey.  It’s at that point, when it’s too late, he realizes everything he overlooked.  For some reason, my former boyfriend didn’t appreciate my story.

Most of us have goals and they are wonderful and important.  The point of my story, obviously, was to not lose sight of life’s journey.  To not be so consumed with material gains and focused on what’s ahead, that we forget what really matters.  Unfortunately, some of us never figure that out.  To me, life is about making the best of what you’re in, when you’re in it.  Otherwise we miss out on so many moments and just keep looking down a narrow path for something better.  It really is what we choose to do with our time, while we’re here.  That is a person’s true measure of self worth.

When I think of my parents, it isn’t in terms of how much they gave me but how much they gave of themselves.  I found a picture from my 3^rd birthday.  On the back is the caption listing the gifts I got – a box of Cheez-its and a bag of popcorn.   Funny, I don’t remember ever feeling deprived as a kid and I don’t remember thinking I ever went without.  I grew up in a house with seven people and one bathroom yet I don’t remember ever thinking “poor me.”  I never had to pee in a bucket.  I never developed any psychological issues from having to share.  Growing up, my parents instilled a belief that what I had was enough, because I had them, two loving individuals in a loving home.  I still remember the feeling I got every time I opened my parent’s door; the embodiment of home, a sense of comfort and love which I never doubted.

My parents were amazing people.  I think the greatest times they had together were at First Roach, where they spent their summers after they retired.  From May until October they stayed in a tiny camper barely big enough to turn around in.  Their bathroom was an outhouse in the woods.  The campsite sat on top of a gravel road that logging trucks would randomly come barreling down through.  They spent nights sitting in bed together watching a TV the size of a postage stamp.  Yet I could tell when I went to visit them how happy they were; how much they loved it there.   They loved being away from the rest of the world, enjoying this simple life with each other.  Their entertainment was riding around on the 4 wheeler looking for moose or other animals (my father kept a daily journal of animals he saw), sitting around the campfire, watching the hummingbirds and chipmunks.  If Dad had the energy, they went fishing out in the aluminum boat.  It wasn’t about material possessions but about being with each other and just enjoying moments together.

When my husband and I got married and moved to Florida, it seemed like one financial disaster after another.  I think many marriages would have failed, especially in this day of instant gratification, where so much emphasis is placed on money.  It was often a struggle but I look back on those times fondly; living on Ramen noodles, bologna and other packaged, processed food.  I shopped at Winn-Dixie with the other poor folk thinking it was pretty cool to get 19 cent tuna, eggs or paper towels.  Since we never had any money to go out, we spent all our free time going to the beach, driving back home in our beat up Volvo with no air; hot, salty and sandy.  We entertained ourselves by sitting in the garage and watching lightening shows or hanging out on the back porch on the weekend listening to A Prairie Home Companion.  We took walks with the dog, cat and cockatiel – yes, all together.  It was an interesting time to get to know each other.  When we moved back to Maine things didn’t improve much financially.  We moved into my parent’s camp on the lake, an old converted mobile home which my father-in-law affectionately referred to as “Tobacco Road.”  From there Dan had the brilliant idea to rent the “unwinterized” camp next door for the winter.  I’m not sure how many mornings I woke up with ice in the toilet.  I would stall coming home from work so he would start a fire before I got there.  My rooster lived in the toolshed.  It was an adventure.  Life with Dan was always an adventure and fun and amazing, no matter what we did or what our situation was, because we were always in it together.  After Dan died, I had our dream home built on the lake for our children to grow up in.  I would have given it up in a minute to have him back, living in that cold camp or tiny trailer, shopping with the poor folk at Winn Dixie.  In my eulogy I wrote the following words:

“I guess my favorite times (and I think they were yours too) were when we would hump up for the day, buy lots of snacks, and snuggle up together and watch movies.  We didn’t need to go out to enjoy each others company.  We never needed money for our happiness.”

“We faced a lot of tough times you and I.  There were so many holes that we fell into.  But in those times, when the whole world seemed to be beating on our door, we held on to what mattered most.  As long as we had each other, we could deal with anything.”

I admit it was difficult when I had to sell my house a few years ago.  It wasn’t so much the idea of losing a beautiful place on the water as it was losing a sense of belonging and a home I felt my children could always come back to.  I bounced around after that and ended up in my sister’s barn for a summer, which isn’t actually a barn but a huge building with unfinished rooms upstairs.  I called it the desert; about 100 degrees during the day and cold at night.  I suppose it was a difficult time, but I tried to look at it as a unique experience, part of my journey.  I healed from some things and spent quality time with my sister and brother-in-law and found out once again how loved I am by my family.  It was a great place to wander around in the woods, be alone and find some peace.  I joked with my sister that they ought to set up “Freeman House – a Spiritual Retreat.”  I still think it would work.  It worked for me.

Perhaps I am still searching for that place which gives me a true sense of belonging.  I currently live in a crappy little apartment in the city next to frightening neighbors.  But that crappy little apartment is close to work, lets me keep my dog and has lots of storage space so finally all of my things are in the same place after three years.  Perhaps its not ideal, but my sisters come over for coffee, friends visit, and I have holiday dinners for my family.  To date, all three of my children have stayed with me when they needed to.  It is a place for them to come, where they know they are loved and cared for.  Ultimately, it doesn’t matter if it’s a beautiful home on a lake, an old apartment in the city or a tiny camper in the boonies.  What matters most is the love that’s waiting inside when you open the door.

We can acquire all the wealth and possessions we want in the world but I always think back to the times I was the happiest.  It wasn’t about what I had.  It was those times I felt the most loved.  Growing up with my parents, being married to Dan, raising my children, spending time with family, friends or people I love, this is what life is supposed to be about.  People aren’t going to remember what things you give them, they are going to remember how you give of yourself.  All the material possessions in the world, all the fortunes really don’t count for much, if we haven’t figured that out.  It is the time we spend, the love we give, what we have inside of ourselves that matters most.

A friend of mine recently passed away.  Someone I have known for 26 years, and without any warning, he is gone from my life.  I had seen him recently in our mutual work cafeteria.  I smiled and waved a greeting to him and yelled “Hey Buzz.”  I could have walked over and asked him how he was doing, what was going on in his life, but I didn’t.  I didn’t take that time.  I was too busy getting my toast and running back to my office to wonder how my friend of 26 years was doing lately; too busy to give him 5 minutes.  I never could have imagined it would be the last time I would see him.

I think we’ve all had those “what if” or “should have done” times in our lives.  I know I’ve had some in mine.

I remember January 10^th feeling like a very strange day, the day my husband died.  Somehow, it just felt different.  Dan was in a bad mood most of the day and my husband was always Mr. Fun.  We went skating on the pond that day.  Dan decided to take my fathers four wheeler on the ice.  He had just come back from taking our son for a ride and was going back out. He waved to me as I stood near the shore but something compelled me to walk out to see him.  He still seemed so unhappy and just looked at me.  I told him not to drive too fast because I thought there was something wrong with one of the tires.  I could have told him I loved him, could have hugged him to try and make him feel better, but I didn’t.  I just watched him go and walked away.  He never came back.

When my father was ill, I stopped at my parent’s house to ask Mom how he was doing.  She said he was in bed not feeling well.  I could have walked the 10 or so steps to the bedroom to see him, but I told myself I didn’t want to bother him, when really I think it was for my own benefit, not wanting to see my father in a weakened condition.  But what if he had wanted to see me?  It reminded me of the time none of us kids made the trip to First Roach for Father’s Day, (where my parents spent their summers).  We didn’t think it would bother my father but it did.  It bothered my father a lot, even though he would never say it to any of us.  Mom said he looked for us to show up all day.  This man who had given so much of himself and I couldn’t take one drive for him, not 10 steps to his bedroom door.  He died that night.

Of course I wish I had done some things differently but I’ve come to believe life can’t be lived on “what if’s.”  They never change the outcome and they settle in like a dark cloud that just keep following you around for as long as you let them.  Life happens and you have to try to learn from each thing – good or bad – that it throws at you.

I think we all get caught up in our busy lives.  We have those cards we are intending to send, phone calls we keep thinking we ought to make to old friends, visits we need to make to relatives we haven’t seen in awhile.  We are all guilty of letting time slip by us.  Every time I call my college roommate she will say “I suck” (meaning herself) because I am always the one who calls her.  I know she actually has good intentions to call me and that’s why I do it.  Otherwise, we might never talk.  I have another close friend who hasn’t even been inside the apartment I’ve been living in for 7 months.  I know if we visit, I have to go to her house, otherwise, we might never see each other.  If people sit on the principle of it being a “two-way street” and wait, ultimately we just end up hurting ourselves.  Should there really be a scorecard when it comes to people we care about?  I don’t think so.

We always think we have the time.  When I hear about people feuding with friends, relatives, or the case where there is a long stretch of time between reunions, I ask myself the following questions: “If this person died,  would you go to their funeral?”  “Do you want to wait that long? “

Unfortunately, it is human nature to put things off, for us to think we have time to wait  – even when it comes to people we care about.  We all put things off or should I say we put people off, allowing the world to set our priorities, positioning ourselves in our cocoon of excuses until the unthinkable happens.

Before she went back to college, my daughter asked me one morning, as I was getting ready for work, if I would take the day off and go shopping in Freeport.  I told her I couldn’t because I had already taken too much time off from work lately.  She said she understood.  I sat there for a moment and thought about Buzz, this friend I will never see again.  I thought about my parents and how they always had the time for me.  I don’t remember them ever telling me they were too busy.  They were always there when I needed them.  I thought about words a friend told me once.  That on his deathbed a man will never wish he had spent more time at the office, but he often wished he had spent more time with his family.  I thought about how precious our time really is and how little I had gotten to see my daughter all summer and now she would be going back to college.  I chose to take the day off and give my time to her.

For awhile, I kept a weekly list of “Good Deeds.”  These were things I wanted to accomplish; usually one good deed a day.  I think it’s something I need to get back to.   They weren’t big items; call a friend, send a card, write a note, little things that might brighten someones day.  However trivial it seems – imagine if everyone did it.

Whether its friends, family or anyone who means something to us, it really is the time we give that people will remember.  An email, a phone call, a thank you card, an “I love you,” 10 steps, 5 minutes of our time, whatever it takes to let people know we care.

I just moved again.  I’m not sure if each time gets easier or harder.  It certainly has made me realize how much stuff I have accumulated in my life.  My first move was from my three story home on the lake to a rented mobile home.  I had to let go of many things then; my house, my land; a place for my children that would always be their home to come back to.  Included with all those life attachments was a house packed with stuff – stuff in the attic, in the basement, in the garage, in closets, in drawers and cabinets.  My family, friends and I filled boxes, bags, totes and trash loads full of crap that had somehow become a part of my life.  Even after throwing so much away, without my house, I had to rent a storage unit because I still had more then I needed.  The new place I moved into has a basement, so I can once again have all my stuff back together – like some great reunion – surrounded by all my things once more.

When I was growing up, my father had a cellar full of stuff.  We never referred to it as a basement.  It was the cellar.  My mother never called it stuff back then, she called it clutter.  I suppose my father could have been considered a hoarder before hoarding was made into some popular television condition.  At least he confined his hoarding to his cellar.  Whatever anyone needed, it was down there – somewhere.  Not to the untrained observer.  To any unknown party, the cellar would have been considered a pile of junk.  To my father,  however, it was more so an eternal collection pit of needful things.  Screws, tools, electrical cord ends, rags, old appliances, half filled paint cans, paint thinners, sprays, nuts and bolts, and everything in between.  I’m not sure how Dad every worked down there or how he ever found anything, but he did.  “Ya, I’ve got that down cellar somewhere,” he would say.  And he usually did find it, eventually.  Sometimes Mom would get exasperated with him, always hopeful he’d clean up that mess, but I think she knew it was a hopeless cause.  I believe there comes a time for most of us, when we love someone enough, where we accept them the way they are.  I suppose that’s what Mom grudgingly did with Dad and his cellar.

That old cellar was leaky and musty.  It’s funny how I still love the smell of old, damp, musty places.  There was something about it; like it was part of the earth itself.  And my father was a collector of its parts to keep for anyone who needed anything.  He would putter down there for hours.  That’s what my mother called it – puttering – she never called it working.  Dad skinned deer down there; fixed things for friends and neighbors; did projects with my kids; at times I think he even brooded down there, because Dad wasn’t the type to let anyone know he was mad about something.  He’d just go down in his cellar for a spell.

When my sisters, brother and I had to clean Dad’s cellar out after he died, it was a lot of work.  But there was something about it that was also a rewarding experience.  It brought us great pleasure and fond memories of Dad and who he was by sorting through his vast collection.  It was the same when our mother passed and we cleaned out the house together.  I can still picture my brother bringing loads of things out of the closet and all of us laughing together.  In such a time of sorrow, somehow those things that belonged to our parents gave us comfort and bonded us.

I will always remember the cellar as Dad’s little part of the world.  I suppose every person needs that – a place for their stuff – to make them feel comfortable, however few or many those things may be.  A cellar full, a storage unit full, a house full; all our stuff, junk, crap and clutter somehow make a statement.  Our stuff truly does make us feel part of who we are.

January has never been one of my favorite months.  Christmas is over, it’s cold and there is always a sadness that settles in whether I want it to or not.  January marks the anniversary of my husband’s death.  He was 37 when he died on January 10^th, 1993.

I have given some thought to why January has hung on me like a shroud.  Have I ever forgotten January 10th?  Have I let myself?  Or is it more a feeling of guilt if we allow ourselves to be happy on such a day; to remember happy things?  Yet we hang on to anniversary dates of a loved one’s death, as if we somehow want others to know.  Is it that we are afraid others will forget or to let people know we haven’t forgotten?  We feel so compelled that we take out a two page spread in the newspaper to profess our sorrow to complete strangers.  It somehow seems an odd testament when you think about it.  But still, the anniversary date for the death of a loved one always just hangs there.  It lingers and becomes part of who we are.  We own it and claim it and hold on to it for better or worse.

My husband fell through the ice on the lake near our home.  I often wondered if there was some bitter irony, some cruel intention for him to die in the place that held so many fond memories for me; a place I loved; a place of my wonderful childhood that would now forever hold this horrible blemish upon an otherwise perfect bliss.  After his death, I would often gaze out on the frozen lake and think upon the horrible time and sequence of events as they happened.  I would stand watching my breath in the cold and look out at the sun glare upon the crystal snow and I came to the realization that, amidst the tragedy, this place was still my home and still beautiful.  It held no animosity.  I had to let it go too.  (On a side note – I did want to punch the aunt who said to me at the funeral “well at least he was doing what he loved.”  Was that supposed to bring a 30-year-old widow comfort?  I’ll have to write a blog on funeral etiquette someday.)

I have learned many things from death.  It isn’t pretty or nice or forgiving or any of those things.  But like anything else in life, it leaves us with choices.  We can wallow, fold, or become angry.  Or we can stand as a representation of the person we knew; a testament to their love and their life.  How much more fitting is that?  Of course we are devastated by loss and can sometimes never understand the course our lives take, but while we’re here, don’t we somehow owe it to those who are not, to really live?  It is up to those of us left behind to love and laugh and enjoy life as it was meant to be enjoyed.  Every day is an opportunity to do something; to make a choice.  We can go for a walk in the woods or sit and look at life through the window.  We can pick up the phone and call a friend or isolate ourselves in sorrow.  Now is the time to dance, to dream, to act like an idiot.  Really, what is anyone waiting for?

So what did I do on the anniversary of my husband’s death?  I posted a video to Facebook of him doing a silly monologue that I hoped would make everyone laugh and remember how much he loved to have fun and enjoy life.  I suppose we do want to immortalize those we love.  I guess we just can’t help ourselves.  We don’t want people to forget how special they were or the gifts they gave in the time they were with us.  To remind us all how very precious life truly is.  It is their final gift to us – how we can never take time and those we love for granted.