Georgia on my Mind

While it is true that there is no place like home in my heart, I also admit to a bit of the wanderlust invading my soul from time to time. Presented with the opportunity to visit one of my favorite southern cities for next to free...bags were packed and camera batteries were charged and ready to go in record time.

Savannah, Georgia exudes the charm and slow pace for which southern cities have become famous. It is a city whose history was nearly deflowered in the mid-fifties until a band of dedicated southern grande dames united in the effort to save it. (literally chained themselves to the fence to prevent the wreckers from demolishing the first of many historic houses preserved by this group)

In February 1733, James Oglethorpe and 120 souls snatched from the bowels of debtor’s prison landed on the banks of the Savannah River and began building one of the south’s most intriguing cities. Its history is a marvelous mélange of colonial, antebellum, Victorian and modern architecture and culture. (For an accurate and highly entertaining social snapshot of the juxtaposition of the antebellum and modern underculture of Savannah, read John Berendt's best seller Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil.)

For my Tennessee friend who loves fountains…just 2 of the many within Savannah’s confines and some of my favorite Savannah sights (And a little something for my Texas friend who loves funny sayings:)

There Is No Place Like Home

“There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.” (Dorothy ~ Wizard of Oz)

I do not have to click my ruby slippers to remember or find my way back...I never left.

Of all things considered when Jim died, leaving this place…this house…our home…was never in my heart. When queried by friends, relations and even mere acquaintances within days and throughout the following years my answer has always been that here was where I would remain.

These aging uprights are steeped in the love, generosity and spirit of a special man who gave grace and meaning to my existence. Memories echo from every crevice within its welcoming confines. Flashbacks of life lived each day in the simple pleasure of being together, music, children’s laughter, soothing their tears and easing their fears.

Other than feeling lost and insecure in the world in general since Jim’s death, I have never felt unsafe in this house. It has been a healing cocoon…a soothing balm…to my aching heart steadying my steps and missteps along this widows’ path. I have missed his physical presence to the darkest recesses of my shredded soul and spilt tears to fill an ocean in my grief. I have paced its sagging floors, fingered its warped, oft painted walls and floundered in my sorrow. Even as I struggled to flee this unwelcome life I never thought to live elsewhere.

Overflowing with 30 years of life - growing up as a young bride, raising our 2 children, healing us from the loss of an unborn child, harboring a bereft grand daughter when her daddy heartlessly removed himself from her life at age 3 and cloistering her equally staggered mother – this space has sheltered me through both the happiest and bleakest days of my life. For a time over 3 years I have wrapped myself deep within the solace of this tiny 1970’s cookie cutter, brick veneer, cracker box plunked in the middle of an old cow pasture in the boonies of this backward piece of southernicity I call home.

Every joist, every beam, every living cell of this home has felt his loving spirit. No matter the dark nights that haunted my soul, his lingering presence has been at the heart of my healing giving me hope to step back into the sunlight, truly live and even love once again.

While my Handyman and I are reinventing and making our own stamp on this place as we rejuvenate its spirit with the essence of our own growing relationship, it will ever have Jim’s legacy as its foundation.

Our love for each other and our departed spouses add flavor to what is already here. Someday, he and I may move to another place passing on the gift of its tender heart. But, for this time…this chapter of our life…here is where we will remain secure that we enhance what was begun another lifetime ago.

This is home.

New Life

Not mine…a real one.

My Handyman is a first time Grandpop.

Born at 3 a.m., Thursday, October 7 and weighing in at 9 pounds, he’s bigger than most newborns. The upside to that is that they don’t seem quite as fragile as their small-fry counterparts.

With them living in New Jersey, he’s not yet had the opportunity to hold this teeny version of his DNA in his strong arms…but, I can tell you he’s in for one BEEEEEG surprise when he looks into those trusting little eyes the first time. (And…I suspect have an unexpected tug at his tough old heart that his Terry is not here to experience this as well.)

I can’t wait to see his face and watch as he bends his gray head towards this small piece of life affirmation and takes in that first inhale of sweet baby smell. (Believe me…the camera WILL be ready.)

Introducing DKV, Jr.

Humor as a Life Vest

After Jim’s death bleak despondency draped the walls with intensity almost tactile in its substance…a thick woolen tapestry that threatened to smother the life within.

There came a day some weeks down the path when our son looked at me and said that if there were not some laughter in the house soon we were going to suffocate in our grief.

Truthfully, my first thought was “Yeah? So what?”

Still…that little spark that remained buried deep within my broken soul knew he was right.

As he offered to run up to the video store for movies to make us laugh, I reminded him we needed chocolate and wine to go with. If we were going to have a night…it was going to be the whole nine yards and the thread to mend it.

To this day, I do not recall the movies he brought home…yet, I do recall laughing until tears streamed down our cheeks that had nothing to do with death. It was the first glimmer of realization that humor would save me.

I still stumbled, fell and wallowed in missing Jim with a ferocity that often frightened me. As the sorrow threatened to drown us again it was our son off to the video store for absurd movies, chocolate, wine and raucous laughter would, for a space, rock the walls of this little cracker box called home.

Even so, there came a point where I needed assistance in coping beyond the “movie nights” and two things happened that propelled me into the world of healing.

The first came in the persona of a gifted counselor who had not experienced the death of a spouse yet had the empathy, grace and expertise to give me knowledge to understand my grief at my own pace.

The second was (and remains) an online support group peopled by widowed folk all over this little blue rock that became my lifeline back into the real world.

At some point to inhabiting this cyber-world a small group of us became bonded in a real sense and created another niche within dedicated to laughter and just plain whackiness (spellun’ mine). We shared ridiculous jokes, the joys, sorrows and absurdities that had happened in our lives and became like an often dysfunctional yet loving sit-com family.

It was my salvation.

Among our little psychotic fambly dwelt a dour, misanthropic, pet hating (not), curmudgeon of a lad from Sterling whom we dubbed “The Mad Scot”. His sense of humor skewed in the extreme, he either had us rolling in tears of laughter or eating the carpet to keep from strangling him as he tossed social hand grenades willy-nilly across the floor just to see who would pick them up and pull the pin. I doubt we ever failed him. (that this delightfully wicked man has become a true friend and married a very special one of our own is a precious gift in this life.)

And what all of this has to do with humor being a life vest is showcased in the hilarious Scottish poem he shared below:

(note: Please hear “Shrek” as you read this)

The Effen Bee

He kept bees in the great town of Effen

A wise Effen bee keeper was he

When one day this Effen bee keeper

Got stung by a big Effen bee!!!!!

Now the Effen bee keepers “wee” Effen wife

For the big Effen “ polis “ she ran

For there’s naebody can sort out a big

Effen beeLike a big Effen polis man can

Now the big Effen polis was fit as a fiddle

And he ran doon the main Effen street

In his hand was a big Effen baton

He had big Effen boots on his feet

Now the big Effen polis caught the big Effen bee

And he twisted the Effen bee’s wings

But the big Effen bee goat it’s ain back

‘Cos this big Effen bee hud twae stings

Now they’re both in the Effen museum

Where the Effen folk oft come tae see

The remains of the big Effen polis

Stung tae death by a big Effen bee.

Humor and friendship has saved us all, given us breath and strength to survive the unsurvivable and guided our steps on this unwelcome path.

Both are still what I cling to when the melancholies threaten to drown me.

Skin Hunger

Failure to thrive. In 1969, my high school Psychology professor taught of studies in Russia during the early 1900’s in which social workers at city orphanages discovered that babies who received no physical contact -- cuddling, rocking, kisses, tickling -- beyond the bare minimum of daily maintenance became withdrawn, sickly, and finally died. The conclusion seemed to be that human beings require a certain level of daily skin-to-skin contact in order to survive.

Essentially the adult version of failure-to-thrive syndrome, skin hunger is all too familiar to anyone widowed longer than one day who is honest in their feelings. The loss of our loved one takes us down a road we never thought to travel and leaves us in a crumpled heap upon the floor seeking comfort where none is to be found.

We are bereft and need their touch at time when they are not here to provide that which is missing…the gentle pass-by touch going down the hall, that soft kiss upon the lips at good-bye, the welcoming hug and deeper kiss of hello, the cherishing warm, easy holding of each other on a dark and silent night, the wild, earthy, sweaty passion of lovemaking on mangled sheets...and we emotionally wither just as those babies in the studies.

Vividly sexual dreams of Jim began within days of his death. His touch, scent and voice were as real as if his body were truly upon mine. I would awake breathless and then dissolve into mortified tears. Without any knowledge of skin hunger I thought something must be wrong with me…my husband had just died and here I was dreaming of making love.

Through an online support group for those who are widowed I found kindred, learned about skin hunger, that I was not a bad person for having these feelings and that I was not alone in my desires. While it neither stopped the longing for touch nor the vivid dreams over the next 2 years, I was armed with understanding and ceased to loathe myself for being human and missing that part of our relationship as well as his presence in my life.

One night alone, a few JD and lemonade’s too many in that dark place only the tormented widowed soul understands, the hunger was so intense it left me literally rocking in my chair arms wrapped around myself gasping for breath. The anvil on my heart, the desperate loneliness and deep ache for Jim’s touch on my skin drove me deeper into the bottle and further over the edge. Even in the fog of the drink I was aware of the fact that it was a good thing I was at home, not in some bar picking up some unknown with whom I would regretfully awake in my bed the next morning. A stranger who might satisfy the near overwhelming desire for skin to skin contact, yet, not touch the hole in my heart.

The thirst to be held can become an obsession to which we consider giving in and taking hold of the first available stranger to quench. A dark night of the soul or fall into the abyss of sorrow can lead us to make poor choices.

A friend penned a frank, soul touching verse that grasps both the hollowness and ultimate desire of skin hunger, which she has graciously allowed me to share.

Please note that the language is blunt, perhaps crude to some. Yet, while she gave permission to make changes, it stands in its honesty exactly as written.


now!!

anonymous sex sounds appealing right now

right fucking now

one night of hard passion, devoid of feeling

no meaning other than

animal instinct--

i'll quietly slip into the bar room

spot my target-

"you, cum with me"

hot and wet I'd mount him

fuck him till he cried

then without a word

get dressed and walk outside

the darkness of anger my

cleverly drawn cape

would make me vanish again.

my frustration eased

i could return to normal

whatever that isf

or a few more years

with no contact.

don't look at me

don't ask my name

don't remember my

hot lips wrapped around you

i plan to forget you in a matter

of hours

a drink

and several hot showers

i'm not asking for

sweet nothing talk

or gentle reflections on love

i'm demanding your iron hard dick

bursting inside my warm glove

fuck me hard

no harder

make the pain in my belly

scream louder than the

pain in my soul

just for now

take me

take me

take me away from myself

just for now

right fucking now.

don't remember me

don't give a damn

i won't be back!

i was gone the moment i entered the room.

(jh2 2/2005)

Widows and Orphans

Serendipity...Synchronicity...Karma. What ever. It happened and for the good of 3 widowed souls, methinks.

Tuesday ~ October, 4, 2005

Last minute plan change had me headed home sooner than expected. My newly widowed neighbor was at her mail box and I stopped to speak. Nearly 2 hours later I made it home.

I've lived in this neighborhood since 1974, her son and my daughter played together as kids and young teens, she was the ER nurse during Jim's first 2 heart attacks...yet, I learned more about this woman in that 2 hours than I've managed in the previous decades of "knowing" her.

Her isolation is unbelievable...no in-laws, no parents, one critically ill sibling and one grown son who struggles with sobriety and part-time custody of his 2 bewildered children. She retired 3 weeks after Bobby died because her grief was such that she was afraid she'd make a critical error and cost a patient their life. (She'd already used all the family leave time AND taken a leave of absence while he was so ill.)

Her main contact is another widow in this neighborhood nearly housebound caring for her ailing, elderly mother who gets hysterical if anyone other than the youngest grown (and working) grandson comes to stay while Carol tends to errands.

I'm glad I stopped...but, I feel like a clod for not knowing these 2 women were so isolated. Yet...I should have...I know how this works...I certainly shut myself away from the world as much as possible for nearly a year after Jim died.

Wake up, Josie...your life is much uncomplicated compared to theirs. Methinks it's time to reach outside myself here at home.

At any rate, I'm going to try.

Wednesday ~ October 5, 2005

After 3 cups of coffee, hemming and hawing for 2 hours, I finally took the phone and rang up the other widow in my small rural locale. A woman I’ve known as long as I’ve lived in this little blue collar subdivision plopped out here inna middle of an old cow pasture in the boonies.

My “other mother” as a young wife, new to both the city and the south. First as my sitter and then my friend, we connected in a way that seemed important to both of us. Her youngest son became sitter to my youngest son years down the road. Her middle son named his first son after our first son. Her oldest son was my yard boy, charging me only $25 to mow (push mower) and rake 1 ½ acres of uneven ground.

In fact, it was he who heard me ask the pastor of the small neighborhood church if he knew anyone who kept children in their home as I was needing to work to help pay our newly acquired mortgage. As the preacher was saying “No”, this young, slim blond child said shyly “My mom keeps kids.” Conversation revealed that they lived only a block away; the beginning of a life long relationship with this woman, her children and her grands.

Somewhere along the way life took us on different paths rotating around until it united us on the one journey we never expected. She wouldn’t let me feel guilty for letting our lives drift…how like her to do so.

2 ½ hours…laughing, crying, talking…reconnecting. What a gift.

Next week on my way home from my Tuesday morning creative venture I will pick up pizza and 3 middle-plus aged women will sit around a comfortable kitchen table talking, eating and drinking that southern staple - sweet tea.

For a space the world will revolve around just us.

Mirror Image

Mirror Image

Reflections in a mirror
A woman used to be
Sad eyes
In a bathroom glass
White frame, silvered back
Peering...into me.

Step aside
Glance the window view
Reversed images
Rotated, angled
Ever so slightly askew.

Would that she be Alice
Step through
The looking glass
Back to that
Which once she knew.

A time
That things made sense
The day not long and black
Where colors rose and reigned
And flowers bloomed the fence.

Melancholy waves her flag
Twines the heart
Pulls the soul
As memories unwind.

Twill all pass
With winter's cold
Sleeping
Silent
Tamed.

Step once again
Through the glass
The vision blurrs
Rights itself
Dry the tears
March on.

Love comes again
To ease the heart
Yet...
Forgets not the pain.

Friday ~ September 30, 2005

ARRRRRRG!!!
Tough old, boot kickin’ Outlaw…3 years & some months down this road…feet planted in the present.

DANG IT!!!

I’m supposed to be past this…finished dragging the past round like a sea anchor…bragged as much…what a fool…arrogant wench.

Yet…here I sit as memories of a past life slam smack into those of the present.

Restless…I’d like nothing better than to grab a handful of mane, mount that pony called “Run Away” and take of hell bent for leather for anywhere but here. These darn September (now October) melancholies nip my heels like a poorly trained pup.

My Handyman must think he’s hooked himself up with a real nut-case chameleon. I love my Handyman so much…he brings light and life in extraordinary measure into my life. But, dammit, it still hurts and my heart is obviously still capable of twisting into knots over the loss of Jim.

Last year when this hit I was on my way to the wilds of New Mexico and the most amazing and unexpected spiritual journey of my life. Now, how come I can’t keep those lessons in mind now? Why can’t I be grateful for the wonders in my life instead of wallowing in the loss?

OK…I know this will pass. I know the world will right itself again. Yet, I’m thinking I’d better get to doing something to help it along. Now…if I could just figure out WHAT.

Saturday ~ October 1, 2005

A day at hard labor…riding my little John Deere around my 1 1/2 acre yard…taking in the sun…the dirt and dust…the dogs…the animal farm next door…the smell of crisp leaves being munched by the mower…balm to a weary soul.

Then reading words written by two VERY special women in my life. The things they accomplish with all that they have on their plate.

Well…Outlaw…get a clue…your life is WAYYYY less complicated.

What a blessing they are and don’t even know what good they’ve done me today.

Sunday ~ October 2, 2005

AHA!!! (you know…that moment when the light bulb blazes.)

I will build a monster. A monster worthy of that my Jim would have built. And I will put him…dubbed Creepy 2…after his predecessor…in that old rocker on the screen porch and light him up for Halloween.

My testament…maybe memorial in an obliquely skewed sort of way…to how much my Jim loved Halloween and all the prep work he did to create just the right combination or horror and humor to the delight of the neighborhood children (and their parents as children).

The kids have all changed. They will not know the Creepy who came before. But, my children and my grand will and that is all that is important to this little tableau I will create.

I’m a woman on a mission and finally smiling as I should be.

HOO-AH.

Hope Has a Place in a Lover's Heart

Here's to my friends across the pond who are well into their special day as the light just creeps across my morning sky.

Hope Has a Place in a Lover’s Heart

One look at love and you may seeIt weaves a web over mystery,
All raveled threads can rend apart
For hope has a place in the lover’s heart.
Hope has a place in a lover’s heart.

Whispering world, a sigh of sighs,
The ebb and the flow of the ocean tides,
One breath, one word may end or may start
A hope in a place of the lover’s heart,
Hope has a place in a lover’s heart.

Look to love you may dream,
And if it should leave then give it wings.
But if such a love is meant to be;
Hope is home, and the heart is free.

Under the heavens we journey far,
On roads of life we’re the wanderers,
So let love rise, so let love depart,
Let hope have a place in the lover’s heart.

Hope has a place in the lover’s heart.
For hope is home, and the heart is free.

(as sung by Enya)

When Artio first shared this song with me near 2 years ago my heart was sore and my spirit battered yet from the loss of my Jim. I saw no hope that life could ever have the joy it once did.

What a journey, she, BobW, many others and I have shared to prove that this is not so. For even in the saddest heart glimmers the most infinitesimal spark of hope that life does indeed spring forth from the darkness of a shattered heart just as the Phoenix raises from the ashes of death to spread it’s wings and take to the sun again.

In watching Artio (Michelle) and BobW (Robert) grow together as a couple so publicly they also gave the gift of hope not only to myself, but to many others who inhabit these cyber walls. I miss you, my friends.

Today Robert William McCallum and Michelle Miller Allen join their lives, their hearts and their memories of Mo and Rick to become husband and wife in Scotland amid a small circle of family and friends. That I had to cancel plans to be there to witness their joy is a sadness to me. Yet, I am blessed in sharing their friendship though we are miles apart.

So, I raise a wee glass o’ the Macallan (single Highland malt Scot’s Whisky) and salute the pair of ye as Enya plays in the background…hope does indeed have a place in a lover’s heart.

“May the best you've ever seen,
Be the worst you'll ever see.
May the mouse ne'er leave your girnal
Wi' a tear drap in it's e'e
May your lum keep blithely reekin'
Till ye're auld enough to dee.
May you aye be just as happy.”

(auld Scottish toast)

I love ya both and the Handyman and I are still committed to New Mexico when you return this side of the pond next year.

I'm Not Dad

This September melancholy finds me questioning perceptions of a world I did not choose to inhabit.

I am a stubborn woman…single-minded…tenacious…determined. It is the double headed strength and bane of my nature. A character flaw that has fueled my steps along this uncharted journey called Widowhood. I know no other path than to hitch up my boots and doggedly slog my way through every boggy step.

For a space over 3 years I’ve sustained the phantasy (spelling mine) that I can be “just like Dad”…a psychological drive that I owed my children (albeit grown) and my grand a continuation of life set by his example.

Yet…the price of maintaining this mirage was not evident until plowing headlong into the wall that surrounds it…I am NOT Dad. And, the naked truth is that the illusion is both unsustainable and unrealistic. Possessing neither the resources nor the creative skill to do so I have nearly paupered myself emotionally and financially in the attempt.

Another truth is that they never asked this of me…it has come at my own doing…my misguided attempt to make things easier by pretending I could carry on this aspect of his legacy…that things could somehow still be normal within the abby-normal world of death and loss.

Living within this fiction, I believe, has also hampered my children’s ability to cope as reasonable and practical problem solving young adults in their own right. My misguided sense of what I owe them has stunted their own emotional and financial growth.

The blunt fact is that this pipe dream must end.

Pounding into my brain the stark reality that I have to alter the status quo…that I must deal them a different hand…is testing both my natural stubbornness and my willingness to modify something that is obviously not only not working but, inherently, unhealthy for all of us. Dr. Phil’s “How’s that working for you?” echoes in my brain even as I write the words. (His brand of blunt “this is how it is” psychology just happens to be harmony with my nature.)

Mayhap, it is that very same innate mulishness that has led me this far that will work to my advantage at this juncture in the unwelcome saga that is my altered life.

Still… as I sit before this keyboard telling myself I will and must try…I hear a small, greenish Jedi master whisper in my mind’s ear… "NO. Do…or do not…there is no try."

Wish You Were Here

Wish You Were Here

So, so you think you can tell Heaven from Hell,
blue skies from pain.
Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil?Do you think you can tell?
And did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts?
Hot ashes for trees?
Hot air for a cool breeze?
Cold comfort for change?
And did you exchange a walk on part in the war for a lead role in a cage?
How I wish, how I wish you were here.
We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year,
Running over the same old ground.
What have you found? The same old fears.
Wish you were here.

Try as I might to stay in the here and now, this change of season draws me back into a past where I struggle with the sadness that can still reach deep into the darkest canyons of my soul.

I wish that snake had never slithered from her hiding place in that old camper, that the artery to his brain had not exploded from too much adrenaline, that his heart had not stopped beating at a time in our lives when we were reconnecting as just us, that he had not left me behind…

…and I wish he was here.

Yet, there it is…

…immutable…

…indelible…

…infinite…

…he is not here.

For a time - a short season - I am bereft again…

…and I wish he was here.


"

Change of Season

Change of Season

Dark-eyed Susans on the roadside’
Pumpkins in the fields;
Wood smoke in the air;
Leaves turning color on the trees;
Shorter days;
Longer nights;
Changes on the lifting breeze.

Our time;
Hunkering down;
Drawing inward;
Remembering.

Melancholy settles around my shoulders
Like a well worn sweater;
Ragged;
Torn;
Comfortable;
Familiar.

I know this place;
Visited here before;
The stay will not be long.

Gone as the dry leaves
Skittering across a broken sidewalk
Pushed by bony fingers
Of a chilled Halloween wind.

I’m OK;
Grounded in the present;
Living in the now;
Just old skeletons
Rattling
In the dusty closets of the past.

Yet……
Hot tears flow at sweet memories;
His dear face;
The touch of his lips on mine;
The scent of his skin while in warm embrace;
Burnished indelibly in my heart.

The gentle touch of a hand
Brings me back;
Light in twinkling blue eyes
Quickens the slowed beating
Of my heart.

I smile
At the gift
Of love…
Old
And
New.

Outlaw 9/16/2005


In the latter years of our life together Jim always saved a couple of weeks of his vacation for our time together in the fall when the children were all in school and the hectic pace of summer had slowed.

Roaming cemeteries to complete family histories, pouring through archives in neighboring towns, day trips to “our” mountain just for the day enjoying the time spent doing not much more than nothing…as long as it was together.

And, then there was Halloween.

The man loved Halloween above all holidays that were celebrated en La Casa Hacienda del Outlaw. Even when the children were young he scheduled a week of vacation to decorate the yard the way most folks around here do for Christmas.

Starting in August, he poured over servos and pneumatics to power the coffin lids, inflating lungs, beating hearts and what have you that dotted the yard and porch. The week of found him on ladders and hanging from tree limbs to place the cobwebs “just so”.

Floating apparitions, tombstones, black lights, dry ice and scary soundtrack…all a necessary part of the night’s entertainment.

He’d dress like Frankenstein’s monster and answer the door with that sweet, slow southern drawl….”Mastah…children at the door…are any required for experimentation this evening?”…sending the children into squeals and laughter.

Over the years the neighboring children knew “Mr. Jim’s” was THE place to go for the best treats of the night. They’d stop by the week prior, down on haunches, babbling questions, “oooooh and ahhhhhh” over the latest creations as well as the familiar standards.

He shop for candy like Christmas presents….picking out what he thought the kids would like….CHOCOLATE. We’d have enough left over to keep him jacked up for weeks after finishing it up “before it went bad.”

The children and the parents who remember from their visits miss him as Halloween rolls around and the yard remains empty with only the porch light evidencing the probability of sweets.

I miss it and I miss him most at this time of year…our time.

Thus comes the melancholy as the season changes. I know it will not last long and I no longer fight the effects...it will soon enough be gone.

A Tooth's Tale

“Remember…the Tooth”

That line from Dune and the ensuing gaseous green vapor when Baron Harkonen poked at it kept coming to mind as the tooth yanker stuck his big paw in my small jaw to remove that problematic sucker making my life a misery the last few months.

Of course, I didn’t wish the dentist’s demise…still, the thought kept occurring that my tooth was so decayed and infected that it could be the scenario as he grabbed it with what seemed like awfully large pliers for my little mouth.

The recovery has been as challenging as the time prior to removal…giving me fits of pain and swelling...leaving me to wonder when it will feel like it was worth it to sit through the cattle call to have it removed.

Cattle call…polite term that...for sitting around in waiting room of the only cheap clinic in town for folks like moi with no insurance coverage. Doors open at 7:45 a.m., at which point you may get in line to get in line to wait around for your name to be called a mere 4 hours later.

Life in all its flavors and varieties come through those doors. Poor. Poorer. Retirees on fixed incomes. Minimum wage workers with no benefits. Welfare parents and their children…some well behaved…a number not so. Young, old and everything in between.

All with dental needs and minimum funds to have them done.

This visit was fraught with anxiety. Same issue almost 3 years ago played out like a torture scene from a badly acted “B” movie:

Anonymous Doc walks in, mask in place, pokes frightened, pain ridden patient’s gum with Novocain filled syringe, carelessly yanks tooth from not yet numbed jaw, shoves gauze in bleeding hole and exits…stage right.

No howdy, no kiss good-bye…just slam, bam and no thank you ma’am.

I was not looking forward to a rerun of this one run play.

Imagine my surprise when the scenario turned out the polar opposite:

Introduction; what can I do for you; let’s take a look; this will sting a bit (it did) ; you’ll feel a little pressure (I did); you say it still hurts; it’s almost out…can you stand it; it’s out; you did great; keep this gauze in for at least 30 minutes, however with the aspirin you’ve been taking I think it may take a few hours to stop (it did) ; take the pain med right away (I did); if you have any problems give us a call (wonder how long I should wait).

Except for the phantom tooth discomfort, the swelled gums and bouts of sporadic, intense pain...thanfully dulled by a medical wonder called Lortab 5…which have served to keep me from my writing…I reckon it was a successful morning’s adventure. At least until the next episode in the Tale of the Tooth that requires a return visit.

The joys of no health insurance in modern day America from the mundane depths of the foothills of lower Podunk, SC.

I Die Again

Sonnet XCIV

If I die, survive me with such sheer force
that you waken the furies of the pallid and the cold,
from south to south lift your indelible eyes,
from sun to sun dream through your singing mouth.

I don't want your laughter or your steps to waver.
I don't want my heritage of joy to die.
Don't call up my person. I am absent.
Live in my absence as if in a house.

Absence is a house so vast
that inside you will pass through its walls
and hang pictures on the air.

Absence is a house so transparent
That I, lifeless, will see you living;
and if you suffer, my love, I will die again.

Pablo Neruda


"Absence is a house so transparent
That I, lifeless will see you, living,
and if you suffer, my love, I will die again."

February 10, 2005:
My friend, April, posted this poem today. The above stanza hit me like a ton of bricks and I hear Jim’s basso voce’ as I read the words.

The only way I know how to do this is get up every morning and put one foot in front of the other. Some days I'm slogging through mud with an anvil on my back. But, at a bit over 2 1/2 years into this most days the load is much lighter.

I will not let death defeat the love my husband and I shared if I have to grit my teeth till my gums bleed.....our love is stronger than his death....his life means more than his leaving me behind....I will do this or die trying.

I'll be truthful and admit that I have most unexpectedly and surprisingly found love again...yet, it does not take away the pain of losing my Jim....that will be with me forever. However, I WILL rise and I will stand in the sunlight, see the rainbow, watch the moon and stars and appreciate the gift because he needs me to and I will honor that need because I will always love him.

Tuesday, September 06, 2005:
I had not yet had my second phoenix moment when writing that piece. Still dragging a foot in the past, Jim died again each day that brought me tears. How it must have hurt him to see me still have those days where the breath caught in my throat as I sobbed seeking to ease the pain. And, how fair was it to the man who now shares my life and all but that tiny piece of my heart reserved for what was.

My Handyman brings a joy, light and sweetness to life that I thought would never be again. As an also widowed soul he understands the luggage we carry into this relationship. Yet, as a man who processes things in a different manner, it must have challenged him to figure out what to do with the yet grieving side of me.

They will forever be a part of who we are…we bring their lives into ours. And, while sharing the sadness is difficult…sharing the life is easy. We speak of our spouses, our lives and raising our children. We shared the challenges of being parents and the balancing act required in providing a living. I see in his eyes and hear in his words the woman who shared his life for nearly as many as Jim shared mine.

Terry is never a ghost nor an adversary. I feel no jealousy in listening to him talk about his former life. It gives me a more rounded view of who he is that he is comfortable talking about her. Knowing how he loved her gives me peace in accepting that he loves me as well.

In thinking about that, I had realized for a time that I owed him more than he was getting in our partnership. While the past colors who I am, it should not overshadow who WE are.

It may sound crazy, but in order to let Jim LIVE as the spirit he should be I had to finally let him die one final time. He and our love for each other are precious threads in the tapestry that is my life.

Daddy Let Me Drive

It's just an old worn out jeep
With rusty ole floor boards
Hot on my feet
A young girl, two hands on the wheel
I can't replace the way it made me feel
And he'd say, turn it left now, and steer it right
Straighten up girl now, you're doin' just fine.

Just a lil' valley by the river where we'd ride
But I was high on a mountain,
When daddy let me drive
Daddy let me drive
Oh, he let me drive

(Drive by Alan Jackson)

Teaching our daughter to drive was not my forte’. Acknowledging my ineptness, I passed the buck to Jim. Patient to a fault and having just finished a professional driving course through BellSouth he took her out to an abandoned airfield one rainy Saturday and put her through every grueling maneuver. 8 hours later my two adventurers returned home tired, hungry and happy.

Her daddy taught her to drive in a rusty little old Toyota $500 pickup truck that had resided at the bottom of a local farm pond for over a year.

It took her 4 tries to get that darn license and the girl still can’t back up straight. Inheriting her dad’s lead foot she received the first of many speeding tickets over her driving career less than 30 days later half a block from the high school.

“Rustie” was destined to be resurrected.

After draining out all the water and mud that little 30-R engine was run through with kerosene, hooked up to a battery and tank of gas and she fired up first turn of the key. The hood was black primer, one fender was grey and the rest of the body was dotted with rust from head to toe. The floor board became so holey Jim had to weld in a new one. (I remember getting wet feet when it would rain.) But, she ran like a charm.

Tune-ups and oil changes were a waste of time and money as she didn’t like them being done. Rascally truck would run rotten until she readjusted everything just the way she liked it...slightly off center…the dirtier the engine and the cheaper the gas the better she ran.

The manifold was haunted. Jim would repair or tape up the hole with heat resistant tape repeatedly only to find within days that it had reappeared. Towards the end of Rustie’s life you could hear her coming half a mile away.

When she died 10 years later on a highway in southern Louisiana…the rear axle literally rusted off…she had over 500 thousand miles on her. Half a day on the side of the road, Jim pulled that 30-R, hauled it home to SC, gave it to his mechanic brother and it lived another few years in a another little old rusted pickup truck driven by a niece.

After 3 years, my daughter cannot yet hear that song without thinking of Jim, driving lessons and that rusty old truck with tears in her eyes.

She is her father’s daughter…she still drives too fast.

Rising from the Ashes

A Phoenix from the ashes
I spread my wings and
Rise above the rubble
Of my shattered life
To soar among the stars.

Dust and tears fall away
Give way to rising light
His face – his voice – his touch
Dwell within my healing soul
As rainbows catch colors in the sun.
(Originally written by me in Jan. 2003 and revised August 2005)

Rising from the ashes of the fire, the Phoenix (firebird) symbolizes immortality, resurrection and life after death. How appropriate is that bird in looking back at my own resurrection from the dark ashes of Jim’s death.

Can there be more than one Phoenix moment? For me that answer is “yes.”

The first was a time frame in which I grew to know that I would be OK; that the present and hope of a future with joy and laughter again had more to offer than living in the memories of a life that once was.

It came time to let Jim’s spirit soar and make my human life have meaning even in the aloneness of it. Within that I began to reach outside myself and look to the world of the living once more.

For both the memory of the man who shared his life, laughter and love with me and my own mental health I had make a choice in how I would spend the rest of my life. I could choose to find joy in my life and remember his presence with love; or I could choose to live with a deadened soul on memories and what could have been. I chose to find peace in this life.

It was not necessarily easy nor was it quick. Interests of the past were no longer what I sought as they were tied within the package of my old life. What reached out to me were things that began to burgeon in my soul as light and color crossed my vision. That, in part, was thanks to a lovely rainbow crystal sent to me in a moment of darkness and need. (Thank you, Dawn…your gift touches me every day) As the spectrum filled my room each morning and afternoon, the myriad of tiny rainbows drew me ever forward to a world where light and color had meaning. And, so, with time, the Phoenix rose and I began to truly heal.

Yet, while the healing began and grew, I continued to drag one foot in the past while having one also in the present giving rise to still complicated days of longing for that which could not be. I moved forward, but still had a part of my soul anchored securely to a life that, albeit unwillingly, was no longer.

When I met my Handyman in 2004 and we embarked, as partners, upon the next adventure of our life I brought with me the sorrow that had not yet quite healed. As another widowed soul he understands my tears. Yet, as a man who processes things differently than me, he has often been at a loss as to what it is I need when those times have come. We made an agreement that I would tell him if I needed solitude or care.

Even so, I have sometimes felt I was being unfair to him in clinging to those things from the past that can still cause me sorrow. Though I did not quite know how at the time, I knew it was important to put Jim’s love and the memories into a special place in what was and raise this wonderful man who loves me into his rightful place into the now.

Fast forward my life to a number of weeks ago and the Phoenix rose again in an unexpected slide from a canoe during which I panicked and nearly drowned myself. Drawn under water and terrified, I knew I did not want to die in the middle of that damned lake. The face and voice I needed at that moment was not that of my Jim, but the man on the surface also waiting for me. At that instant my other foot was planted squarely in now where it needs to be for me to live an emotionally healthy life and to give both that life I had with Jim and my current state honor and meaning.

I will always love Jim and I will always miss him to the depths of my soul. He was a gift beyond compare for which there is no replacement. Yet, I will not close the door to the outside world and dwell deep within my memories. To do so gives lie to the love we shared and the life he loved. In opening my eyes and seeing light and color again I pay forward that which he gave me in unfailing measure.

Please, in reading this, do not think I think I have all the answers. Indeed, I do not. Floundering was a way of life for too long a time. Nor do I believe a relationship is the only road to a happy, emotionally healthy life. I have purposely downplayed that part here trying not to offend those who need and choose something else. It is important only in that it was the catalyst for me for where I need to live.

With this post I have honored an agreement with 4 women whom I have come to love and respect. They have been my encouraging right arms as we’ve traveled this road together. While it was at their urging I posted this; I truly believe each of us, in our own time, can find that “Phoenix” moment, feeling our feet underneath us again and seeking joy in living once more truly in the present and looking forward to the future. What we keep deep inside our hearts can never be diminished nor taken away.

A Day in the Life

May 25, 2003:

I did not write yesterday. It hurt too much to mark 1 year by putting words to the pain.

Huddling in my cave, snuffling from a miserable cold, peering into the bleak grayness of yet another rainy morning. Wallowing in the abject sorrow of marking a year without you. That’s how I saw yesterday – my life – my future.

Oh, to run away and hide from this life.

(Humbug)

Scrooge and the Grinch are my mentors.

I HATE MY LIFE. (so, go away)

Then…

The sun came out (dammit all) and life rang my doorbell in the form of a chubby cheeked little face from next door.

“Miss Josie. Is Coley home?”

“NO. She’s with her mommy today.” (now, go away)

“Wellllllllll…can I play in the yard for a little while? (sigh)

“Yes.” (humbug)

Soon the yard is writhing with waifs crawling on the gym, sifting sand into the grass and squealing in the swings. (groan)

The sun gleams brightly on their joyous abandon. (bah)

The dogs get into the act. (traitors)

Ball and sticks are thrown. Dark brown and café au lait bundles of fur bound through the tall grass and return to snorts, giggles and more squeals to be repeated again and again until all drop in an exhausted yet exuberant heap in the shade. (BAH AND HUMBUG)

Slowly…insidiously…slithering…something creeps into my heart.

What is this? (I think I'm in trouble)

A spark? (nooooooo…stop that)

A bit of joy? (begone)

A smile? (uh oh)

A small chuckle. (aw, shit)

Honest laughter. (oh. I give up)

Out that window life reminded me (again) that it goes on whether I will it so or not. Knowing how much you enjoyed watching the activity in our yard, I smiled again. It is for you and our grand that I continue on in this life I now have without you in it. Somehow I will find a way to stand tall.

Today:
Pain infused with joy. A balance trying to be found. Tears and laughter. Sunshine and sorrow. Perhaps one cannot be appreciated without the other.

He always said that good could be found even in the darkest time. Sometimes it’s inconvenient that he is right.

So many footfalls on this dark and twisted path I was the warrior…either battered, bowed and defeated by the hydra called Grief or victorious in having lopped off enough heads to keep him at bay for a time. Every step to the peace of today was a battle fought as real as any in the history of humans. Squirmishes won and lost. Wounds licked, healed, broken open and healed again.

That there could be days that would start so bleak, that could, at their end, be the cause of laughter was a complete mystery to me…they still are.

Yet, here I am, battle scars well and truly earned, something of a whole person again.

I think there just be a small speck that believes in at least small miracles.

Imagine that.

How Can I Help You Say Goodbye?

“Mama whispered softly, time will ease your pain.
Life’s about changing, nothing ever stays the same.

And she said, how can I help you to say goodbye?
It’s ok to hurt, and it’s ok to cry.
Come, let me hold you and I will try.
How can I help you to say goodbye?”

(How Can I Help You Say Goodbye sung by Patty Loveless)

Say good-bye? NO.

How do you say goodbye to a man who touched every corner of your life? A man with whom you grew up and lived for more years than your own parents were married.

His impact was tremendous. Here was a man who loved me unconditionally, who teased me wickedly, who loved our kids in a way my own father never did my sister and me. A man who treated family like friends and friends like family. A man who left the lid up, the cap off the toothpaste and his socks in the floor. A man who could make me laugh and cry all in the same instant.

Say good-bye to more than 30 years of that? NO WAY.

He is the reason that I am who I am today.

Did I set his spirit free? YES.

It would be selfish of me to tie his spirit to me when we travel different paths now. It took time to get there...I was afraid of what would happen if I did. Letting go of those things brought fear that if I lost the pain I also lost the love…that I would lose the essence of HIM.

Yet, in looking back through the filter of hindsight, I now understand that there IS a time for the pain, for the grief and for hanging on. There is a time to recluse yourself and swaddle yourself in thoughts of the life that was.

Obsessed with every scrap of memory that made us…US, for nearly a year I lived cloaked in the past of our burgeoning love, early marriage and the honeymoon years of settling into the life we planned. Writing madly, often in the dead of night, I filled pages of journals with the anguish of loss as well as the joys of memories of our life together. I gathered pictures, poetry (some my own), music and books and immersed myself in dwelling not in this world. I retreated from reality and firmly planted myself into a space and time that no longer was.

Even so I clung to my grief like a shield; the innermost part of me knew I could not continue to live my life in memories…that HE would not want me to close the door and never step foot in the present again. Mrs. Haversham from Great Expectations I would not be. I could not allow myself to become like a dear aunt, who after 11 years, is still as fresh in her grief as was I at the beginning. I could not do that to myself, my children nor the spirit of the man who loved me. 2 years passed before I gained the courage and the strength to do that which I knew I must.

Gathering a portion of his ashes, a few strands of the pony tail he’d cut only a handful of months before he died and a scrap of the hair ribbon he had saved from our first date, I took myself to the secluded mountain top cemetery in Tennessee where his ancestors dwell.

Honoring the native line that runs his blood, sage, juniper and cedar smudge cleansed my own soul and calmed the spirits that walk those mountains. Repeating the words of a poem I wrote him as his ashes sifted to the four winds and the ground around the wild rose growing on his beloved grandfather’s plot, sealed with the salt of my tears, I set his spirit loose.

My Jim no longer walks upon this planet, yet, his spirit soars the universe and his love resides in my heart forever. All I need do is look to our children and our grand to know a true piece of him lives still.

I am not cured, as my friend Josefus would say, but I am OK.

The Other

The Other

For every thing that is, there is the Other
We form it with the thoughts and moods we share.
The more we move, move into one another
Then greater is the Soul for which we care.
As outward from ourselves we go exploring
And weigh it with the knowledge of within.
Through the all, forever we are soaring
perfect love and trust are free from sin.

Rick Allen (c) 1993
[Discovered in his papers on Valentine’s Day 2003 and used with permission of author’s widow]

When my friend, mentor and fellow traveler, Artio, first shared this poem my soul resonated like a violin string.

The Other. Twin flame. Soul mate. Bashert. Meant to be.

Yes.

I knew him the instant I saw him: a stranger who was not a stranger. Everything about him was familiar: the ice blue eyes that sent currents of electricity coursing through my body; the low rumble of his voice that thrummed inside my brain; the tender touch of his hand on mine; the first heady intake of his scent. All were known to me the moment I pulled opened the front door of my parent’s home that bright California Thanksgiving morning in 1969. As if I had just escaped the depth of my mother’s womb and taken my first gasping breath, my true life began in that infinitesimal wink in time.

He was a conjure. A spirit vision. A dream on nights when I felt unloved as a child. Not his true face….a patchwork of his essence…dark hair, twinkling electric blue eyes, tall and lithe, calloused yet gentle hands, long slim fingers….even his basso voce and lopsided grin.

“Who will You Love?” A teen-age girl’s sleep-over game. “I don’t know, but I’ll recognize him when I see him.” was always my answer.

Karma. Synchronicity. A dream come true.

Stunned and breathless I welcomed this unknown yet known soul into my house, my life, my heart…and never had the dream again.

I was not then the Outlaw of now…that came with time, growing together and finding our place in this world. We were both shy and unsure…the verbal exchange on our first date consisted of no more than 2 dozen words shared over a 4 hour period.

Tentatively divining a path through the miasma of emotions and nuances of our relationship, it took him a month to kiss me. (And what a birthday present THAT was.) We were not quite 19, both backward to the dating world…what the hell did we know??

We were graced with over 30 years to sort it out.

It was not long enough.

The Language of the Cones

"Sign…Sign…everywhere a sign
Blocking out the scenery
breaking my mind
Do this…don't do that…
can't you read the sign”
(1970 - Five Man Electric Band)

Big ones…little ones…double ones…single ones…glow in the dark…light up at night…hard to see in the rain…everywhere in this growing Podunk town.

Orange cones…telling me how and where to drive.

Dotting the roads like children playing Builder Bob with Lego’s and Tinker Toys leaving them strewn willy-nilly when the day is done.

Merge Left

Single Lane Ahead


Do Not Block Intersection

Lanes Shift

Shoulder Closed

Flagman Ahead

Watch for Trucks Entering Highway

Road Closed

New Traffic Pattern

A metaphor of this widow’s walk, they pop-up directing me places I don’t want to go.

Cones setting me off on highways I’ve visited more than once in the 3 years I’ve been on this journey:

Tears…sadness…fear…lack of confidence…memories…songs…how do I do this…I can’t do this…dammit, I WILL do this.

I HATE CHANGE…always have. Being a military brat you’d think I’d be used to it. I hated it then…I hate it now. Always moving…always being the “new kid on the block.” Yet, then, as now I stood tough on the outside never letting it show how insecure I was in the changes.

Hang it all…I liked my life the way it was.

But, the way it was ain’t the way it is.

Get up, girl…hitch up yer britches, yank on them boots and keep moving.

“Move down…clean cup…clean cup” says the Madd Hatter to the March Hare at that odd little tea party in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.

Damned orange cones.

Involuntarily Unspoused*

I did not sign up for this gig. I liked my life the way it was. I liked being a wife and I liked being married to Jim.

Then he died.

I did not choose to walk this path.

July 5, 2002:
Time and the passage of it have no meaning. Great blocks of either pass without knowing or caring. I am hollow.

July 24, 2002:
My grief knows no bounds. I am bereft. I cannot feel you. There is no peace.

July 31, 2002:
31 years we would have had today. Yet, you are not here up on this mountain we came to love and consider our special anniversary place. I am alone…you are not here…and...I am alone.

July 31, 2003:
32 years. 2 anniversaries without you. And, yet…my life goes on and there are things that bring me momentary joy and even laughter…still…bone deep sadness underlies it all.

July 31, 2004:
33 years. 3 anniversaries without you. I set your spirit free today up on that lonely Tennessee mountain where your ancestors dwell safe within their dark cocoons. Ashes spread with Miss Dorothy down in the valley as well. Your love lives eternally within my heart while yet I let your spirit freely roam. You will ever be a part within as well as the universe without.

July 31, 2005:
34 years. 4 anniversaries without you. It’s time to stop counting, you know…we will always be 30 years together.

Do you smile today as do I? The memories have become melancholy sweet...no tears today. Gratitude fills me instead for the life, love and laughter we were gifted to share.

I never thought to come to this particular shore on this rocky journey. And, I am yet amazed to be so. Thank you, love, for this gift.

Today:
I still would not choose this path.

Widows walk in footsteps left by generations of others. In the early days that meant nothing to me. Yet, from this 3 year vantage point I know they walked with me.

What they leave behind of their pain and sorrow lives to help us shoulder the burdens we, too, must bear. Though we think we cannot do this one more minute there is somehow the strength to do just that.

There is a 95 year old lady who was my role model even before we shared widowhood. Widowed for over 50 years, she raised her children and supported herself alone. She has volunteered her life and time to caring about others...knitting caps for newborns until her eye sight failed; teaching Sunday school to who knows how many generations of children in this town; visiting the elderly in nursing homes until this last year and just generally finding reasons to be thankful for her life every single day despite her husband's death, her own failing health and financial issues. Once I could think beyond the next intake of breath I was determined not to be the crazy widow down the street. I was going to stand firm and tall and beat the monster at his own game. Yet, I found the firmer I stood the harder the grief tried to beat me.

On the good days I felt strong and able to handle things. The days I woke up with the monster in the bed I felt I may as well stay there.

There were days I WAS the crazy widow down the street.

Unable to sleep at night, I was often out in the yard by lantern light plucking weeds that didn’t care I splashed them with a million hot tears of pain. Plants that didn’t care if I cursed the heavens I no longer trusted with each anguished yank that pried them from their greedy clutch upon the earth. The yard has not looked so good since.

I roamed the house, dusted and rearranged things that hadn’t been in their current spot long enough to have the first spot on them. I watched television I can’t even remember. I looked at books and magazines I once devoured with a passion only to realize I could not focus on the words let alone their meaning.

And, I cried till I thought I could not possibly have a single tear left only to take a ragged breath and spill even more. (I should have bought stock in Kleenex)

I took dishes from the cabinet and rewashed them just for something to do. There were days I thought the pain and darkness would never pass. Many a night was spent wishing that I could go to sleep and never wake up again. Imagine my dismay to wake each morning to find I was still breathing.

Yet, some survival mode was still intact: I actually made up excuses why I couldn't die yet....the dog needed out, the cats needed feeding, the plants watering, my grandmonkey needed me, my kids already lost Dad how could I also take Mom away? Both of my parents were elderly and my dad in particular in ill health...he needed me. I needed to do laundry, wash the car...anything that kept me in right now.

See, the trouble was that the fog that protected me for a while had truly lifted and reality smashed into me like a freight train loaded with steel. The pain and the feeling of not being able to breathe were very real...I remember writing my high school friend and telling her I truly felt like I was drowning.

Yet...here I am. Three years and I am still standing…often battered, bruised and sore…but standing nonetheless.If you will believe me that time will help I can tell you that it is true. This is truly the hardest work you will ever do.

[* I did not invent Involuntarily Unspoused. The phrase came about from a discussion with other wounded souls like mine who hated (and still hate) the words widow, widower and widowed. Blunt, yet, appropriate.]