My hat man

Some people are so comfortable in their own skin. They never get embarrassed if they fumble and stumble - just pick themselves up, dust themselves off and start all over again. That's how it was with my spouse. He often said, "I'm just me." That he was. Unique, different, his own person, special... My daughter's description was so apt. She said she had the brains of Albert Einstein, the looks of George Bush, Sr, and the personality of Barney Fife. Please, only one bullet!

He loved hats. A favorite was a Panama Jack hat that he donned once a year at a Festival where we had set up a craft booth. He'd stroll up one side of the street and down the other getting acquainted with the other vendors. They'd say, "Here comes the Colonel". Why the tag, Colonel, I still don't know. He'd stop and chat, and within minutes had learned where they'd came from, what wares they sold and how long they'd been participating in the festival. He made friends as quickly as gnats find ripe peaches. That same hat served him well at one of our themed Christmas parties when he dressed as an Aussie from the Outback, the hat festooned with corks dangling from string to shoo away the flies when he shook his head.

At another themed Christmas party called South of the Border, he latched onto a huge sombrero and drank one too many Margaritas. We found him slumped him in a corner, sombrero fallen forward to cover his face. Perfect rendition of siesta time in old Mexico. The dandiest of dandys was the "hat" given to one of my sons at a "let's see who can give him the raunchiest gift" birthday party. This hat was rubber and ordinarily worn on a another part of the anatomy, hopefully with complete privacy. You get the picture. No one else at the party would have dared, but when you're okay with who you are and you love hats...

Sandy

Percy, the concrete pig

Did you ever spout off some inane remark that came back to haunt you? I have a friend in Florida who is very fond of flamingos - no accounting for some people's taste. Anyway, she made the mistake of expressing this fondness in front of another friend of ours. The mutual friend's penchant for mischief got all riled up, and the next thing you know, first friend woke up to an entire front yard filled with plastic pink flamingos. A virtual forest of the long legged, sharp beaked beasties. A sea of pink. Hysterical laughter passed over the phone lines from neighbor to neighbor as word spread, reminiscent of the Norman Rockwell painting on a Post magazine. Cameras clicked. Some folks even got creative in the "arrangement" of the plastic pretties. More cameras clicked. Friend one and friend two remain friends to one another - no accounting...

I also remember when a neighbor of mine set out a cement goose as a yard ornament. As the seasons changed, so did the outfit on the goose. I thought it was kind of cute and said so to my younger son, who in return said he'd never visit my home again should one of those "cute" critters show up in my yard. So, the point is, I don't do lawn ornaments - not deer, or raccoons, or the Seven Dwarfs. I'm a dyed in the wool snob about the presence of petrified critters.

Except for... Percy, the concrete pig.

In relating my aversion to unnatural lawn decor to my husband-to-be, he teasingly remarked what he'd really like to have in his yard was a concrete pig. I was on a mission. I found the perfect pig at a roadside junk store (nearly ran off the road getting to it), tied a red kerchief around its neck, sat it in his backyard beside the tomato patch, and left this note, "I'm Percy, the concrete pig. My name comes from a word my mistress often uses in describing you - stubborn. Oh, excuse me, "Persi"stent. I hope you don't mind my being here. It's my job to remind you how happy you've made my mistress, with your stubborn, persistent... oh heck, pig-headed resolve to live and love again after your open heart surgery last year. Be nice to me. My mistress is rather fond of me and she doesn't take kindly to having anything bad happen to those she cares about." He called me at work, laughing so hard I could barely understand him. In a scrapbook, beside Percy's picture, I wrote, "Percy is symbolic of our concrete relationship."

Percy proudly joined us in the backyard of our home once we were married and when I moved, he joined me here... sans kerchief and note. One day I noticed an ear had broken off and it made me sad, but super glue worked its magic. After all, it's just a silly lawn ornament.

Sandy

Friends and fade aways

Couple friends are an odd lot even when you're still a couple. Most "couple friends" become so because one of you had something in common with one of them. My dearest friend and I met at a New Neighbors program about interior decorating. I remember asking the speaker, short of tearing out bathroom fixtures and starting over, how I could somehow make a pink toilet and bathtub surrounded by slate blue tile be at least a little bit palatable. I don't remember the suggestion, but my new best friend came up to me after the meeting to commiserate as she, too, had faced some interesting interior decorating challenges. We laughed, joined the same bowling league and couldn't wait to get our husbands together. For the next several years, the four of us, plus our combined seven kids, spent nearly every weekend together before career transfers moved us to opposite sides of the country. We cooked a lot of meals - I still use some of those recipes; played hours and hours of bridge, and the guys became golfing buddies. One time, when they were visiting us at our new home, each husband come from the shower wearing the identical outfit - tan slacks and bright yellow shirts - Frick and Frack. That was over 40 years ago and although she's on the west coast and I'm in the Midwest, she's still there for me whether I'm half of a couple, a single, a couple again, or a woman who has outlived her husband.

It's different when the one who introduces his best friend into a relationship is no longer living. No matter how welcomed I was or the fun times we had together, when I was the "left behind" part of the couple, the threads of connection were severed and the friendship unraveled. It simply faded away.

Despite the theory that new friends come about because one of you had something in common with one of them, there is that rare occurrence when both parts of a couple meet both parts of another couple and an instant bond is formed. The common denominator here, at least for me, is a place. I think of it as my Cheers place - where everybody knows my name. These friends stay friends - no fading away. They will value the memories no matter who outlived whom.

Today's friends mostly aren't part of a couple. Like me, they're single, coping with a couple's world. They understand the dirty little secrets of widowhood and they'll talk about ANYTHING! There's a whole 'nother world out there for those of us who've outlived our husbands. I don't wish the title on anyone, but know there's a sisterhood of genuine friendship among us - no fade outs.

Sandy

It's that time of year

It's that time of year when dust, pollen and mold spores (in my case from that miserable mountain of mulch in my driveway) is in the air; when sneezing, snorting, coughing and dripping define the season. It's also an I can feel it coming time. Autumn. The end of summer. The dying back of brilliant colored annuals, the dormancy and drying up of perennials.

I've never liked Autumn, and now that I've reluctantly joined the ranks of women who have outlived their husbands, I like it even less. When my husband was here to share my allergy to Fall, I was less vulnerable to the anxiety it created. Together we appreciated the riot of color at leaf peeping season. Our Indiana countryside rivals that of New England with it's spectacular artist's palette of bright yellows, vibrant reds and vivid oranges. The air can be crisp and clean and invigorating for its last hurrah. But...

Autumn makes me feel vague, on edge, a bit unsettled. I am not in control of this impending season change - not that I ever was, but my coping skills were better honed when my encourager was alive and well to shoo away negative thoughts. My well-being seems threatened. The days are too short. The dark is too long. Like a Blue jay with a bad attitude, I'm irritable, restless and down-right cranky. As the adage goes, "This too will pass". It just can't pass quickly enough for my liking. What is your emotional response to this time of year?

Sandy

I'll call you Pappy.

Grandchildren are the nicest things. When they're babies, they snuggle and gurgle and make your heart go all gooey. When a diaper gets pooey (sorry, couldn't help the poetry) you don't even mind changing it. As toddlers their antics are adorable. These are the same antics that weren't nearly as cute when their parents, as toddlers, performed them. My favorite antic was hand prints left on the glass storm door - P&B on the inside, mud on the outside. They're older now, come and visit awhile, check out the junk food drawer, explore the back yard, ask if I've any new DVD's to watch and go off with mom to an "event". With the boys, it's something to do with a ball - any ball. The girls are dancing queens and a wanna be black-belt in Karate. How he, the husband I've outlived, would have loved sharing this experience. How COULD he have missed it?

We didn't share biological grandchildren as ours was a second marriage, but it didn't matter who was whose. We loved them all. I remember one afternoon when my eldest granddaughter, who was then about eight years old, came to spend the day with us. She and my husband were in the garage. He using glazing compound and a putty knife to reseal the glass panes on the people-door window. She using glazing compound to create miniature snakes and tea cups. She said to him, "Your name is too long. Instead of Grandpa Warren, I'm going to call you Pappy". And so it was. I'm still Gramma Sandy, but Pappy stuck. He changed her name to Gilbert.

There were the times David and Tyler came to stay with us. They loved the "pond", our affectionate name for the spa on the back deck. Rubber duckies, squirt guns, splishes, splashes, love and laughter...

He missed so much. All those firsts of his and my lineage. First tooth, first step, first time out, first day of school, first touchdown or dance recital, first broken heart, first prom, first shave, first love... Maybe, just maybe, from far up above, he hasn't missed a single instance. I hope not.

Sandy

Favorite things - terrible treasures

When I joined the ranks of Women Who Have Outlived Their Husbands, "stuff" took on a whole new meaning. It didn't happen right away, but a year or so after I'd become a widow, I resurfaced into the real world and became aware of my surroundings. There was "stuff" everywhere that needed a decision made regarding it's future. Civil War memorabilia, which I had never shared his fondness for, hung on walls and filled drawers; floor to ceiling bookcases, the shelves sagging under the weight of 28 years worth of National Geographic magazines, gathered dust and got little, if any, other attention. Our collection of lighthouses had grown to ridiculous proportions. NEVER tell your friends and relatives you're a collector of anything! It will ALWAYS get out of hand. These are the terrible treasures. The "stuff" that has value simply because it was his. What would his children think if I disposed of it? What would he think. Guilt. Guilt. Guilt.

Not everything left behind was a terrible treasure. There's the 3-D poster board caricature of his idol, Albert Einstein, created and constructed by his daughter while in a college design class. We called this special piece of "stuff", Big Al. I remember one of the grand kids standing across the room from Big Al, his back against the wall, side-stepping along its length, saying "Hoot, Hoot." Big Al. Big Owl.

Not every household boosts a helms wheel suspended from a ceiling. I can. A favorite thing. In the 50's, my husband's father actually built a paddle wheel boat that cruised upon the Green River in Kentucky. Over the years, the ownership of the boat changed hands several times and its whereabouts became vague, but through a long-lost cousin, the original helms wheel was located and it's become a prized possession - not "stuff" at all.

It's hard to draw the line between favorite things and terrible treasures. In the end, at least in my case, I made the hard decisions and found a good home for the items (stuff) that no longer held value for me, and clung to those things that added meaning and memory to my changed lifestyle. Do you still have a houseful of terrible treasures?

Sandy

Dot Com Dating

The only reason I was brave enough to even consider Dot Com Dating is that I met the husband I've outlived through a newspaper personals column. It read, "WPM, 50, 6', 165 lbs, exec, classy, attractive, humorous. Loves outdoors, music, arts. Seeks SWF 35-55, attractive, trim, zesty." In those olden days, you phoned the personals number, entered a code, and listened to a recorded voice on the other end of the line. I took notes. That deep baritone wished me a day filled with smiles and asked me to leave a name and he'd "most assuredly call me." Isn't that something?... "most assuredly..." I left a name. He called me back. We talked. We laughed. We made a date. We made a life together.

Silly, romantic me. I just supposed that once I was ready to move on with my life after having outlived this dear husband of mine, Cupid would simply aim his arrow and the magic of love would once again surround me. Ha! I overlooked the fact I'm now in my sixties and most men that age are looking for someone in their 40's. They want a size 2, not a size 10, and certainly not a size 18! Worse, there's a lot of players among the men out there. Some L.O.G.s - Lecherous Old Men who lie about their age by at least five years, and if that doesn't net them a young filly, the next time they update their profiles, they're yet another five years younger. Or they lie about their education, careers or financial situations. Occasionally, you'll meet someone special who really is who and what he says he is, and guess what - you never hear from him again after the first meeting.

Several of my widowed and divorced friends have met, and if not remarried, had lasting, long term relationships that began through Dot Com Dating. So, it can work. Besides, as a younger friend once told me, "Men are like buses. Another one will come around the corner any minute."

Sneaky Pete

According to my daughter-in-law, a Sneaky Pete is an alcoholic concoction that goes down oh so smoothly, just like an innocent milkshake, and then, when you least expect it, attacks your brain with a vengeance. Sneaky... Pete. That's not really what a Sneaky Pete is. Not if you are a woman who has outlived her husband. A real Sneaky Pete is that instant, right out of the blue, coming from nowhere, when the eyes overflow with crocodile tears and the lump in your throat threatens to cut off your breathing apparatus and you're afraid you might hyperventilate. It can be triggered by a song, a smell or a menu from a favorite restaurant. It's that omigod,"Not now!" feeling that overwhelms you. Sneaky Pete can be translated as "meltdown for widows".



When I first joined the ranks of widowdom, Sneaky Pete was everywhere - in the steam from the shower, in a paragraph from the book on my nightstand, in my morning yogurt, and especially in the catch-all drawer among the tangle of paperclips, rubber bands and batteries. Sneaky Pete was relentless. There was no peace. There was no escape. Something, or nothing, would happen, and there I'd be, melting into a puddle of sobs and hiccups. Out of control. Embarrassed. Pissed off.



Old Sneaky Pete doesn't torment me today like he did early on, but I count on his appearance once a year on Glorious 4th at Symphony on the Prairie. The moment the strains of "Off We Go Into The Wild Blue Yonder" begin, I'm in meltdown mode. I can still hear his rich baritone voice belting out the words. Never mind, no one else is singing. He'd stand there proudly at attention, saluting his flag and waiting to be thanked for serving his country by one of many Civil War Reenactors moving about the Prairie. The tears flow. The lump grows. Sneaky, sneaky Pete.



Sandy

Money matters

Today I wrapped coins. I don't have one of those fancy dividers for pennies, nickles, dimes and quarters. I've got a jar. It was full. There's a certain satisfaction of dumping the change out onto the desk and sorting the various denominations. Can't say it's the cleanest task and the odor is... well, it's an odor - a stinky one. But, it reminds me of times when. We always used to count coins together. He took the pennies, looking fervently for Indian head ones. I liked the quarters best, they were bigger and worth more (probably a woman thing?). Neither one of us were especially fond of the dimes - slick little rascals and way too tiny - more on the floor than in the sleeve. We paid bills together every other Thursday night before biweekly pay-days on Fridays and the checkbook always balanced to the penny. That's not quite true - it balanced to the penny when HE was watching like a hawk. It balanced "close" when I was in charge.

We'd take those heavy, rolled coins to the bank and exchange them for paper money. Amazing the household projects we paid for with our loose change. One time we'd accumulated some $600. It made for a nice transformation in the tiny bath off the guest bedroom.

Silly as it must seem, that stinky smell of coin is still appealing. It's a memory worth remembering. I keep the checkbook ALMOST accurately balanced and the bills are paid on time, however no longer by check, rather by online banking. Aren't I the modern one? And just think of the postage I'm saving. He would be so proud of my efforts.

Every household needs an adult. I declined the designation while I could, but I'm ever so grateful to have learned from a master. What do you do with your spare change?

Sandy

Nobody cares

Six months or so after I became a woman who had outlived her husband, my daughter and I took a road trip to Branson, Mo. She is such a trooper. Her Mom is hurting and daughter will do most anything to "fix it". Lots of folks really enjoy Branson. I don't. It fits in the same category as MCL cafeterias... old people destination. I'm pushing 60 years old at the time and I still felt too young for the Branson crowd. (Sorry if I've stepped on toes.) And, if I felt out of place, my daughter certainly did. But I digress...

We had reservations at a Travel Lodge into a "Sleepy Bear" room. The desk clerk asked, "Where are the children?" and I thought, "What children? My child, out there parking the van, was 36 years old. I said, "huh?" The man shrugged and showed us to our room. No wonder his question. The entire room was plastered in Sleepy Bears. Wallpaper border, pillow shams, curtains, bed sheets, child-size rocking chair, shower curtain - even the soap dish was a Sleepy Bear. I'd chosen the room because it had a mini refrig to chill a bottle of wine and the swimming pool was right outside the door!

We quickly stowed our belongings and before I returned from getting ice from the machine in the hall, daughter was on the phone. Calling home. Checking in. Announcing safe arrival. Ouch, that hurt. The aloneness consumed me. THERE WAS NO ONE AT HOME WHO CARED. There was no one at home, period. No one to ask if I'd had a good trip or if I'd decided what shows we might see. No one to say, "I love you. Stay safe."

I knew I'd face many firsts having outlived my husband, but this one blindsided me. It's the smallest incident that can surface to overwhelm you. Have you ever been on a Sleepy Bear trip?

Sandy

Eating disorders and other maladies

I came from the old school where families ate meals together at home. As a child, I could expect to come home from school and find mom in the kitchen prepping for dinner so we could sit down the minute dad hit the back door at 5:30. We had fried chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans and wilted lettuce salad; or maybe pork chops, baked beans, mac and cheese and cole slaw, or the home cookin' standards of ham and beans and roast beef with carrots. Only time pizza was served was every other Tuesday night when dad went to Lodge and mom and I would whip up a box of Chef Boy R Dee. We'd devour every morsel, then get out the Stanley product air freshener and spray like mad trying to mask our trail. Dad hated the smell of pizza. I hated the smell of that air freshener.

When raising my kids, we too, had dinner together (at least until they hit the HS years when you couldn't find a kid, let alone feed him on any kind of meaningful schedule). The meat, potatoes, 2 vegetables and a salad eventually gave way to pizza or fish sticks (chicken nuggets came with the grand kids). Many a night a Crock Pot meal would be in the making and I'd watch two of the three kids turn up their noses and fabricate an invitation to a friend's house.

In the next chapter of my life, I reverted to dinner-on-the-table the old fashioned way, just like mom; because just like mom, my man would be home promptly at 5:30 ready to have a sit-down-together meal. Didn't fry the chicken, but had lots of baked, broiled or grilled. We ate all variety of veggies and fancy salads with mixed greens, cranberries and walnuts. Ham and beans In The Crockpot was a favorite. That skinny man should have weighed a bazillion pounds! He'd eat anything I'd prepared and relish every bite. Cooking was effortless and even fun.

It's different today, now that I've outlived my husband. I eat whatever's handy. Breakfast is yogurt, some fruit, a glass of skim milk and sometimes a granola bar. And, where is this illusion of a meal taking place? Certainly not at the kitchen table. Nothing lonelier than sitting at a table by yourself. Nope, I've gotten quite handy at stuffing my face with my left hand, while my right fingers click the mouse button on the computer. Lunch might be out-with-the-girls - that's always enjoyable - or a microwaved Lean Cuisine in the staff lounge. Often as not, if I'm home, a handful of rolled up turkey breast while standing at the kitchen counter watching the noon news constitutes the menu. Dinner might be eaten either at point A or point B, or even in the Lazy Boy, but NEVER ALONE AT THE TABLE. Ever have popcorn for dinner?

Gal things and guy things

When do things go wrong at your house? Yeah, mine too. Always when company is coming, or you're running late for an appointment or when you've just experienced more month than money. It's a hateful situation at any time, but somehow feels worse if you're a member of the Women Who Have Outlived Their Husbands Club. Chores were once shared and life was easier.

I never mind shopping for food and doing the cooking when guests were coming for the weekend, but when the garbage disposal decides to clog and all that yukky stuff gurgles up into the sink in a mini whirlpool, it's a guy thing to take care of. I'm busy! Fix it! Ever have the flusher on the toilet break off? More yukky stuff whirling around. And your guests are where? If you're lucky, an hour or so away. More likely standing on the front porch, finger poised at the doorbell.

Light bulbs need changing, water softener salt needs emptied into the brine tank. The springy gizmo that lets the plunger in the lavatory go up and down just flew across the bathroom floor.

I've learned to do all these guy things, although not graciously. Any time I can bribe a son or neighbor with an adult beverage, I'm on it. One of my husband's favorite sayings was, "A job shared is half finished before it's begun." Lord, I miss that man!

King, Queen, Full or Twin?

I've just returned from a "girl's getaway" to Amish territory with good friends who, like me, have outlived their husbands. In this case, some of my traveling companions had outlived their marriage. We "survivors" travel somewhat differently now from what we might have on the same trip with our husbands. The size of the bed matters! Girlfriends will share a king size bed or sleep in a twin size in the same room with others, but a queen size is space invasion and a full size just ain't gonna happen. We had a King. Could hardly SEE our bed mate, let alone touch her.


Baths and showers are handled differently too. Our shared bath had a large, elegant shower with a seat at each end and two flexible shower heads, plus a separate garden tub with a half dozen jets. What a waste! Time was... And, we take turns. I'm an early riser, so once the coffee is brewing, I'm in and out of there. Oh, and women traveling together understand courtesy flushes. THAT sure is different from traveling with a husband!



We shopped at the Flea Market in Shipshawana -careful not to purchase anything too heavy or bulky as we knew we'd have to lug it around all day without benefit of "big, hulking man-types" to shoulder our burden. Of course, most men I know, including my beloved, would have been finding a bench to sit on and wait. Or even better, a spot for a cold beer, and we'd have had to tote all that stuff around anyway. We had Amish comfort food - fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, noodles, fresh corn and super size pie slices for dessert. Now I ask you, when was the last time your spouse got to eat like that without your stern warning of an impending heart attack? I'd sure like to see that tummy-full grin of satisfaction once more and I bet I'd keep my cholesterol jibes to myself. Then again, maybe not.