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?