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."