Think Spring

All over New England, the detritus of multiple snow storms leans against walls and crowds walkways – shrinking infinitesimally with every day of feeble sunshine.  This dirty, icy glacier crouches on the asphalt behind our townhouse, probably 8 feet tall, extending almost 50 feet along our south wall.  The sidewalk on that side of the building will be buried until spring!!

The mild weather of the last few days has encouraged us to venture outside at last.  It is still really cold, but the roads are dry and the sky is bright and clear.

~ROAD TRIP~

We layered up and headed out of state.

A friend recommended a drive to Portsmith, New Hampshire to stroll the downtown area – long on charm and less than an hour away.  Highway One wanders sort of north-easterly through a frozen hardwood forest.  It looks rural.  The reality is that the population is pretty dense, even up here, but the towns nestle into the landscape and lots and lots of trees stay in place.  Small businesses dominate the economy.

Even on the highway, we passed few monster stores and almost no fast food at all. (Buying a coke on the road is tough without McDonalds and Taco Bell at every exit.  We stopped at a state liquor store in NH, only to find that they sold, well … liquor … and that is ALL.)  

We stopped to check out the Adirondack chairs at the Village Hardware Store in Hampton.   Come spring, I will be owning the purple ones.  I think he should get an “A” in marketing!!

Parking in Portsmith limited us to 2 hours – just enough time to dawdle through a few galleries and boutiques before lunch in the brewery.  In spare New England prose, the local free paper straight talked its way into hubby’s cynical heart. Who wouldn’t love a comments section called “Hate Mail” and an editorial cartoon featuring Reagan as an idol à la Easter Island?  I may have to cross stitch a sampler … “LIVE FREE OR DIE”.   I could not resist suede gloves with fluffy faux fur cuffs in a place called Odd Gallery, a bohemian mishmash of resale, yarn arts and handmade jewelry.

Once my spouse had exhausted his patience for tchotchkes we headed for Kittery, Maine where we visited outlet stores along with the Kittery Trading Post, Disneyland for Big Boys.   It’s a three story outdoor bonanza in knotty pine decorated with trophies that used to make their living being moose or bear. 

This has got to be fishing heaven.  If it lives in the water, the Trading Post will help you pull it out.   The size and engineering of the deep sea fishing equipment boggle the mind.  Some of those reels are as big as meat grinders and cost more than our fishing boat.  Fake squid the size of my forearm “swim” along the ceiling. When the bait belongs behind the seafood counter you know they are after bigguns! 

Need a tacklebox?  You can get Sponge Bob, Dora, Spiderman  or Disney Princesses, depending upon your preferences.     

By late afternoon, we had traipsed and gawked sufficiently to call it a day.  We turned south just as the huge orange sun started to slide behind the horizon.  Three states in 6 hours! We are tired babies now!!

Grief

I wish I had something smart to say about dying.  A really good man passed on Wednesday – leaving a stunned and saddened family that wasn’t finished needing him: a wife that has loved him since she was a child; adult children who counted on his support and guidance; grandchildren to whom he rated somewhere between Santa Claus and Jesus; a great grandchild who will miss knowing him altogether, except through the stories that will inevitably become myths.  In the end, his importance to those people didn’t matter – it never does.  We all die, and it is always too soon.

I talked to her this afternoon; the wife-become-widow just beginning the redefining of her own life.  No self pity here.  No drama.  She laughs at the inconguencies of letting him leave her; his taciturn nature becoming playful and even funny as he bore the pain and indignity, still uncomplaining.  The rugged, silent man she had lived with for decades, forever stoic and uncompromising, now charmed his nurses as he lay dying; cracked jokes; socialized.  And she is cherishing that time, when he surprised them all.  He lived life by his own rules and he left life the same way, his way. 

The house he built her is full now, of children and phones and long-absent friends like me, clamoring to soothe our own grief with some small service.  Please – what can I do?  But today’s commotion only masks the changes.  Soon, the phones will stop and the rest of us will move on.  She will hear a new silence, not his silence, not comfortable and secure like it was before.  And she will begin the struggle to make sense of the almost-familiar world around her as it wobbles and swerves; looking for new equilibrium. 

In calligraphy and suitably subdued colors, my condolences look silly and empty, even if I pay extra for delicate embossing in mother-of-pearl.  My awkwardness frustrates me; nothing I can think of is adequate to express my sorrow.  And nothing I can do will help her face this new and unwelcome reality.  How have we omitted this one monumental function of culture?  Every joyous new arrival sets in place an inevitable departure, and yet we have not mastered saying goodbye.  So we will fumble along, trusting Hallmark and casseroles to convey our emotions: loss, love, shock, helplessness. 

What we really mean is Dammit!  This SUCKS!!