It's IWSG Day. The goal of this blog hop is to share and
encourage. Writers can express doubts and concerns without fear of appearing
foolish or weak. Those who have been through the fire can offer assistance and
guidance. It’s a safe haven for insecure writers of all kinds. IWSG is the
brainchild of Alex Cavanaugh, our
brilliant ninja leader. To find links to other IWSG contributors, click here. Co-hosts for the May are Feather Stone,
Beverly Stowe
McClure, Mary Aalgaard,
Kim Lajevardi,
and Chemist Ken.
Oh, my dears…
I’ve never missed a monthly IWSG and posting is a comfort now
because for the most part, I’ve lost my routine. No getting up at 5:30 to write
before work. No morning time in the “zone.” A few days ago, I tried, sitting
down to work on my current project, but I couldn’t remember what had been in my
brain when I left off weeks ago, so gave it up.
The truth is, I have actually written this month, the
hardest, yet most treasured piece I’ve ever created—an obituary for my sweet
husband who lost his battle with melanoma two weeks ago.
Organized soul that he was, he’d written a draft death notice
that summed up dates and facts. I almost laughed when I read it, none of it
touching on the nuance of him. How he broke every seriousness with humor. How
you could count on him for absolutely anything. How he loved quoting Monty
Python, and Saturday nights in the fall by the fire when in jest, he’d repeat a phrase his dad said so often our eyes rolled, “A fire really warms up the place.” There
was nothing about our tradition of weekly date-nights, a habit formed early in
our marriage when we couldn’t afford to go out that became so ingrained, thirty-five
years later when we missed one, we’d sit down at our table the next weekend filled with relief. It failed to mention how our now-grown-up nieces and
nephews used to call him Uncle Fun. Or how, when we stayed overnight with my
sister and the kids demanded a bedtime story from him, an hour later I’d have
to tug him away because he’d be having such a good time, he’d have kept them up
forever. It didn’t mention how he was the best gift-giver because he listened
and remembered. So many birthdays I’d open a present and say, “Oh my gosh, I
wanted one of these,” and he’d say, “I know. You said so months ago,” and I’d be
shocked. “I did??”
His version including nothing about how his eyes lit up whenever
he saw our daughter, or how when she was small, he co-opted a story theme I’d
started with her using Tweetie-Bird from the old Loony Tunes cartoon, making it
his own and so very much more. Or how they’d giggle together on her bed and how
once again I’d have to prod him out of her room so she could get enough sleep.
And while his draft mentioned his love for sailing, it didn’t talk about how proud
he was of his lovely and pristine boat, moored across from a public dock, visible
to all who launched in the harbor.
His bare-bones notes didn’t include details about the little
surprises he left me around the yard. A sculpted orchestra of instrument-bearing
frogs tucked into a hollow behind the shed, two azalea bushes it took me weeks
to notice, a plaque mounted onto an old tree stump, “Please don’t piss off the fairies.”
It didn’t include how he loved cookies or how he’d arrive home from work and with
coat still on, reach his hand into the jar. Or how when his genetic high cholesterol
became a minor issue, he gave up those cookies cold-turkey and created a food regime
he prepared for himself: plain oatmeal for breakfast, salad for lunch with vinegar—no
oil, pretzels and carrot sticks and how after that meager fare, he’d come home
uncomplaining to whatever low-fat dinner I’d concocted, no cookies allowed. Or
how without an alarm, he got up at 3:45 am on week days to exercise.
It didn’t touch on his love for Christmas. How he so liked
my gift of a nutcracker our first Christmas, it morphed into a yearly tradition.
Even this past December when he was feeling poorly, he unwrapped a collection whose
count easily exceeded our number of years together and displayed them in the
family room, the dining room and on the living room mantle. Or how important it
was to him that our tree had enough lights. Well, trees, I should say. Because we
had three. A live tree in the family room, and once our cat passed away, an
artificial tree in the living room on which we hung our delicate ornaments, and
his tree downstairs in the “man cave,” where he hung snowman lights and all
the macaroni holiday decorations our daughter ever made in school. Don’t even get me
going on the Christmas fairyland that was our outside.
Oh, I could tell stories about him forever.
But the thing about obituaries is they’re revenue for the
publishers and here’s one more thing about Tim. He wouldn’t want me to waste
the money. When I found his draft, I knew I had to find a way to make it
reflect him without breaking the bank. So, with his permission before he left us, I re-wrote it,
adding enough with the hope that not only would it read true for those who knew
him, but also so those who hadn’t known him would feel what they had missed. And soon after
he left us, it appeared in print and online. My love. Edited to 443 words—condensing
an encyclopedia of joyous memories into two columns, when even a million words could
never be enough.
