Diary of Not a Wimpy Widow

Author: kcmoyer65

  • Joy and Woe

    December 8, 2019

    Today was our annual joy service at my church, and it indeed was joyful and fun. This is the season of joy and we do well to celebrate it. But I know  the undercurrent of sorrow that runs through this season. Joy and woe are woven fine…

    I thought this morning of friends

    whose wives and husbands have died this last year, some very untimely…

    who are undergoing treatment for stage IV cancer…

    who are estranged from family members…

    whose marriages have ended in divorce 

    and those whom I do not know well but

    who are having a hard time paying their bills

    who are struggling with depression or anxiety

    who feel alone, with laughter and joy far away

    May we hold all of these in our hearts with love during this season of joy. 

    “Joy and woe are woven fine, a clothing for the soul divine, under every grief and pine, runs a joy with silken twine.” William Blake

  • Gratitude

    November 26,, 2019

    At church on Sunday my Unitarian Universalist minister preached a sermon on gratitude, appropriate for the Sunday before our American Thanksgiving Day. He passed out stamped postcards with a Gratitude design and asked us to write to people in our lives for whom we are grateful, people who might be surprised to receive such a postcard. So I wrote one such postcard, but I have been thinking of the people in my life—-not just my family and close friends—but all the others who keep my world going and for whom I am grateful:

    Marcie who house-sits for me and who leaves a small bouquet of garden flowers to welcome me home

    Karen who has rescued me from malware problems with her tech-savvy help

    Zari who has cut my hair for thirty years and never once suggested I dye or perm it

    Whitney a fifth grader who gives me hugs when she sees me at church

    Margaret my friend who has helped me wrangle my cats into carriers

    Antonio my expert gardener who looks at me with his warm brown eyes and pats my arm when we discuss plans for the garden; “little by little, Mrs. M., little by little,”  he says

    Eddie and his brother who laid a beautiful path of stepping stones through my shade garden last spring, and fixed the mud hole by the pasture gate

    Limbert the plumber who dug on a hot July day to find the leaking water pipe on my front hill

    Doug and Scott who paint and patch and problem solve electrical problems with honesty and kindness

    The drivers who deliver my packages from Amazon and UPS and FedEx and bring the heavy ones to my doorstep

    The lawn cutting crew who mow and edge the so-called grass every week during growing season

    Kevin the service manager at the local gas station who helps me patiently

    And Kevin at the bird seed store who always greets me with a cheerful smile before we talk about birds and squirrels, and then carries the heavy bags to my car

    All of these people and many others whose names I do not know make my life better.

    Who are the people in your life for whom you are grateful?

  • Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie

    September 20, 2019

    Cokie Roberts died this week. I heard her speak once, three years ago, on a panel. She struck me then as a calm, poised, intelligent woman. A journalist, Cokie had been on the Washington scene for many years, beginning back in the day when there were statesmen in the Senate. Former Presidents Bush and Obama recognized her passing with words of praise, as did many in high places.

    But here is what hit me: she was almost exactly a year younger than I am. She would have been 76 on her next birthday at the end of December. I will be 77 on January 3rd. And no one remarked on how young she was, how it was a shame that her life was cut short. Because it wasn’t, she had lived a respectable amount of time. As have I.

    Also this week I received the news that two friends had been diagnosed with cancer. One was diagnosed with leukemia on Monday, and then the devastating news hit that he had died today. He was strong and vital, a man who skied and climbed mountains, just one year older than I. 

    Another friend on Monday told me she was fighting giant cell arteritis. It can cause blindness if not caught in time. It is a case of one’s cells going berserk, as with cancer, but it is an auto immune disease, associated with another auto immune condition poly myalgia rheumatica, which both my friend and I have.

    Tomorrow is the first day of autumn, and the leaves are beginning to turn. In the afternoon I will be going to the memorial service of a friend who died of cancer in June. She was 62.

    Time is passing.

    Time is passing.

    Here is one of my father’s favorite poems, by Gerald Manley Hopkins:

    Spring and Fall
    t    o a young child

    Márgarét, áre you gríeving
    Over Goldengrove unleaving?
    Leáves like the things of man, you
    With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
    Ah! ás the heart grows older
    It will come to such sights colder
    By and by, nor spare a sigh
    Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
    And yet you wíll weep and know why.
    Now no matter, child, the name:
    Sórrow’s spríngs áre the same.
    Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
    What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
    It ís the blight man was born for,
    It is Margaret you mourn for.

  • Running with the Bulls

    September, 2018: We leave our hotel in Pamplona early in the morning, walking left down the hill and then sharp right up the hill, to the point where annually the bulls are assembled in the pen, before they begin the running of the bulls through the narrow streets and finally to the ring where await the matadors and death.

    On this morning we American tourists stand in front of the gates of the empty bull pen, our necks bedecked with our red souvenir bandanas, and obligingly paw the ground and snort for our tour guide’s camera, before beginning the climb up the narrow winding street, where the bulls run, chasing the men in white with their red bandanas. The average weight of the bulls is about 1500 pounds and they are aggressive when cornered.

    At the plaza we stop for a photo op with a statue of a majestic bull in full charge with statues of runners before him and around him. We freeze into motifs of the runners, our arms reaching out, our mouths open for air while our guide takes more photos. Then we take a break at Plaza Castillo where the Cafe Iruna popular with Hemingway is located. We relax with coffee, our voices joining the other tourists and echoing in the high-ceilinged room.

    We climb further up the streets of Pamplona to arrive at last at the bull ring, where the bulls meet their deaths in front of the crowds. And every year during the running of the bulls, some of the men in white with their red neckerchiefs also meet their deaths or are injured. How foolish they are to take such risks, we think to ourselves, removing and folding our red neckerchiefs.

    And yet…

    July 27, 2019: This morning I slide behind the wheel of my small car and drive north up the narrow local road, to join the tollway. I set the speed control for just over the speed limit. Traffic is light here but as we enter the curving lane to merge with the Beltway, traffic slows to a crawl. And traffic is crawling on the Beltway, cars moving at 24 miles per hour. Finally the invisible barrier lifts and the speed picks up, these beasts weighing on average 4,000 pounds now moving well over the speed limit of 55 mph, at speeds over 70 mph in heavy traffic. Ahead of me a blue sedan weaves in and out of traffic from the far right lane to the far left and then back again, dodging a massive tractor trailer truck.

    I am thinking about the four crashes that occurred four days ago on the Beltway, involving three tractor trailer trucks,  leaving one person dead, and causing major delays during the morning commute.

    I check my outside left mirror, turn my head for a quick look, and move into the left lane, preparing for a heavy merge from the right. Five more miles up the road, I signal and slip into the far right exit lane. Here comes the dangerous part, with the beasts criss-crossing fast moving lanes of traffic, some trying to enter the highway, others like my car trying to exit. A white car and my dark gray car have a narrow miss. Like the bulls, we are compressed into a narrow, curving road.

    Finally I am off the Beltway and onto a less heavily traveled highway. I take a deep breath and let it out. I am done with running with the bulls…until tomorrow.

  • When Bad Things Happen

    June 25, 2019

    Yesterday I heard an alarm buzzing. I tracked it down to the upright freezer in the utility room. The temperature was high, and the food was defrosting. I moved what food I could to the refrigerator freezer. Too late in the day to call the appliance repair man. He will be here tomorrow.

    Then I went outside to do some chores and discovered that the waterfall pump in the fish pond was silent. After working merrily for days it was no longer running. I tested the GFCI and it was working, so either the pump is clogged very badly or it has reached the end of its life.

    Today on driving down the driveway I noted that a section of wire fence has been pulled loose from the board fence, and an upright board split, damage done by one of the delivery trucks yesterday.

    One of my friends said today that I must have a black cloud hanging over my head, but over the past nine years since Bill’s death I have learned to take these domestic crises in my stride. They are vexing and take time and money to fix, but usually they are fixable. They really are not bad things, but problems to be solved.

    The truly bad things happen to people and break our hearts.

  • The First Day of Summer

    June 21st, 2019

     With the Summer Solstice today, Summer officially has begun. For me now, the start of summer means very little in the way of changes, just longer days, shorter nights, and much hotter weather. It means getting outside very early in the morning to pull weeds from the flower beds, shutting the shades on the sunny side of the house, and remembering my big sun hat to plop on my head when I leave the house on errands.

    But when I was the age of my grandchildren, whose elementary school finished last week, the start of summer meant much more.

    If my family stayed in town it meant

    Swimming and splashing at the crowded local pool

    Running to the ice cream truck playing its music, with quarters clutched in our hands to buy popsicles and ice cream bars and Nutty Buddies

    Dancing through the  arcs of the backyard sprinkler

    Running through the twilight with sparklers twirling in our hands

    Catching fireflies in a jar and then letting them go.

    But even better, if my family went to our North Woods cabin in the summer it meant

    Swimming in the cool lake waters and chasing little sunfish through the shallows

    Balancing on the big truck inner tube for a  brief second and then tumbling into the lake

    Rowing the boat to the lagoon to see the white water lilies in full bloom

    Watching the plastic bobber on the surface of the lake, waiting for a fish to bite

    Racing up the hill to see the evening train pass along the embankment

    Lying in the hammock and making up songs

    Picking blueberries in the woods

    Roasting marshmallows at the beach fire

    Watching Fourth of July fireworks over the lake

    Swimming on the path made by the moon on the lake

    Sitting in the screen porch by the shore and telling ghost stories, then racing up the hill to the cabin as though all the ghosts were on our heels.

    Summer days were long and summer was infinite and life was full of wonders.

  • All the Bulbs That Shine

    May 5, 2019

    Thirty or forty years ago, keeping a supply of light bulbs on hand was a simple thing: a pack of 60-watt bulbs, one three way bulb, a 40-watt utility bulb for the refrigerator, a yellow light bulb for the outside light…that was about it.

    Now I stand at the shelf over the dryer in the utility room and look at the wide assortment of light bulbs:

    • the LED bulbs that fit the recessed kitchen cans;
    • the extra-small LED bulbs that fit the new family room track cans;
    • the 8-pack of LED bulbs that DO NOT fit the new family room track cans and that might fit something somewhere sometime;
    • the large clear bulbs for the pendant kitchen light;
    • the two sizes of halogen bulbs for the two living floor lamps;
    • the other size halogen bulb, labeled in Bill’s handwriting “for the desk lamp;”
    • two packs of special IKEA bulbs for the pin-up lights in the guest room;
    • some mystery halogen bulbs—-I have no idea;
    • two mini-spiral 13-watt LED bulbs that fit the new overhead ceiling fixture in the hall;
    • the candle-shaped LED bulbs that are needed for the two outside pole lights;

    and one 60-watt bulb, three three-way bulbs, one 40-watt utility bulb, and a yellow bulb for the outside light. (No partridge in a pear tree.)

    Thomas Edison would be amazed.

    And do I have those extra-special LED things that don’t even look like a bulb but more a part for a robot, and are needed for the two burned out walkway lights? No. Fortunately I am an Amazon Prime member.

  • April Memory

    April 4, 2019

    It is spring, that early spring with its fits and starts of warm and then cool and warm again. The spring that E.E. Cummings wrote about, when the world is “mud luscious and the little lame balloon man whistles far and wee.”

    I had the swimming pool opened this past Tuesday, and so now I must walk down the path every day to clean out the skimmers and check the filter pressure level to see if I need to backwash. Today I remove patio furniture covers and move furniture around to its proper spots.

    Then I sit for a few minutes and take in the beauty that is here: the arching bare branches of the two willow oaks: the colorful bark of the crepe myrtle; the blossoms of the purple plum and the pink blossoms of the remnants of the almost-dead cherry tree at the end of the pool, and the white blossoms of the pear tree by the house. All of this garden Bill and I created on this once bare hilltop.

    And now in the distance I hear the sound of children’s voices. And I am remembering….

    When we moved here forty-two years ago from our townhouse onto almost three acres, our two children five and seven were liberated into a new world. They called the overgrown paddock with the vines climbing up the trees “Tarzan and Jungle Land” and they spent many hours exploring there. Later, they had the liberty to go into the public lands behind our house (later a park) and explore with the boys next door.

    But that liberty came with a caveat: when I blew three blasts on the Commander whistle left to me by my father from his Army days, they had to come home immediately and call out that they were on their way. They knew and followed the rules.

    Now I stand on my hilltop and hear again their voices: “We are coming, we are coming, we are coming.”

    And I stand here in the April sunshine, among the trees and the blossoms, and I am blessed by memory.

  • The Night Shelter

    February 12, 2019

    This is the fourteenth year that my church has hosted an overflow hypothermia shelter for the homeless, for one week in the winter. The county shelters are overflowing in the winter, so the area churches open their doors. I have served one night each year as one of the all-night volunteers. It has been an eye-opening experience. Below is the poem I wrote after my first time as a shelter volunteer. Only the weather changes.

    The Night Shelter

    Fifteen degrees above zero
    A  foot of snow on the ground
    And the shelter wings through the night
    Like the red eye bound from LA to New York
    Or the transatlantic flight to London,
    Heavy with sleep and dreams.

    Here sleeps the Korean taxi driver,
    And the Latino construction worker,
    The woman with the broken ribs who flinches in her sleep,
    The pregnant girl curled next to her lover, and
    The man with eyes wide open who steadily talks to god
    As if god could hear.

    In the gray dawn one by one they will awake,
    Look for coffee,
    Find bathrooms,
    Brush their teeth,
    Pack up their bedding,
    And prepare to land
    In yet another day.

    February 14, 2006

  • The Lost Will Be Found and the Rough Made Smooth

    January 22, 2019

    I lost my hat!

    Have you ever lost a favorite hat or scarf, or one of your favorite pair of winter gloves? Then you know how sad I was to realize this weekend I had lost my favorite soft knit winter hat. This is the hat that makes me look like an insane grandmother hedgehog with lavender spikes sticking out of her head. I bought the hat in a street market in Lithuania in  the fall of 2011, one of those whim purchases when you are traveling. It was my second trip after Bill’s death.

    That hat became my winter favorite go-to hat because it could scrunch up into my pocket and was warm and cozy and made me feel pretty/silly.

    I wore it to President Obama’s second inauguration. I wore it to the First and Second and Third Women’s Marches in Washington DC. I wore it any number of times in winter outside the NRA Headquarters in Fairfax while witnessing for the lives of those little children lost at Sandy Hook. I wore it by the Bell Tower outside the capitol in Richmond for vigils against gun violence on Martin Luther King’ s Day. And I wore it for any number of ordinary days for eight years in the winter.

    But last Saturday, on my way home from the Third Women’s March in DC, I stopped for a late lunch, not having had anything to eat all day. I pulled off my hat and coat and scarf in the restaurant, and forgot to pick up my hat when I left.

    It was two days before I realized the loss, and another two days before I could return to the restaurant. I was not very optimistic when I entered the Italian restaurant today, a new one in the shopping strip. It was mid-day and the few staff seemed to be working on a new round of pizzas. When I asked about lost and found, one of the staff fumbled underneath the counter and brought out two hats, one a dark baseball cap and one my hat. My soft funny funky purple spiky cozy silly grandmother hat. I clapped and cheered and took my cap from the smiling guy. All the staff beamed.

    I am not sure about the moral of this story. Maybe we should not place too much value in material things. Maybe any hat can warm one’s head. Maybe  we should place faith in the folks in a restaurant to hold onto to lost things.

    Maybe we should keep faith that the lost can be found, that the rough ways will be made smooth, and that all manner of things may be made well by our work. And that all will be well.