Diary of Not a Wimpy Widow

Author: kcmoyer65

  • Constitutional Amendment

    January 15, 2020

    You have been driving for what seems like years. You have endured three flat tires out of the four on your car. You have driven through rain storms. And sand storms. And snow storms. Your kids have thrown up in the back seat so many times you have lost count.

    And finally you have reached your destination and you just sit in your driver’s seat and stare. 

    That is a bit the way I felt today sitting in the back row of the gallery while hearing the speeches and watching the vote to ratify the ERA in the House of the General Assembly of Virginia, the 38th and the final state needed to ratify the amendment and make it part of the Constitution of the United States of America (except for some technical problems we have to deal with.) The ERA had never reached the floor of the Virginia House for a vote, because the majority party had never let it come out of committee—or even sub-committee. The ERA had passed several times with bi-partisan approval in the Virginia Senate but never in the House of the Virginia General Assembly. But the 2019 state election had pushed the power levers. 

    And thus the gallery of the House today was packed with people of all ages and colors jubilant to see history made. Many were wearing the gold-white-purple sashes such as I had worn in the ERA marches down Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington DC in August of 1977 and July of 1978. I was 35 years old in 1978, wearing white in the blistering heat and confident that together we could make the world a better place. It would take much longer than we thought. Forty-two years have passed since that march. There were women who made it their life purpose to see the ERA pass, and at least one of them is sitting in the gallery today. 

    A black woman delegate, a graduate of the former all-male Virginia Military Institute, introduces the resolution and speaks about being on the right side of history. 

    A transgender delegate speaks about her mother and what the ERA means to her. 

    An older woman delegate speaks about marching in 1978 with her daughter. She is wearing the same sash that she wore then. 

    Delegates from the other side speak in opposition. 

    It is time for the vote. The resolution passes, 59-41. The gallery erupts with cheers, applause, hugs. I stand quietly, my eyes filled with tears. 

    Such a simple statement: “Equality of rights under the law shall not be denied or abridged by the United States or any State on account of sex.”  

  • A New Year

    January 1, 2020

    I am sitting at my desk, putting the pages of my new 2020 calendar into my Daytimer, the planning system I used when I was working and that I have continued to use in my retirement, though a more condensed version.

    The black notebook lies open as I slip each month into the six open jaws of the metal rings. 

    January…February…and winter is done.

    March… and its rain and snows.

    April…May…flowers and gardens.

    June…July…August…terrible heat and swimming.

    September…October…the beauty of autumn.

    November…the bridge between autumn and winter.

    And back to December and its Yuletide festivals.

    How quickly the year goes. 

    The pages for 2020 are blank now, waiting for me to make entries. Already there are medical appointments and meetings I need to record. But I stop and look at the clean blank months.

    The year is like a new continent stretched out before me, waiting to be explored, and I am filled with anticipation and anxiety. 

    What will we find on the other side?

    Let us begin. 

  • Cats and Christmas

    December 16, 2019

    My two Siamese rescue Cats are giving the Lady some credit for the smarts of bringing a very nice big Evergreen Tree inside the house, putting warm lights on it, and laying a cozy blanket underneath it especially for Cats to lie down and sleep.

    They also appreciate the dulcimer music the Lady tries to play for their lullabies.

    Isn’t everything done for Cats?

    They say to each other, “Remember the days when we were living under the roots of a big tree with the Wild Cats and food was scarce?”

    and they purr and dream under the Christmas lights, safe in their warm home.

  • 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.