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The Easter Bunny Missed Me

Christ is risen. Lent is over. I can go back to watching daytime TV and doing online jigsaw puzzles when I’m supposed to be working, except I have discovered that “The View” isn’t any good anymore and I get a lot more work done if I leave the puzzles alone. I can also eat meat on Fridays again, but I have discovered that eating fresh albacore tuna is not a punishment. I might have to go back to giving up French fries for Lent, which is truly six weeks of misery.

When you’re a church musician, Holy Week is like the week before April 15 for a tax person or the Olympics for a gymnast. So many Masses, so many songs, so many solos. One minute we were in the hall getting our palms blessed for Palm Sunday, the next we were venerating the cross on Good Friday, the next we were all dressed up singing “Christ the Lord is Risen Today.” All with a minimum of sleep and not enough practice.

The rest of the world does not understand this. They schedule meetings, games, jams, and all the usual activities as if this massive event of Christ rising from the dead were not happening. Easter for most people, if they notice it at all, focuses on chocolate bunnies, egg hunts, and maybe a family get-together. Or perhaps they’ll just stay home and mow the lawn.

No lawn mowing here. It was raining.

Easter is always tainted with loss for me. My husband Fred died on Holy Saturday four years ago. It was a little later in April that year, but still, I remember getting the call during the Good Friday Mass that he was failing and the final word early the next morning that “Mr. Lick has expired.” I also found out my mother had cancer on Easter 13 years ago. Christ rose from the dead, but they did not.

As with most holidays and birthdays lately, I wound up alone. I don’t recommend it. Solo holidays invite all the demons of grief and loss to pounce. With no husband or kids, my family far away and all the friends I might have spent the afternoon with either out of town or sick, I filled the weekend with reading, movies and puzzles. I did the laundry. I walked the dog. I had a BLT for lunch, chicken for dinner. I bought myself a box of chocolate eggs filled with a mysterious substance called “fondant,” and I ate one. Delicious.

I got up this morning, walked out on the wet deck, looked up at the blue sky fighting to emerge through the clouds and said, “Thank you God, it’s over.” I’m safe till Fourth of July.

P.S. The book I finished this week was Anne Tyler’s latest, A Spool of Blue Thread. As enjoyable as a long hot bubble bath. Check out my review on Goodreads.

The movies, all Academy Award nominees:

Whiplash: Aspiring drummer vs. sadistic teacher. Very upsetting to watch. Just picture blood dripping on the drums. J.K. Simmons, who won the Oscar, is amazing.

Gone Girl: Wife in troubled marriage disappears, husband (Ben Affleck) is charged with her murder, but he’s innocent. Or is he? Suspenseful to the last second.

Boyhood: Patricia Arquette, who won for best actress, is divorced with two kids. We watch those kids grow up, bounce between their fun father (Ethan Hawke) and a series of drunken stepfathers until they’re adults. Pleasant enough, almost three hours long, but I’m not sure what the point is.

How was your Easter? Feel free to share.

The Dead Husband Thing

“My husband passed away.” That’s all I have to say to turn a conversation upside down. Women say, “I’m so sorry.” Men of a certain age take another look at me and say, “Really?”

To be honest, I hate to bring it up. The pity makes me squirm. I find myself gravitating toward older women who take widowhood in stride. You’re eighty-something? Of course your husband is dead. Besides, it has been almost four years now. Fred died the day before Easter in 2011. How long am I supposed to be pitiful? He wouldn’t want that.

Most women my age have living husbands. The husbands are getting gray, bald and jowly and they have various health problems. Maybe their sex life has fizzled. But they’re still alive. Then the wives look at me and think, “Whoa, what if my husband died?” I’m too much of a reminder that it could happen, that it does happen. God knows, if I were 15 years older, most of my friends would be widows.

Alzheimer’s took my husband out with a nine-year descent from beginning to end. Maybe he had it before that. He was always forgetful. By the time someone dies of dementia, you have spent years grieving already. The man you loved is mostly gone. After he dies, you miss him, but it’s a relief to have it finally over with.

Losing a husband is a two-sided loss. You not only lost this person you loved, but you lost your position in the world as a wife. Now you’re this new thing called a widow.

It’s surprising how people react. If I said I was divorced, they would just say, “Oh” and move on. I know; I was divorced for five years before I met Fred. But “widowed” draws a knee-jerk “I’m so sorry,” followed by an awkward moment when nobody knows what to say. Dear friends, It’s perfectly okay to talk about it.

Hey, I’m alive. Having a dead husband sucks, but not every minute of every day. Do I miss having Fred to talk to? Yes. Do I wish he were around when the car breaks down? Definitely. Do I feel bad when I’m the only single person in a room full of couples? So bad. Do I miss snuggling, kissing, and sex? Absolutely. Do I cry sometimes? Do I want to kick things? Do I tell God I would trade anything to have Fred back? You bet.

But then I realize that since he was always a lot older than me, he’d be 77 now and I’d have to go through his dying all over again. Been there, done that, wearing his T-shirts. And his socks and his jackets and his hats.

Here’s the thing. We go on. We eat, sleep, shop, walk the dog, go to church, and watch TV just like we always did, but now we don’t have to worry about doing it on anybody else’s schedule or catering to anybody else’s tastes.

Don’t get me wrong. We had a good marriage, one of the best. But we finished it. We loved each other to the end, we never cheated on each other, never fought about anything that mattered, and did everything we said we were going to do. Till death did us part. Amen. He went to wherever dead people go, and I have gone on to my next chapter.

Will that next chapter include another man? Maybe. I stopped wearing my wedding ring after six months mostly because I was starting to look at guys and wanting them to know I was available. Do I want to become a wife again? I don’t know. The financial fallout from getting married again could be disastrous, and do I really want to deal with another man’s family, including his kids, this late in life? Do I want to become a caregiver again if/when he gets sick? But what if I’m the one who gets sick? Who will take care of me? Sigh.

I love my freedom. I lost 20 pounds after Fred died. Not having to cook elaborate meals to please him meant I could actually stay on a diet for once. So now I feel younger and sexier. I flirt. I get horny. I enjoy dressing up and going out. I also enjoy working when I’m in the mood without the need to quit because somebody’s hungry or bored.

Would I give it all up in a heartbeat if I could have Fred back? I would. But that’s not going to happen, and I may live another 20 or 30 years, so I’m looking ahead, making plans, and thinking about projects I want to do, vacations I want to take, and movies I want to see. I have a bucket list that has nothing to do with Fred. Crass? I don’t think so. He died, but I’m still alive.

Thank you for reading this. May your Easter be filled with blessings.

A beach, a dog, a friend

If a picture paints 1,000 words, here are 3,000. South Beach State Park on the Oregon coast. Copyright Sue Fagalde Lick 2015

Beware of Sunday lunch on the road

Eating on the road is a gamble, especially for lunch on Sundays. You stagger in on legs stiff from driving, starving, desperately in need of a restroom and a large dose of caffeine. You’re not feeling very sociable. Suddenly you’re in the middle of a mob. All the locals just getting out of church, and the folks who don’t do church but like to go out for Sunday brunch are there in groups, waiting for tables. They’re loud, blocking the aisles and not in any hurry. You walk back out the door, try another restaurant, and it’s the same mess. You can’t even find a parking space. Where did all these people come from?

You don’t want fast food and you’re getting desperate. You really need to make it to your next destination on time. So you go into the restaurant at a hotel. They’ve got lots of empty tables, except in the banquet room, where 30 people are waiting for their food. What they don’t have is staff. The same woman is the hostess, cashier, bartender and waitress. The TV over the bar plays an infomercial about hair products while you wait for someone to notice you and bring a menu. The choices are pretty much eggs, hamburgers or a club sandwich. You take the club.

After a while, your waitress/cashier/hostess informs you that orders are being delayed because of the big group in the banquet room. “But I don’t have much time,” you inform her. She gives you more tea and calls you honey. She says she’ll put a rush on it. The guy and his wife at the next table, locals, say they’re in no hurry, it’s Sunday.

You’re looking at your watch and thinking if your food doesn’t come in five minutes, you’re going to McDonald’s. Then she passes by, saying it will be three minutes. Okay. Here it comes, sandwich wedges artfully arranged around a pile of French fries. It’s the driest, boringest club sandwich you ever tasted, but you eat it. Quickly because you said you were in a hurry. You eat the fries, fat, doughy with too much salt. You take little sips of tea because the glass is small, there isn’t enough, and the likelihood of getting more is slim. She brings the check, she brings you change. You’re standing up, sipping the last drop of tea, rushing out, your stomach feeling like you just ate concrete. You swear to bring a sack lunch and eat by the river next time.

This was Salem, Oregon, exit 256, but it could be Anywhere, USA. When you’re traveling, beware of restaurants at lunchtime on Sundays. Especially watch out for the Sunday brunch buffets. Maybe all you want is a burger or a bowl of soup, but suddenly you face a line of fancy foods for an exorbitant price and a line of people who are not in a hurry.

Sunday evening however, no problem. Everyone’s tucked back into their houses except this writer on the road. And surprise, the New Morning Bakery in Corvallis is open until 8 p.m.

I love those giant interstate truck stops with those big, cheap, buffets, places for drivers to shower and little stores with everything from motor oil to DVDs. Folks there get the concept of fueling the vehicle and the body and getting back on the road. But your average in-town restaurant on a Sunday? God have mercy.

I’d love to hear about your experiences eating on the road. Please share in the comments.

This is my kind of tea party

An ocean of hot tea, plates of itty-bitty sandwiches, sugar cookies shaped like teapots, and sorbet eaten with doll-sized spoons, plus books–what’s not to like? Saturday I was one of the guest authors at the annual Samaritan House tea in Newport Oregon. The tea raises funds to support our local homeless shelter. The ladies who organize it go all out, and it shows. The tables and walls were decorated with books and antique tea cups. The programs, thick with ribbons and more teacup images, included recipes and bookmarks to use on our next reading adventures. The beautifully crafted treats included cucumber sandwiches, scones with clotted cream and jam, orange lavender polenta cakes, black olive and rainbow chard bars, and little teapot figures created with green grapes and frosting.

Held at First Presbyterian Church, the tea sells out early every year. Middle-aged and old ladies and young moms bringing their little girls jam the fellowship hall. They doll up in flouncy dresses and big hats decorated with feathers, flowers, and lace. It’s a scene right out of Great Gatsby–if it was cast with our friends and neighbors. The atmosphere is loud, giddy with too much sugar and caffeine, and generous. In addition to the tickets, the tea-goers bid on a silent auction, buy the books and teacups decorating their tables, and donate cash to the cause.

The theme varies. This year as part of “Tea and Tomes,” six authors were invited to display and sell their books and give brief talks about their work. We shared a table and swapped stories from our publishing adventures. It was fun getting to know each other and showing off our books. Besides me, the authors included: M.C. Arvanitis, author of middle grade and young adult fiction; Patsy Brookshire, author of the novels Threads and Scandal at the Willamina Quilt Show; Deborah Lincoln, author of the historical novel Agnes Canon’s War; Deborah H. Trusty, author of The Kid from Valsetz, a biography of former Newport city manager Don Davis; and Karleene Morrow, who wrote a novel titled Destiny and How to Write a Novel. Morrow passed away recently, but her friends brought her books and told her story.

Many of the people at the tea knew me only as the girl behind the piano at Sacred Heart Church, which was where I had to go right after the tea, to play for the 5:30 Mass. They were surprised to see how many books I have published. I had five at the table, Childless by Marriage, Shoes Full of Sand, Stories Grandma Never Told, Azorean Dreams, and Freelancing for Newspapers. Info on all of them at http://www.suelick.com/Products.html.

For those who think I’m amazingly talented, I tripped over the microphone cord after my talk. I also dropped one of my little sandwiches face down on the carpet. Nobody’s perfect.

The photo above shows me on the right and my friend Pat Stern in her fancy hat.

Have a cup of tea and read a book. It feels good.

It’s hard to be invisible on crutches

It’s hard to hide crutches. I make my slow way across the church to the piano and feel the whole congregation staring. Afterward, parishioners surround me, full of questions and pity. “What did you do?” “Oh, poor you.” They can’t believe I came to church in my gimpy state.

“I didn’t hurt my fingers or my voice,” I protest.

I struggle into the grocery store, where I will become one of those old ladies leaning on her cart, and the checker calls out, “What did you do?” Near the bagels, a man from church hurries up, puts an arm around me and asks the same question: “What did you do?” In the bread aisle, another friend from church sees me. “Oh no!” she exclaims. She has done it, too; she doesn’t have to ask.

For those who missed last week’s post, I sprained my ankle three days after Christmas. I missed a step at a local restaurant and spent the next three hours in the emergency room. All dressed up in velvet and Christmas sparkles, I learned that you can do x-rays through black pantyhose and that rolling in a wheelchair feels great when you only have one leg to stand on. But everybody will be watching you.

At the doctor’s office for my follow-up visit on Friday, I got a different reaction when I unveiled my foot and ankle. “Wow! Look at all those colors!” the doc said. It was pretty impressive, a mosaic of black, red, purple, green and yellow. But at least it was shaped like a foot and I could now put some weight on it. We talked braces, splints and shoes, and the doc filled out a form so I could get my very own disabled parking permit. When I came out, the waiting room was full. Everybody watched me as I progressed slowly toward the door.

Next stop DMV. I crutched up to the desk when my number was called. “Guess what I need,” I said, feeling everybody watching.

I spent the first three days riding two crutches, unable to put my right foot down. My whole body hurt, it was impossible to carry anything bigger than a pencil, and I couldn’t imagine leaving the house. On New Year’s Day, I was able to put my foot on the floor. I played the morning Mass at church, then retired to my couch to watch U of O’s Ducks slaughter the Florida State Seminoles 59-20. I don’t normally watch much football, but it was something to do, and for four blessed hours, nobody was watching me or telling me yet again that sprains are worse than broken bones.

My crutches are big and ugly. I’m down to one and sometimes none at home. I’m getting better at squeezing my crutches into the car and restaurant booths without hitting anything or anybody. There’s just enough room on my pew behind the piano at church for my crutches and my butt. But I’ll be glad to put my crutches back in the closet and forget about them. I have a sporty new splint on order which I will be wearing indefinitely. It’s black, and I’m hoping people will stop noticing and yelling, “What did you do?”

I’m a private person. I don’t like this kind of attention, but I’m learning so many lessons. Yeah, watch where you’re going, you might say. That, too. But I’m learning again, after several years without a visible injury, what it’s like to be disabled. I am so grateful that this is temporary. By next month, I should have only a slight limp, the crutches history. But so many other people are stuck with their disabilities for much longer or forever, and it’s bloody hard. It’s also inconvenient. I never noticed before how few parking spaces are allowed for the handicapped, how bumpy our parking lots are, and how heavy so many doors are.

I wonder how many people are sitting at home needing groceries to be bought or chores to be done but can’t do it themselves and don’t have anyone they feel comfortable asking. My New Year’s resolution is to jump out of my comfort zone and call people who are ailing or hurt, especially those who live alone, and not just encourage them to ask for help but offer specific assistance, such as, “I’m going to the grocery store. What do you need?” Or, “How about if I do a load of laundry for you?”

Want to join me?

Running Away to Seal Rock

It’s only 10 minutes south of my house, but Seal Rock is a great place to get away. Not long ago, I took my camera and notebook there, joining the tourists as if I were one of them. For a little while, I was on vacation. I wrote, I took pictures, I walked on the beach. It was cloudy but warm, and the waves lapped gently over the tidepools and against the sand.

After my beach walk, I went to lunch at Seal Rock’s Japanese restaurant, Yuzen. With soft music playing, I sat at a window seat eating miso and sushi and thought again about how lucky I am to live here.

Photos copyright Sue Fagalde Lick 2014

A is for Annie

A stands for Annie. Of Course. The A-to-Z blogging challenge starts today. We will blog on a different letter of the alphabet every day except Sunday through the month of April. I already blog three days a week, so this is only . . . wait, six? A also stands for Ay, ay, ay. This is also poem-a-day month. I must be crazy.

Annie is my therapy dog, my guardian angel, and my companion in life. She’s also the reason my big easy chair no longer has a cushion and is now tilted up on its back waiting to go to the dump. A little piddle problem in her early years, followed by a love of chewing. But I’m happy to report that at 6 years old, she is totally self-contained and no longer eats furniture.

She does eat a lot of other things, however. She chews on grass like a cow or a goat and loves to gnaw on wood. When we go on our woodsy walks, she grabs at anything that might possibly be food, things like banana peels, Starbuck’s cups, plastic toys, poop, fish heads, and bones. Last week, she hit the jackpot with a dead squirrel that had been car-smashed and dried into a giant squirrel chip. We had quite an argument as I hollered, “Drop it!” and she looked at me with eyes that said, “Are you kidding me?” I pried it out of her massive jaws and frisbeed it out of reach.

One thing she didn’t try to eat was a severed foot we found the same day. Brown fur, white claws. I don’t know what it came from, but Annie didn’t want anything to do with it and thinking about it gives me the shivers.

With all that eating, Annie needs a little something to wash it down. She will sip leftover coffee out of a Starbuck’s cup if I don’t stop her, and she likes to lap warm beer from discarded bottles, but her favorite is muddy water. She stands in the middle of a puddle, lapping the brown liquid, and then, when she’s had enough, she will lie flat in the puddle, coating her fur from toes to shoulders in mud while I scream, “Annie, no! I do not want to give you a bath!” Then, dripping and happy, she proceeds down the trail, tasting the weeds and leaving her mark wherever it strikes her as necessary.

A is for Annie, best snuggler in the world. I sit on the loveseat, she jumps into my lap, all 80 pounds of her, and all is right with our world.

***

Tomorrow, I will take my A-to-Z blog challenge to Childless by Marriage. Guess what B stands for.
Because I have several blogs, I’m going to make this like a progressive dinner or a scavenger hunt. The alphabet blogs will proceed from A to Z but will dance around among my newsletter (today only) and Unleashed in Oregon, Childless by Marriage, and Writer Aid. Here’s the schedule:

A Newsletter
B Childless by Marriage
C Unleashed in Oregon
D Writer Aid
E Unleashed in Oregon
F Unleashed in Oregon
G Unleashed in Oregon
H Childless by Marriage
I Unleashed in Oregon
J Writer Aid
K Unleashed in Oregon
L Unleashed in Oregon
M Unleashed in Oregon
N Childless by Marriage
O Unleashed in Oregon
P Writer Aid
Q Unleashed in Oregon
R Unleashed in Oregon
S Unleashed in Oregon
T Childless by Marriage
U Unleashed in Oregon
W Writer Aid
X Unleashed in Oregon
Y Unleashed in Oregon
Z Unleashed in Oregon

More than 1300 other bloggers have signed up for the challenge. Check out the list at kmdlifeisgood.blogspot.com/p/under-construction.html. You might find some great new blogs to follow. I know I will. Find out what B stands for tomorrow at Childless by Marriage.

Listening to the Master Storyteller

My father is a talker. I mean, good luck getting a word in edgewise, and don’t expect a phone call to last less than an hour. Some people find it tiresome. Hang around a while, and you’re bound to hear some reruns, told with exactly the same words. Being an active listener can wear a person out. Yes, no, wow, uh-huh, really. But Dad tells good stories. At 91, he has a lot of them.

I suspect he is part of the reason I became a writer and why I write the kinds of things I do. Dad is not a writer. He grew up working on a prune ranch, worked on airplanes in World War II and ultimately became an electrician. Until he retired, he didn’t read much. But he knows how to make a story. His stories have characters, dialogue, suspense, all the good stuff we writers strive for. Like me, he’s curious, and he’s nosy. I may have unconsciously learned to shape stories listening to him all these years. I added lots of formal education, but the basics came from Dad.

Back home on an extended visit, I have been taking notes on Dad’s stories, just as I used to do with my grandfather, another great storyteller. Dad’s stories reach back to 1922 and include his grandfather’s work driving a horse-drawn road-watering truck on San Jose’s dirt roads and later running a service station even though he knew very little about cars; his own youth on the ranch on Dry Creek Road; his experiences in Australia, the Philippines and New Guinea during the war; epic fishing and camping trips; travels across the country, tales about various family members, and his most recent trip to the bank.

Yesterday he brought out stacks of unorganized photos for me to see. We sat together on the fold-out couch in the sunny middle bedroom-turned den and went through them one by one. It was a slow process because every picture had a story. It knew as it happened that this was a blessing for both of us. Nobody else takes the time to look and listen, he says, but I find it fascinating. This is my history. I want as much as I can get. You can’t learn this kind of stuff on the Internet, and Dad, the last of the older generation, won’t be around forever.

The stories continued at dinner. I took notes on my paper napkin. I thank God for this time, even though it has thrown my work all off schedule. I haven’t blogged in over a week. I haven’t even gotten online much (no WiFi), but does it matter?

I’ll bet your family has stories, too, especially the older ones. Ask them questions. Ask to see the old photos—remember film and pictures you could hold in your hand?—and ask for the stories behind them. It could be a beautiful experience for both of you.

Spring brings memories of Fred

It’s spring. The rhododendrons are starting to bloom. The wind is soft. The grass is tall. Along the road, the trilliums are turning from white to pink and lavender, and yellow flowers have blossomed on the Scotch broom. Annie and I can sit on the deck again in the sun instead of hovering around the pellet stove while the rain pours down.

A week ago, I cleaned the winter grunge off a couple of lawn chairs and set them on the deck. Saturday, between chores and church, I sat in one of those chairs with a cool drink. My late husband Fred came to mind. I remembered sitting here with him on an afternoon like this.

I think about Fred more often this week. The second anniversary of his death is tomorrow, April 23. On that morning when his spirit left his body, the rhodies were blooming and the robins were singing. Tulips sprouted in a rainbow of colors amidst green leaves and green grass. After winter’s storms, we shed our coats and came outside.

It’s been two years since that shocking morning when our lives changed forever. It’s a little over four years since Fred fell and started his nursing home journey. It has been 11 years since his Alzheimer’s Disease became apparent. Sitting here in the yard with my dog Annie, who barely knew Fred, I ache for a human companion to sit with me.

I don’t usually sit on these chairs. I sprawl on the deck with the dog or sit out under a tree with a book or my guitar. Maybe I feel less grownup, less alone, sitting on the weathered wood of the deck.

I think about my father, also widowed, who often sits in his patio on an old leather recliner with split seams and stuffing coming out. Perhaps he remembers when the patio was new and the family gathered there for barbecues. There are cobwebs and spiders in the brick barbecue pit now. Almost 91, Dad goes on, and so do I.

I don’t think about my loss every minute. I’m busy with the good life God has given me, but sometimes something as simple as sitting in this blue-green plastic chair makes me think about my husband. It’s Fred season. The rhodies are blooming. The birds are singing. And tax season is over. Fred had a tax business and did people’s returns for more than 25 years. He barely looked up between late January and mid-April, but after April 15, we would take a vacation, often combining it with the celebration of our May 18 wedding anniversary. It would have been 28 years next month. What a wonderful day that was, blessed with the marks of spring, just like this day.

I miss my husband, my love, my companion, the man who made me laugh, made me feel safe, and made me see the joy in life. Dr. Seuss said, “Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened.” I try to keep that in mind even as something deep inside me screams “No! I want him back.” In 2011, spring came, and it was time for Fred to graduate to the next life. I have to let him go. We all do. But let’s remember him this week. Stop to enjoy the flowers and the birds and sit on the deck in the sun with a good glass of wine. Cheers, Fred.

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