How To Be A Widow

Sometimes running away is the only thing you can to do, especially when you come home and find your beloved husband lying dead on your bedroom floor. 


Our friends and family found my plans to go to Mexico so soon after Harry's death crazy, and many told me as much.        

          










I decided to run away and Mexico would be my run away destination.  Harry and  I had always found Mexico to be beautiful, deeply frustrating and mysterious.  I felt Mexico in all its complexity would be the perfect refuge for my grief which I found to also be deeply frustrating and mysterious.  
    

I have a deep connection with Mexico I cannot explain.  Harry and I moved from our home in the mid-west to Mexico in 2008.  I had accepted a teaching job I found on the Internet after retiring from a 32 year teaching career.  The job was teaching English at a posh school in San Jose del Cabo at the tip of the Baja peninsula.  One of my dreams had always been to teach in a Spanish speaking country and since we were both retired we decided to embark on a grand adventure. I had visited Mexico in my late twenties and always dreamed of returning.  The two of us lived in Mexico for two years, returning after Harry had a terrible accident which required surgery in the US.  
    
     I began substitute teaching when we returned from Mexico and nearly half a decade of lovely  years rolled by.  Until.... that day.  I came home from shopping on that unseasonably warm early spring day in March to find my beloved husband dead on our bedroom floor.  I had called Harry about three that afternoon just as I was leaving work, telling him I would be home shortly after a brief trip to the grocery store.  Our conversation was brief but I vividly remember how euphorically happy he sounded. Thinking back on our conversation I thought, what was he so damn happy about?   
    
     I arrived home at four and instead of finding Harry in the kitchen cooking dinner for the guest we had coming for dinner, I found him lying on our bedroom floor. I heard myself gasp and cry out as I dropped to the floor next to him thinking he had fallen and would get up with a little coaxing.  His head was resting gently on his outstretched arm and his eyes were open and glassy.  I touched his face and arms.  He felt warm in spots, but other parts of him were icy cold, a dead sort of cold.   I of course knew he was dead the minute I was on the floor next to him, but your mind won't allow you to comprehend that reality quickly.  
    
I remember getting up from kneeling beside Harry and going to the phone in the kitchen.  For some reason I was unable to pick up the phone and call for help.  Instead I went back into the bedroom briefly to cover him with a blanket and then I ran out into the hallway of my condo building.  I needed to connect with someone and there in the hallway, as fate would have it, standing in front of her condo next door to mine was my next door neighbor, Sandie.  She was with her dog unlocking her door.  I told Sandie I thought Harry was dead, not quite believing the words that had just come out of my mouth.  Sandie, a retired nurse, immediately went into our bedroom as I stood frozen in the kitchen adjacent to the bedroom.   She came out a few seconds later and told me that, yes,  he was gone.  Sandie called the fire department, my family and friends, many of whom came immediately.   The coroner arrived promptly, followed by the fire department and an hour and a half later they took Harry out on a wheeled gurney.   

   
I was awake for the next three days straight unable to eat or sleep. My daughter and son-in-law and grandson moved in with me.  Friends and family came and went bringing food and comfort.  At night I sat on the couch staring into the gas fireplace in my living room wrapped in a comfort quilt hand made and delivered by another dear neighbor, Ann, who also lives down the hall from me.  I used to joke with Ann that I didn't want to see her walking down the hallway to my door with one of those damn quilts she stockpiled in her bathtub ready to bestow upon people who had experienced the loss of a loved one.  We lived in a large 55 plus building so the demand for grief was pretty steady.  It never crossed my mind that I would qualify for a quilt.     

After two weeks, my kids went home, the memorial service was over, friends didn't call or come over so much.  I was alone. Not easy for a person who had only known married life, for better or worse, since she was twenty.  A few weeks after Harry's death,  I found myself on the couch at three am, wrapped in the comfort quilt reading one of the stash of "now that you are a widow" books given to me by friends.  I chose to read Diane Rehm's recent book about her journey into widowhood.  Just as I reached the last few pages of her best seller,  On My Own,  I found myself beginning to experience a full blown panic attack.      

I had been desperately hoping this renown Public Radio journalist would offer deep insight and wisdom about becoming a widow.  Instead, as I approached the final page of her memoir, I found myself spinning out of control with a full blown panic attack.  The long married author I felt was basically choosing to devote the rest of her days in a state of continual mourning for the loss her beloved husband who had died a slow painful death from Parkinson's disease.  She seemed quite happy and content with her choice.  I, however, found myself at the end of the book silently screaming inside wanting to launch myself out of my comfy chair and comfort quilt and my body and run out the door of my condo into the neighborhood streets screaming like a banshee.   A life of unending despair and mourning I knew was not something I could bear or choose to bear if at all possible.  I should have just taken one of the sleeping pills prescribed by my doctor which were sitting on the bathroom counter and gone to bed.    

Instead of a drugged sleep, I found myself  plunging into a bottomless pit of grief, despair and terror that went on for several hours until somehow I was able to stumble into bed about 8 am and fall asleep.  Thank goodness I somehow avoided the drama of running out of my 55 plus  building screaming.  Gossip about the crazy woman, now widow woman,  in #315 would have traveled fast.  I was already the topic of gossip in my building for many reasons and I didn't want to add to the story, at least not in that way.  

Diane Rehn clearly did not provide the comfort and inspiration and direction I was hoping for, but,  a day or so later, the universe was gracious enough to provide me with a strange unexpected message.   I was just waking up in the morning and about to open my eyes when I found myself in the backseat of a car crammed full of people I did not know.  Harry was driving the car and playing one of his favorite roles in life, other than a Shakespearean role of course, the role of tour guide.  The crowded car seemed to be floating in the clouds and just below us I could see the Roman Wall in the north of England, a place Harry and I had often been.  Harry was behind the wheel of the car pontificating and gesticulating about the history of the wall.  He turned round with an outstretched arm to point to a feature of the wall below when he suddenly saw me sitting directly behind him in the back seat of the car.  He smiled sweetly and I reached out impulsively and grabbed his gesticulating hand and kissed it.  Our eyes locked intently for a brief moment and he smiled at me with a look that carried a profound message I was only later able to really comprehend.  I opened my eyes and came down out of the clouds.   

I laid perfectly still in bed with my eyes open for several long minutes as a deep sense of peace and contentment washed over me.  Harry was obviously OK!  and doing one of the things he loved best in life: tour guiding.  Later I  severely chastised myself  for having opened my eyes so quickly instead of spending more time in the floating car with Harry.  I soon realized however that more time floating in the car was not important.  The message was Harry wanted me to move forward in my life.  He was happy, I could be happy too.  I have never since found myself on one of Harry's sky tours but Harry continued to continually guide me on my widow's journey. What I needed to do to for myself was not on the pages of a book.  What I needed to do do was about to take shape very quickly.    

  

Tomorrow I will be on my way to the beautiful city of San Miguel de Allende, a colonial-era city in the central highlands of Mexico.  I have been invited to house-sit for the month of August by a friend I met in Cabo eight years ago.  Harry and I loved this magical city of cobblestone streets, colorful buildings, nightly fireworks and church bells that ring unexpectedly at all hours of the day and night. 

I will be attending Academia Hispano Americana full days Monday - Friday to work on my Spanish and I have signed up for a grief group that is well known in San Miguel.  I feel sad and nervous and excited all at the same time about this opportunity.  Harry and I loved this city so much and it will be an experience full of memories.  I have decided it might be fun and therapeutic to blog again about this journey.  So...join me if you wish and comment on my posts, remembering I am flying without a net: no editor. 

Put a Hobby Room in your Condo Building

A cozy spot for weary hobbyists to sit.

It can be a great relief to give up all the unpleasant responsibilities that come along with owning a house: shoveling, raking, painting, getting ice dams off your roof, calling the exterminators to rid you of the bats who have made your attic their home - I could go on. Sitting in your condo easy chair watching as the snow piles up, knowing you will not be out shoveling, is a luxury, to say the least. You just sit and wait until the streets are plowed then descend to your underground heated garage and make your exit. 

Condo living simplifies many things but it comes with its own set of new challenges.  I know our next president, Hillary, taught us that 'it takes a village" but sometimes, the villagers you are forced to deal with in your building can be a real pain in the neck.  I owned a city house for over 25 years before committing to the condo life and I was never one who felt a need to know all the neighbors on my street.  Owning a home allows you the autonomy to choose how close you wish to be to your neighbors.  A smile and a wave was usually enough for me, although two families who lived on my block are still close friends after nearly forty years.  In a condo building with a common garage, elevators, corridors and other common spaces, "up close and personal" gains new meaning.  It's very uncomfortable not to at least know the name of the person you have ridden the elevator with at least 20 times.

Tables for all sizes of quilting/hobby projects

Residents in our building like to gossip about each other and fight about the common spaces: the party room, the patio, the corridors, the lobby, the exercise room, the garage and the hobby room.  Many residents, the majority being 55 plus types, seem to have one and only one understandable life goal: Thou Shalt Not Raise our Dues!  This is indeed a worthy goal but other worthwhile goals relating to our common spaces sometimes find themselves in direct conflict with this mantra.  The board members we elected tend to get carried away with their wish to micro-manage the lives of resident owners with regard to our public spaces.  

Case in point: very few people regularly used the hobby room in our building. The Hobby Room is relatively large space that the builders fitted out with a few low budget woodworking machines and nothing else. Harry and I loved the space and used it often, even though it was not very utilitarian.  I have made quilts in the room for our grand-girls in St. Louis and Harry has done a variety of woodworking projects including making them a dollhouse.  

The manly side of the room with a picture framer at work.

The full blown attack by some board members on the small number of hobbyists who use the room began while Harry was in England last September.  Harry's mother was dying and Harry forwarded me a hostile email sent by the board.  Things got really nasty, and looking back, we now think the board had other plans for the hobby room space.  What exactly they had in mind we may never know.  It seemed as though there were a group of people who believed they didn't use the space so no-one else should either. The aggressive campaign to make the hobby room look like no one ever used it escalated and I decided to fight back by forming a Hobby Room Committee.

The process of forming a committee, taking a building survey, designing the improvements, getting the funding approved for the improvements, buying, building, transporting, installing the improvements, fighting the nay-sayers, organizing an open house, took over six months.  I stepped up to lead the charge for both my own personal agenda and for others who I believed, if the room were improved, would use it.  Married people know that sometimes you need to get away from your beloved spouse, which can be hard when you live in a small condo. You can't escape to your attic or basement but you could go to the hobby room.  Single women, the majority of our residents, might enjoy a little social time as they work on a quilt or a scrapbook. The board is still at odds with the five member committee who had a vision for the hobby room, but we have held our ground and made our dream a reality.  Realtors now make a point of showing off the room to potential buyers. 

Hobby Room committee members will soon be teaching classes in the room: a beginners" quilting class and a "how to use the woodworking machines without cutting off you hand" class, as well as perhaps a framing class. As for me ... you will find me in the lovely new space busily quilting crib blankets for my grandson, Simon, my grand-niece, Olivia and for Archer's twin sisters.

Lastly I must give a special shout out to Hillary.  She would be proud to know the board and the Hobby Room Committee have signed a truce and we hope to live as a peaceful village.  I am pretty sure the treasurer and a couple others on the board are Republicans and the committee members are not so there may be future battles to blog about.  Better yet, I should someday write a blog about the wonderful new friends I have made in our building.        

Sea Otters as Pets

Teachers who don't retire when they should run the risk of getting a little crazy.  I should know.         

It all started innocently enough when, a few months back, I found myself browsing in a children's bookstore.  I caught sight of an adorable otter puppet on the shelf next to two books on otters.  Sea otters became one of my favorite animals when I saw them in action at the Monterrey Sea Aquarium years ago, and we have a poster from the aquarium on our bathroom wall.  I could not resist buying the puppet and the books.  I should have resisted.  

An old teacher needs her bag of tricks, her pink bag of tricks in this case.  I stuffed "Otto" into my bag one morning on my way to work.  The group of Kinder students I was teaching were getting a little noisy and I found myself saying, "Listen you guys, do you hear that noise coming from my pink school bag?" Suddenly they were all quiet, listening for the noise. 

I step out of my shower at home to be greeted by this. 

"Oh no!  I said, as I walked over to my bag and looked in. "Look who jumped into my school bag at home today when I wasn't looking, my pet otter, Otto."  I pulled Otto out of the bag, but not before I had put him on my hand. I told the kids Otto was very sensitive to noise and they must have woken him up. Otters, I told the adorable kinders, speak very quietly and Otto whispers in my ear, so I would have to tell them what he was saying.

After this "fun" had gone on for a few minutes one of the kinders called out:  "He's not real, Mrs. Baxter."  My response was to just roll my eyes as if the statement was absurd.  Then a true believer- type child called out: "He is too real, right, Mrs. Baxter?"  To that comment I just smiled and batted my eyes with approval.

This was just the beginning! Otto began jumping into my bag everyday, and not just on the days when I taught kindergarden.  Now, as I am going down the hallways at the Spanish Immersion School where I spend most of my subbing days, the kids call out, Mrs. Baxter, is Otto here today?"  The fifth grade classes told me last week that they wanted to know why Otto did not come to their classes?  I said I had no idea that they felt left out and I brought him they next time I subbed in 5th grade. The fifth graders lined up to give Otto a high five as they left for the day. 


One of Otto's books tells the story of the California sea otters' battle for survival.  One day a first grader asked if it was Otto and his mother on the cover of the non-fiction book.  That was all I needed.  I said yes, and that Otto's mother met her demise from the pollution, and that is why I now have Otto living at my house. I told the students Otto loves it when I put bath salts in my bath tub for him.  

So far I have not been fired. 

Even little children who visit and take naps at our house like to have Otto close by.


                                                               

The Dollhouse Kit

Harry bought a dollhouse kit on line many months ago to build for Eva, our granddaughter, who lives in St. Louis.  We were excited to make the dollhouse, but afraid to start because the plans looked so complicated.  Worse yet, we would need to use a hot glue gun according to the kit instructions.  Martha Stewart may have championed the glue gun but learning to use one is not as easy as Martha would have you believe.  

Florida: Dali, Chihuly, Ponce and The Baxters

 


This year was the 500th anniversary of Ponce de Leon's "discovery" of Florida.  Jeanne and Harry discovered Florida 12 years ago when Pat and Bill invited us down for Thanksgiving. We have come every year since staying with them in their  Sarasota home.  Pat and Bill take fashion seriously as you can see by their Thanksgiving dinner attire.  

We went to two museums in nearby Tampa; the Salvador Dali and the Chihuly glass museum.

This photo was taken at the entrance to the Dali in front of a small fountain claiming to be the infamous fountain of youth Ponce was looking for but never found. ( He died in Cuba from a nasty wound delivered by one of the Floridian natives.)  I sent this photo to a good friend of all of us and he commented that the water didn't seem to have the desired effect. 

Chihuly is an amazing glass artist from Washington state who does large glass installations in natural settings like parks and botanical gardens all over the world.  He works with large teams of people to create and display his art. 

And I thought my Fiat 500 was small!  We had lunch in Tampa at an Italian market/deli after seeing the museums.  Parked outside was this adorable old Fiat.  The green color of old, now considered retro, is the same color of my Fiat.    

We tried a turkey recipe published in the NY Times this year.  The turkey first had to sit in the fridge for three days after experiencing a dry rub of kosher salt, pepper and lemon zest.  Stuffed inside the bird were a lemon and some herbs.  Lastly, you pour cider and white wine in the bottom of the pan as the turkey roasts. Simple but very good!

Harry and I made Chicago- and  St. Louis-style pizzas for a group of Pat and Bill's friends on the Saturday after Thanksgiving.  I encouraged Harry to have a cocktail after we finished making the pizzas.  We all drank good wine with the pizza and immediately after dinner Harry quickly disappeared. He tries, but he just cannot drink like his wife. The rest of of continued to drink and Harry had a nice long nap. 

Arkansas/Ozarks Road Trip

OK, OK,  a trip to Arkansas was not on my list of places to see before I die.  When Harry suggested we take a trip to Arkansas after visiting our kids in St. Louis, I reminded myself that a good marriage requires compromise.  I was not sure if I could easily place Arkansas on a map, nor have I ever felt a need to do so.  I refuse to feel embarrassed about this because people who live on the east and west coasts of the US often have no idea where Minnesota is.  But.... after exploring Arkansas for nearly a week this August,  I have become a huge fan of this lovely state and can now place it corretly on the map.

We stopped in Branson, Missouri on our way to the Ozarks, choosing to see the city's first and longest running show, called the Baldknobbers.  (Google that word for a surprising tale.)  One show and one overnight in Branson, fun as it was, was enough (at the least), and we headed for the Ozarks, choosing eventually to stay in four of the Arkansas state parks rather than in motels.  The state parks in Arkansas are first class and economical.  The accommodations include beautiful settings,  cute comfy cabins, scenic lodges with incredible views, excellent home-made (with an emphasis on fried) food, and friendly natives who give the term "Minnesota nice" a run for it's money.

The Ozarks are not the rocky jagged peaks of the Rockies, but tree-coated mounds of endless beauty.  The roads through the Ozarks, and the Ouachitas too, are good and not heavily traveled, at least not in August this year.  We often felt like we had the roads all to ourselves.  We decided it would be great to go back during the month of October to see the color change and perhaps try some fly fishing.  (Yes, on order are a couple DVDs from Amazon on the topic.)





The forests of the Ozarks are unusual in their mix of coniferous and deciduous trees.  This once common forest is now very rare in the US.










         
                                                                     
There are 51 state parks in Arkansas.   One we stayed at was called Petit Jean.  Petit Jean (I can only dream of her figure) was an 18th century woman who upon learning her fiance was off on an expedition to the Louisiana Territory, disguised herself as a cabin boy and sailed to the new world.  She survived the journey but died in Arkansas of a fever, never to see France again.

This beautiful cabin at Petit Jean State Park was built by the Civilian Conservation Corps during the Great Depression.  The cabin was cozy, but the bed, which they claimed was brand new, was terrible, especially for old people with arthritis.  Wait a minute....do people with arthritis fly fish??????? Read us next year to find out!