CHANGE OF DIRECTION

It has been 4 years since my beloved Paul died. I have spent some time remembering those last two years we had together. I find myself remembering those days less and less frequently, which I am sure is a healthy sign. I have begun to write other things. Below is a short piece I recently wrote for a little literary magazine. Read and I hope you enjoy.

In 1956 I was a student at a small liberal arts college in Kentucky. The female dormitories were locked promptly at 10:30 pm every night, with bed checks at 11:30. And we were kept captive until 6 the next morning. “Not fair”, “A prison” or “We ought to be boys” were repeated complaints.

One might I boldly announced that anyone with half a brain could easily stay out all night and never get caught. Followed by the dare, “OK smarty pants, prove it.”

On the chosen Saturday night I carefully positioned and covered a pile of clothing on my bed and left the dorm at 9:30. For the next hour I wandered the campus. When the chapel clock rang 10:30 I realized I had no place to go. All the buildings were locked: the campus went to bed.

Fearing getting caught I sought a hiding place. When I found an open door to the church I said a silent prayer and slipped in. In the dark I made my way up the steps to the balcony section. The church pew was hard; the church was cold; the night was just beginning. Sleep did not come; noises seemed ominous; the darkness was oppressive. Then light flooded the church. I sprang up and peered over the balcony barrier. The minister intern, Rev Thompson, was at the pulpit podium, sorting and arranging papers. When he shined a flashlight around the church I knew he was looking for me. I slid down and stretched out on the pew. For what seemed an eternity he fussed, examined, and reexamined the altar area. I lay silent and scared, aware I was in deep trouble. Then footsteps, then no light. I was saved.

When I awoke daylight filled the church. I crept down the steps, out the door onto the street. Just as I arrived at the dorm, Mrs. Anderson, the house-mother opened the door and greeted me. My heart raced; my breathing raced: my fear raced. I had been caught. I was in big trouble. Before I could summon a voice she said, “Well how nice.” I steeled myself for what would come next. “I wish.” She said, “that more of the girls would run before breakfast. Good for you.”

“Yes Ma’am”, I said and resaying my silent prayer entered the building.

SCRABBLE-SCRABBLE-AND MORE SCRABBLE

SCRABBLE was part of my life with Paul from the beginning. The week I met him (as graduate students at Penn State) he challenged me to a game of SCRABBLE. "OK," I said, "Loser buys winner a cup of coffee."

He bought the coffee.

For the next fifty + years we played SCRABBLE. Evenly matched we took  turns winning. During those long stays in the hospital we kept out Saturday night SCRABBLE dates alive.

A  week before he died we played out last game. He won.

It seems a symbol of our life together. It feels right. I won the first; he won the last.

I miss my SCRABBLE nights.

MY HISTORY WITH THE MORAVIAN CHRISTMAS STAR

A Moravian star has been a part of Christmas for the past fifty-seven years, since I met my 'soon-to-be' in-laws. The next Christmas as husband and wife we had our own star which was prominently displayed each Christmas.

In 2012 Paul was entering what we knew would be his last Christmas when we encountered our third Moravian Christmas Star. He was in the second year of his on and off, now and then, leukemia treatment at Wake Forest Hospital in Winston Salem NC, noted for its Moravian heritage.

A bank just blocks from the hospital each year installs a giant Moravian Star on its roof. The announced  date of its lighting fell on the day of Paul's treatment.

It was our plan to view that lighting. After  medical matters we parked in an Arby's  parking lot, just down from the bank, and waited for darkness and the star's burst with light. Four cups of coffee and two hours later we were still there. A check with Arby's staff gave us no information. An hour and another cup of coffee later we left.

We drove home and hung our own star-- for the last time.

HALF OF WHOLE IS ONE AND AND A HALF

Paul and I were a pair for fifty three years. Can any one person spend fifty three years with another  and not become half of a whole? I thought-- NO.

But I was wrong.

 I lost my mate
   Half of me I thought
In time I have learned
I did not lose half of me
NO
   His half is here
   My whole is here
He left me --yes-- but
He left me more by half
Than I could have been without him

QUIET AND SOMBER NEW YEAR'S EVE

As the year approaches its end, the last New Year’s Eve I spent with Paul surfaces and resurfaces often and vividly – more vividly than it turned out that night. It was barely four months before Paul’s death and we both knew it would be our last together.

Well in advance we bought two champagne glasses and a bottle of champagne for our last New Year’s Eve celebration.  New Year’s Eve we settled in for the wait. He in the rocking chair which in a few weeks would become his day time and night time resting place. I on the sofa with my head resting on the piled up cushions. A little television – a little reading – a little talking- we waited for the proper hour.

Sometime after 2:00 AM we awoke and went to bed.

The champagne I tossed out after two years. The glasses hang on the wine glass rack with the other 18 bought at various times and places during our years together.  Maybe this year I will take them down and toast my memories. More likely I will fall asleep long before midnight.

LITTLE THINGS MEAN A LOT

During Paul’s battle with leukemia he spent many weeks in the Wake Forest Hospital in North Carolina. During those stays I spent each Saturday and Sunday with him in his hospital room.  On one of those weekends he said, “We have to talk about something. The last two times you were here you screwed up the toilet paper.”

At a loss I asked, “What do you mean?”

“You leave it so I can’t get it going. You need to learn how to leave the paper hanging down so I can get hold of it.”

My initial reaction was not loving, and had I not been counseled well by the hospital social worker I might have created an unnecessary unpleasant situation. “Remember,” she said, “he’s here, confined, controlled, poked, ordered. He controls nothing in his daily life.”

I understood. The position of the toilet paper was one control he had.

With  a lot of love and little effort I made sure to leave the toilet paper with a hanging tab.

A REPOSTING I AM SURE

I suspect I posted this before. But today I was feeling particularly sad. It was the combination of the nasty weather, the early darkness, the loneliness of being alone.    It is a poem, not good, not worthy of publication (perhaps), but it was written at a time when my loneliness was just beginning. Three years is a short time when compared to the fifty +  I had with Paul.       

             THE GIRL IN THE STANDING PANTS

                             

                         His eyelids were leaden

                        His body wracked by weariness

                          He had too long been here

                 Nature whence he came was summoning him

                     The woman beside his bed faded

               Gray hair and wrinkled skin morphed into youth

                              His brow furrowed

               His lips spread recalling the first time he saw her

                           He the new shy student

                She seemingly secure in her too tight pants

                             Both were standing

                            She amid her group

                              He at the edges

               Urged to sit he shrank back with mumbled refusal

                  She without a hint of self- consciousness

                "I can't. I'm wearing my standing pants."

                     He knew then; he knew now

               He wanted the girl in the standing pants