Letters to our Mates

   How does it happen that I, Julia, am coerced into writing the first letter to my dead husband? But I did agree. So here is my letter. First I had a serious decision to make. Since I was married three time, which husband would I address?

I decided.

Here is my choice and my letter.

To Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa
   We both know that few marriages in our age were born of love. The majority were negotiated for economic considerations - for the upper classes economic and political considerations. Never more so than in our marriage. On your part and mine.
   When I was married to Marcellus I was caught up in the passion of young love. I was so sure of my destiny. I would be the wife of the Emperor of Rome -- the First Lady of Rome. The first lady of Rome-- equal to or greater than my step mother, Livia. Marcellus was Augustus's nephew, and lacking other offspring he was destined to succeed him.
   But Marcellus died and with him my dreams. Until you. You were second only to  my father. Augustus may have inherited his position from his uncle Julius Caesar, but it was in great part your military and administrative genius along with your loyalty that catapulted him into the power he had. Therein lies our alliance.
   You needed a secure link to the imperial power. What better way that a marriage connection to Augustus? And who was available but me?
   What better chance did I have to achieve my dream of being First Lady than to be married to you? We met each other's political needs.
   Ours was a complicated relationship. You so much older -- my father's age. You were gone so often and for so long to far flung corners of the Empire. I was alone at home with the children. I, fun seeking, sexually adventurous and restless was not faithful to you. You knew. You, who unlike most other men were never unfaithful to me.
   But my dear Agrippa, amid my rashest moments I knew no one who so calmed my restless spirit, who checked my careless behavior. For all your gruffness-- and we both know you could be gruff-- you made me feel like a  woman, a wife, a mother. Your death was my downfall. Would that you had been allowed to live into real old age. I would have had a different destiny. I would not have have compelled my father to exile me. You may believe that of all the men in my life I truly loved you with a love that surpassed mere sexual passion.

Let's Get On With The Grief

   In the weeks and months following my husband's death I carefully kept at bay my classical friends. Julia, the spoiled emperor's daughter, Cartimandua, that wonderful Roman Celtic Queen and Tanaquil, the Etruscan wife of the fifth king of ancient Rome. But it was not to last.

   "If you're going to keep pushing us away because you're not handling your grief, then let's just do it, and do it right." Julia's school marm tone had no warmth, no sympathy.
   "Let her be," Tanaquil said. "It hasn't been that long."
   Julia's horse snort laugh left no doubt of her feeling. "For Juno's sake, Tanaquil, don't you remember how within minutes of Tarquin's death you were actively coniving to make your son-in-law, Servius, the new king? Did you stop to wallow in self pity?"
   "But that was different," Tanaquil said.
   "Ye Gods, give me a break. A dead husband is a dead husband whether he died in battle, from assassination or from some illness. Dead is dead. Now this grieving -- we all have to deal with it. So let's do it right. Let us each write a letter to our dead mates, bearing our minds and souls, stating our loves and pains."
   Cartimandua's words were short and chilly. "I would have welcomed Venutius's death. And Julia, if I may ask, which husband will you address? Or which of your lovers?"
   "I can handle my choice. Can you? Address your father. I remember you mourned his death. Or your chariot driver lover." Julia's voice grew softer. "It will help Jewellee."
   So we agreed. Each of us would write a letter to someone important to us-- who was no longer with us. Tanaquil and Carti demanded that Julia write the first letter. Then we follow in turn.
   Next time Julia's letter to -- we'll have to wait. Will it be Marcellus, her first love, or Agrippa the father of her five children or her father on whom she really did dote?

Mimosas and Butterflies

                                         Mimosas and Butterflies

                                     On my kitchen wall hangs
                                      a montage of nine photos
                                   Butterflies on mimosa blooms
                                          with poetic captions
                                  Produced by my just deceased mate
                            ' In mid August', he said, 'the blossoming mimosa
                                        flutters with butterflies'
                                                It's August now
                                The mimosa outside my kitchen window
                                       The mimosa he cherished 
                                          Flutters with butterflies
                                               

Do We Really Choose?

   'That standing pants tale.' Julia's piercing voice cut through the silence. 'Ladies, did you read that? How endearing. How many of us had such a romantically experience in deciding whom we would marry? Certainly not I-- not for any of my three marriages. I had very little, if at all any. As I am sure is the same with you.'
   'Not the case with me,' Tanaquil said. 'I chose my man, over the harsh objections of my family. With harsher warnings from the priests, and with the rejection of the whole Lydian population. Surely I have shared with you my meeting with Lucomo.'
   'Not that old story about falling into his lap at the games', Julia did not fall easily to arguments questioning her prejudices.
   'I too made my decisions,' Carti said. 'Jewellee has done a fine job describing it. There was that horrid interloper from a northern tribe. He came as a foster son to us. I hated him. At least I think I did. For the most part all the foster sons were bothersome. But then my cousin, Branwen, -- the vamp she was-- set her sights on him. It was disgusting and degrading how she threw herself at him. And he took notice. Oh did he take notice. But then how does a hot blooded man not react to over exposed breasts and endless flirting? I decided she would not have him. Don't let me go on and on. Read Jewellee's account.

        

                   FROM JEWELLEE'S ROMAN CELTIC QUEEN 

Cartimandua peered into her father's workroom.  King Orain, his back to the door, twisted the left side of his long mustache as he leaned forward to examine the sword on the wall. Presented to him by the king of the Parisi, who had extolled the hardness of the iron from which it was forged, it had  not yet been used.

"Is it true," Cartimandua once asked when she was but a child, "that the Parisi once lived where Vercingetorix did?" 

Orain had dropped the shield he was polishing. "Vercingetorix? What do you know of him? And how?"

She had shrugged; then she shrank under her father's piercing stare. "Somebody said it. Sometime."

"You amaze me, daughter." Smiling with obvious admiration he had added, "As far as I know the Parisi are no more related to Vercingetorix than you or I." Then he fell silent. She had never gotten around to asking him again. Someday  maybe.  Cartimandua watched her father, occupied with his thoughts. She bumped the stool near the door, toppling the basket of torcs to be presented to the young recruits at their next inspection parade. 

"Is 'not to be disturbed' an unclear order?"  Orain turned to see his daughter backing away from the door.  "Wait," he ordered and burst into laughter.

Finally he stopped laughing and dabbed at the tears running down his cheeks. "What do I see before me?  Can this really be my Sleek Pony?  And with properly braided hair and -- if I may say so -- a charming tunic, with as far as I can tell not a single grass stain.  And a shawl."

Cartimandua winced at the 'Sleek Pony'. Orain's eyes softened when she did not protest. "Well Cartimandua, what is so important that you need to interrupt me when you know I am at work and specifically asked not to be disturbed?  Or is it that you just wanted me to see you all decked out and were afraid you'd tire of maintaining your appearance until I'm done here." She reddened.  "Well what is it?"

"Father, I wish to marry."

His smile fell away.  "Marry? Did you really say marry?"  She nodded.

"I see.  You wish to marry.  And just whom, if I may ask, do you have in mind? Just whom do you wish to marry?"

"Venutius."

He shook his head while keeping his eyes on her. "Venutius?  The same Venutius you said you detest? The same Venutius you've done everything imaginable-- and some things quite unimaginable-- to irritate.  With the hope, I'm told, to have him go running back to the Carvetii?"

She lowered her head to avoid her father's stare. "Cartimandua, look at me.  You're seriously telling me you want to marry Venutius?"

She met her father's stare.  "Yes."

"And just when did you decide this?"

She shrugged.  "Just lately." She could not confess it was because her cousin wanted him.

"And does Venutius agree?"

"I don't know."

Orain crossed his arms across his chest.  "A permanent connection," he said, "with the Carvetii can only help the Brigantian Federation.  And young  Venutius is quite suitable, I would say. He is turning out to be a promising warrior, better than either of your brothers.  And if what I hear is true better than his brothers.  But are you serious?"  He smiled softly as he looked on face of his most promising child. "I rather imagined Venutius with someone like Mertha or Branwen.  I see the way he looks at them, especially Branwen."

Cartimandua's eyes twitched as she drew her lips tightly across her teeth. The King shook his head.  "As do you, I see.  Well, I'll take the matter under consideration. Now I have work to do."  He waved his hand to dismiss her.  "And Cartimandua, maybe you'd better find your young man and present yourself before you've lost your shawl and dirtied your tunic."

She heard his laughter as she left, but could not know the joy he felt. His chosen heir had made an entirely satisfactory proposal.

   'So,' Carti said. 'My father may have agreed, but it was I who made the choice So your highness, you are not so right this time.'  In a rare time of silence Julia sat sullen and withdrawn.

My Husband's Clock

   It's Sunday. It's noon. Every Sunday noon (for years whose number I have trouble counting) my husband, Paul, pulled the chain of his seven day clock, (fashioned after Thomas Jefferson's eight day clock). Every Sunday since his death in April I have pulled that chain. Most Sundays it seemed a part of my Sunday tasks. Today it was different.
   My coffee cup was empty; the crossword puzzle was done (with cheating only three times). Paul would have disapproved of the cheating. I deem cheating a replacement of his share of solution.  A few minutes after 12 noon I approached the clock. With one hand I held the left chain; with the other I lifted the weighted chain.
                A simple pulling
                A simple pulling
That was all that was needed. I stood before the clock chains in hand. My left hand felt numb; my right hand tingled. Laughter erupted from my constricted throat. Piercing my consciousness was the old song -- My Grandfather's Clock.
    Who besides me remembers it?
                  My grandfather's clock was too large for the shelf
                  It stood ninety years on the floor.
                  Then it stopped, never to go again, when the old man died.
  Paul  would remember it.

   Then I knew. This clock cannot stop. This clock must not stop. Paul wants it to run. Paul whose spirit has not died. As long as that clock runs; as long as those who knew and loved him are alive, so is he. When his memory is removed from us who loved him I shall not do this Sunday Clock Ritual. Until then--- The clock shall not stop.

From Here Where?

   Four short months ago (one hundred and twenty long days ago) my mate of fifty four years died. In another time I could count on one year for mourning -- without pressure from those would control any money left to me, from those who would exploit my vulnerability of loneliness.
    Four financial groups have offered advice. Each suggesting they are not pressuring me, but what they have to offer is--.
    Four computer sites offering to find me mate have sent me multiple e-mails.
                  If I am a Christian I can find the perfect mate.
                  If I am over fifty-five I will find  a suitable mate.
                  If I sign up I am assured a match.
    And not to be taken lightly the acquaintance who would move in on my grief offering a shoulder to cry on.
              How does one deal?
              One problem at a time.
    My guidelines, and I think I have my head screwed on right,  are:
    For finances take time to evaluate where I  am financially. Consider offers to help with dubious inspection, knowing that offered help is not without costs.
    For attacks on my loneliness take time to corral emotions, knowing that a wounded heart needs time to heal.
           TAKE TIME
           TAKE TIME

When Is Poetry Original?

   Julia rarely knows when to keep her silence. Today was the typical day.
   "Your attempts at poetry - I read your poems. The ones in your last blogs."  Her voice permeated what I wanted to be my silence. "Your attempts at poetry are pathetic. How trite and unoriginal can one get?"
   Had I been in full control of my emotions I might have dismissed her crass remarks. But I was not in control of my emotions. The bulk of the day I had spent with boxes and trash bags. The sorting of what to toss, what to donate, what to keep was a major issue. Culling one's own possessions is one thing-- not easy to be sure--, but removing the possessions of a newly dead mate is quite another matter.
   How dare Julia call my attempts at poetry trite and unoriginal? How dare she?
   "Tell me, your Highness-- if one in exile deserves that title-- can you do better? Did you do better? How long were you exiled before you begin to write poetry? And what did you write? May I quote. It is a matter of record you know in the story of your life, THE EMPEROR'S DAUGHTER.  Your poem I believe--
                     
                      My fair face is lined with age
                      My black hair bespeckled white
                               But I am here
                               What can I do?
                          My life cannot be redone
                            nor can it waste away.

   "And what is wrong with that?"
   "Absolutely nothing. It's classic. Absolutely classic. May I quote?
                           
                              All my flesh is wrinkled with age
                              My black hair has faded to white
                              My legs can no longer carry me,
                                  once nimble like a fawn's
                                      But what can I do?
                                     It cannot be undone.

Sappho's I believe. Tell me, Julia, just how original was your lyrics?
   Uncharacteristically Julia was at a loss for words. I felt none of the pleasure I expected.