Another Dream

Lately I've been sleeping only about six hours a night, even with my best sleep aids. Last night I fell asleep during the 11 o'clock news. It's not unusual for me to fall asleep at that time.This morning I woke up at 6:55 and was going to get up. That's not unusual either. But then I was dreaming again. I was dreaming that I was moving into a house with other people. There was furniture being delivered but other furniture had already been delivered. The couple with whom I was to live had bought furniture at one store and then changed their minds and found different furniture that they purchased at another store. But somehow they didn't get in touch with the first store to cancel delivery. Now it was arriving. And somehow I was supposed to go out and tell the people on the truck that we wouldn't be taking the furniture. The next thing I knew Laura was walking into my bedroom with KJ. It was 8:00. I had fallen back to sleep and I was very tired. Maybe I will be sleeping well again now. However, the dream made me think. I have decided it was telling me that Laura and Kyle have turned to me to fix messes. The latest mess is not one they've asked me to fix but I feel it's one I must. The state has cancelled the Healthy Families health coverage that KJ was on. Laura and Kyle each have coverage through their employer but to add the baby was costly, enough to break their budget. They got him covered on Healthy Families, but now, since it is no more, he is not covered. I find this completely unacceptable. They feel he will be treated in an ER in an emergency. I think he needs regular check-ups, vaccinations, and the rest. I had been thinking of telling them I would cover KJ until either Healthy Families is reinstated or they find something they can afford.

Divorcee/Widow

When I found out Bill's death was imminent, I was visiting my siblings about four hundred miles away from home. During that time I had lunch with two friends from high school. These were two guys I used to hang out with, even cut school with, and one of them had been my boyfriend at the time. I have always felt comfortable with them and, even after decades of non-contact, I feel I can be candid with them. Although we don't see each other all that often, the companionship is good when we get together. It doesn't seem like four decades have done too much to erode the feelings of trust and friendship. When we met this time I asked them if as it appeared, Bill were to die soon, would I be a widow or a divorcee. They both said I would be a divorcee. It seemed that legally, divorcee was the correct description. The marriage had been dissolved. Bill wasn't my husband. If he wasn't my husband at the time of his death, then I wasn't a widow. How odd that seemed. Bill was going to die. I would not be a widow. The divorce would erase the twenty six years we spent together. Five months of being divorced would, in essence, take away widow. Twenty six years. Two years of ugly divorcing. Five months of divorced. On that day, at that lunch, it felt correct. There's the legality of being a divorcee but a sense of being a widow. And somehow, I knew my two friends were right. I wouldn't have 'widowhood' because of the divorce. I wonder if that ever occurred to Bill? When Bill died I felt I wasn't entitled to feel sad. Or to mourn. I wasn't his wife. I shouldn't be sad. The divorce, slightly under two years in the making and five months in finality, and acrimonious most of the way, should have wiped out any feeling I might have that would even resemble being a widow. On many levels I understood that I would mourn Bill. We had spent a lot of time together. He was the father of my child. He had been the love of my life. He had shown me all kinds of thrills and we had been on countless adventures together. And the sex had been great. Always, always great. From age 32 to age 58 for me and 39 to 65 for him. It had been consistently great. Even when he was ill. When he died, memories of the sweet and loving Bill washed over me so powerfully I was inundated by them, and in ways I can't describe, forced part of me to shut down. I remembered being swept off my feet by this handsome man who took risks and was afraid of almost nothing. I remembered how his face felt when I stroked it, the strength, beauty and tenderness of his hands, the camping trips, the windsurfing adventures, the beach-camping honeymoon at the mouth of the Klamath, the summers in Europe, the way he would keep talking to the French in English even after they had insisted they didn't speak it and then their breaking down and finally answering him. This was mourning. It was unlike the mourning I experienced when my mother or my grandfather, the first death I was to experience, had passed. This was different. It was a unique grief and mourning. Since September things have changed from those initial sweet memories. I am able to couple them with some of the unpleasant recollections and they restore my mind's equilibrium. There's always good with the bad. Or bad with the good. That said, there were twenty six years, and I was a loyal, loving and forgiving wife to him. His disease and addiction took me on some rollercoaster rides, he was not a team player, and he never even tried to support the family. He lied and betrayed and stole from me, and I forgave him, kept his secrets, and stayed by his side. Now that I spend a lot of time with our grandchild I find myself saying things like, "Your grandfather wouldn't have approved of this." "I wonder what your grandfather would do right now." "I wonder how much Bill would have helped me with you." "I think your grandfather would be unhappy with me for not feeding you vegetables." The thoughts go on and on. Even with the balanced memories I feel like a widow. I feel his absence. I wish he were around for KJ, Laura and Kyle. I wish he could fix the hole in the ceiling Kyle made when he lost his balance in the attic. I wish I knew what he thought about a multitude of things, from the neighbor's new girlfriend to the state of our economy. I miss riding bikes with him and going out to eat. At times like these I miss him and I feel like I'm sure most widows feel. But I don't get to call myself one.

Ammo

As I was re-organizing the driveway last weekend (Oh, Lord! Will my driveway EVER be clean?), I came across two boxes ammunition. Now WHAT am I going to do with that? Although I know how to use a gun and have been to shooting ranges on numerous occasions, I have no guns, I have no interest in guns, my shootin' days are over. At least that's my plan. So, the question was, what do I do with these boxes of bullets? I called the local police department. The desk sergeant told me it was no crime to have bullets. In fact, it was perfectly legal in this state to sell bullets. You just can't sell guns. Therefore, I could do one of two things: I could bring my collection of bullets down to him at the station or I could sell them. I finished my driveway work and then the kids came over. I temporarily forgot about my munitions. Then at 6:15 I remembered my little errand. I got in the car and drove down to the police department. I had had very clear instructions: Put the ammo in the trunk, not the passenger compartment. Drive to the station. Walk in. WITHOUT the ammo. They would come out to the car with me and get it. When I arrived, the desk sergeant who, by his own admission was a goofy guy, was engaged in a conversation with some man who had had a cashier's check stolen from the mail in Minnesota. The officer was trying to explain that it was in Minnesota's jurisdiction. I had to wait. I was feeling a little impatient. Another officer came out to the desk and, after a while, asked me if he could help me. I explained my task. He then told me that it was 6:45, and his and his partner's shift had ended at 6:30. If I were to have them retrieve my ammo they would have to fill out a big report, and he held up a long piece of paperwork that would be his responsibility to complete should I impose my bullets on him thus causing them to work even longer than they already were, causing them to be even later getting home to their families. I was intimidated. The good little girl in me felt guilty and I was busy scolding myself for having neglected this errand when it would have been a better time in the policemen's shifts, when the desk sergeant completed his task regarding the forged cashier's check. The desk sergeant said not to feel bad about coming in so late and that he didn't mind filling out a report. Ugh. We went out to the car, and I opened the trunk. He went through my 'treasures' and again told me I could sell them. He said people have gotten very angry with him for not telling them how much cash they could make off of bullets. Apparently I have .22 caliber and 9 millimeter bullets. I have hollow tips and full metal jackets. I have child safety locks and gun cases. He said these are all hot ticket items. I could sell them on some websites. I could take them to gun shows and would have them sold before I even had them all unpacked. He said they wouldn't even hit the table at a gun show. Really? Sell them online? Set up a spot at a gun show? Let's suppose for a moment I sell them online. Where do I meet the buyer? At my house? At a local Starbucks? What if someone used my bullets to kill a cop? Or a bunch of schoolkids? This sounds just crazy to me. Selling ammo. Driving around with ammo in my trunk. Throwing my ammo on a table at a local gun show and selling it to crazy survivalists. Or nutjobs. Sheesh. Ah....but then cha-ching! My 'stuff' is worth a few hundred dollars. The Scotsman in me was in a quandary. Money? Aide and possibly abet a murder? Donate to the practice range at the local police station? Cause this nice officer another half hour's work filling out a report? This was tough. I'm still driving around with a bunch of ammo in my trunk.

Lenten Devotions

At an Ash Wednesday service I attended, we were given booklets of Lenten devotions based on apologist commentaries by C. S. Lewis. Coincidentally I had seen a play the week before, a somewhat fictional play where Lewis and Sigmund Freud meet and have a discussion about whether or not there is a God. In it, Lewis seemed (at least to me) to come out on top. He willingness to admit that he didn't have all the answers and that the God he so loved wasn't going to provide him with those answers was presented in a peaceful, humble and joyous manner. Receiving the book of devotions has furthered my excitement to better understand how Lewis understood God and Christianity. A couple of days ago the devotion was based on Matthew 5:19. Lewis talks about God using trials to force Christians to a higher level thus making them braver, more patient, more loving, more tolerant of frailties. Lewis ends the segment by saying, "It seems to us all unnecessary: but that is because we have not yet had the slightest notion of the tremendous thing He means to make of us."

Not Poor Anymore

Over the past few months I have had to deal with a lot. There has been a fair amount of pain and a good deal of grief. There has also been a lot of paperwork, phone calls, bill paying, packing and moving. But there has also been an up side. That 'up side' is that I am not poor anymore. Last summer I was poised to work as hard as I could at as many jobs as I could in an all-out effort to make as much money as possible. I would pay Bill, pay my expenses, and keep my credit cards at bay by making minimum monthly payments. It was a treading-water lifestyle. I didn't know how long I was going to be able to keep it going, or how long it would last, but it was the plan I had and knew I had to make work. To make money I would substitute as many days as I could get hired, I would take at least two tutoring students every day after school, and I would rent rooms to students through the student housing office. In a perfect world that and my retirement money would keep me afloat. The plan was rife with glitches. What if I got ill and couldn't work for a week or two? What if my jury duty netted me a trial that went weeks? It was a plan that would only work if nothing went wrong. There was no place for car repairs or replacing the furnace if it broke. It was so fortunate for me that Bill passed when he did. That particular kind of fortune increased when my dad passed because then I also received an inheritance. Now I don't have to worry about making every penny I possibly can. I don't have to worry about the loss of money if I should get sick. I don't have to scramble for sub jobs and take days at schools or in positions I don't want. But most importantly, I don't have to worry about whether or not I can make my monthly financial obligations because the truth is that it was going to be tricky to do in the first place. I am able to live well within my means, am slamming down the credit cards and can sleep in occasionally. I am not poor anymore, and I like it that way.

In Which

This post doesn't really belong in this blog but I feel compelled to finally write about it because it's something I do every Sunday morning. I attend church. The pastor is a nice guy who grew up on a farm in Nebraska. He has a big heart and every Sunday morning presents us with a sermon on which he has worked fairly hard. I noticed many years ago that he has an unusual way of inserting the words 'in which' at various points in his message. It occurred to me that at some point in time someone informed him that he couldn't end a sentence with a preposition. I also guessed that the person suggested he use 'in which' as a way of avoiding the preposition trap. What I think the person DID NOT do was suggest other ways to solve the problem such as even a simple 'for which', 'through which' or 'by which', etc. You get the idea. As the daughter of a stickler for correct English usage who was also big on using the forwhichthroughwhichinwhichbywhich solution, I find the pastor's 'in which's' to be quite disconcerting. For instance, 'It is not unusual for a man to give that in which he can't'. WHAT??? 'Jesus' sacrifice in which we were saved'. Oh, Lord...my ears want to shrivel up and fall off my head. He does it constantly, so much so that I unwittingly count how many times he uses it in his sermons. He averages about three or four times a pop. If the sermon is not tremendously engaging, I find myself counting the number of times he uses 'in which' improperly and musing at how he can make sense of his sentence content. But then again, I know he fully understands what he's trying to say and we generally do too. This is just one of those little things that are like a burr in my skin, a little pet peeve that I wish I could let go of. OOPS! Excuse me, a little pet peeve of which I wish I could let go. There, Dad would be happy with that one. It's this peevishness that sometimes keeps me from fully understanding the sermon. I guess I should pray that God give me the grace to overlook this minor flaw in my pastor.