Archive for the ‘Dog Journal’ Category

Tuesday is the new Sunday

Tuesday, June 23rd, 2009

Oh, my. It’s Tuesday night, and here’s my Sunday blog entry. Two things I’ve learned about grieving: It sucks up energy and it can’t be rushed. Not good news for the impatient. Terrible news for the chronic over-booker. Forget the elaborate list-making. Halfway down, the bereaved runs out of steam. And the blog entry that was going to bloom on Sunday is now barely sliding into place Tuesday night.

I bumped into a nice analogy the other day. Creative work takes lots of energy. So does grieving. The way back is like nurturing a plant, with time and sun and water. Finally, after all that, new shoots appear.

I think this is true. My mother, a gardener, would have heavily endorsed the idea. And me? I never earned my “Curved Bar Rank” in Girl Scouts because I refused to water a plot of grass. Hopefully, I’ve learned something.

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It’s the mundane I miss

Wednesday, June 17th, 2009

   With Father’s Day coming up Sunday, I’ve braced myself for the usual picture-perfect ads featuring the man of the house.  Firing up the grill with lots of new equipment.  Sporting a new golf shirt.  Brandishing a new power saw.

  With our man of the house gone just over a month, I expected to wince at the commercial reminders of what I’d be missing. But I haven’t.  I miss him, all right.  But what I miss has nothing to do with grilling, golfing or grout.   

  Instead, it’s the mundane, running banter.  It’s “Don’t forget to take out the recycling.”   And “Can you believe a doctor’s office would actually send a bill for 37 cents?”  It’s “Do you think you could possibly remember to turn off your alarm clock?”  And “Guess how much they’re charging for regular down at the BP?”

  Oh, there were a few riveting conversations about the Middle East, an occasional gift that hit a homerun, and I miss those. But someone used to know just how I like my toast.  I miss that more.

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Good grief. Those unexpected tears.

Sunday, June 7th, 2009

Vanilla Mint

There’s no question about it. Bob was not planning to die. From the unopened packages of shirts, socks and underwear, he was planning on another, oh, 50 years. He didn’t like to run out, and he was always prepared.

Once, I told him a girlfriend’s husband carried his glasses prescription with him when he traveled just in case his got broken. “That’s nothing,” Bob told me. “I take an extra pair.” And with that, he produced them in a brown leather case, together with a travel-size bottle of spray-on cleaner.

Cut down fully supplied, he left behind little piles of white plastic handle bags full of drugstore goodies and in the closet, nine unopened bottles of mouthwash. Vanilla Mint.

I never thought mouthwash would make me cry.

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