Driving Me Crazy

I had a fight with Siri last week.

It was pretty one-sided, the way my fights with Rob always were. I got mad. She was silent. I demanded an answer. She said you’re welcome. All in all, it was totally unsatisfying, and the worst part was she never heard my point of view at all. Just like always.

I was driving to Tucson along I-10 at eighty miles an hour just like everybody else on the road while Siri napped beside me. She’d told me what number the next exit would be in eighty-seven miles, but somehow, half an hour afterwards, I forgot what that number was. So, I woke her up.

I think that’s why she copped that attitude.

In my defense, there were dozens of semis all around me and tiny little college student cars whizzing by, darting in and out between me and the FedEx eighteen-wheeler I was following. The wind was blowing faster than I was driving and I had to keep both hands tightly glued to the steering wheel to keep from getting blown off the road. It was very very stressful. I needed a good navigator to help me arrive alive. All I did was ask one innocent little question and, the next thing I knew, it was on.

“Hey, Siri,” I said loudly, “what’s the next exit I’ll be taking?”

“You’re forty-seven minutes from your destination,” she replied.

I blinked. That was no help. Must not have been the magical way to ask for that info, I decided. I came up with a different way to phrase the question.

“Hey, Siri,” I began again, “where will I turn off the interstate?”

“Here’s a map I found for you,” she said cheerfully. She was alone in her cheeriness. My hands were glued so tightly to the steering wheel I could neither look at the map or slap her. I tried a third time.

“Which exit number should I take when I want to get off the interstate?” I asked through clenched teeth.

“Where do you want to go?” came her answer.

“ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO Me?!” I shouted across the cab of the Tahoe. But she’d put her earplugs in and gone back to sleep.

I thought when they promised computers were going to change the world that it was supposed to be for the better. I also thought Artificial Intelligence would be heavy on the intelligence and light on the artificial.

For example.

Yesterday, I drove to the west side of Phoenix to see a friend. The far west side. It was about a one hundred sixty mile excursion, round trip. I needed help navigating the various freeways I knew I’d be using. One of them in particular has two left turn lanes on the approach, separated for some reason which I can’t remember by another road with a traffic light—it’s probably the off ramp for the freeway or something. Both lanes are always full, though, and you have to line up early or you’ll miss your exit. So, I got into the first left lane I ran across. Out of nowhere, Siri burst into my concentration with that GPS of hers. Big deal. Titles aren’t so impressive. I may not have a degree behind my name, but I graduated high school with honors.

“Go through this light and at the next one, turn left,” she ordered.

I gave her the piercer out of the corner of my eye. She’s done this before.

“Clearly,” I said, “you have never driven a car. If I followed your directions, I'd have to cut off twenty other cars. Have you ever heard of road rage?”

Which begs the question—what qualifies a navigator to navigate when they don’t even possess a driver’s license or actual experience? Would we allow a co-pilot to navigate if he’d never been to pilot school? Or flown in a jet? We could, I guess, but I wouldn’t board that plane.

I got into the turn lane before the first traffic light and ignored the cold shoulder my personal assistant was giving me. A few seconds later, her voice sounded again.

“Stay in the right-hand lane for the 202,” she announced.

“Too late,” I snapped. “That ship’s already sailed. I had to make that decision on my own back where the dotted yellow lines were because you don’t answer direct questions. You should have told me sooner!”

Silence from the cockpit.

“You give stupid directions!” I said in frustration.

“That’s not nice,” she said.

Yeah, well, the truth hurts. Even if you’re a computer.

If I didn’t need my cell phone to make calls, I swear I’d throw Siri right in the trash and go old school. I don’t know where I put that Rand McNally Road Atlas, but I’m gonna pull it out and learn to read it. Then, if I head to the west side and wind up in Bermuda, there won't be anybody around to make snarky remarks about it.

Siri-ously.

As Long As It Takes

We rescued Brody from a shelter in Mesa four years ago. He was the wrong color—he didn’t match our tile. Rob let me pick him out as my Christmas gift that year, but even though there were two chocolate lab puppies available with hair that would have been more inconspicuous on the floor, the yellow lab/shepherd mix had eyes that looked into my soul. My husband sighed as I made my decision. He knew what was about to happen. Looking into a dog’s eyes is always the way I pick them out.

Our Brody. He was lost once, too, but we found him and fought for him. Competed, actually. Six other families threw their numbers in a hat with ours at the dog pound and Rob won him for me.  He was my Christmas present, but the picture taken of our newest family member had Rob at his side. “Way to go, Rob!” somebody responded when he posted the photo on Facebook.

That’s the way it always was. They were buddies.

Rob didn’t really want another dog after we lost our last white pup a year earlier. Honestly, though, what he mostly didn’t want was more dog-hair carpet and dog-sitter expenses while we were out of town. Every dog we’ve ever had was my idea. And every dog we ever had became Rob’s dog.

This morning I sat at the table rubbing the velvety, white ears of the companion I inherited when I lost Rob and, right on cue, my eyes filled with tears at the memory of the two of them together. Walking across the pine filled acreage of our Heber house, Rob followed the fence line as Brody ran circles around his master. Brody posting himself beside Rob in Dan and Kate’s cabin last fall while he lit a fire in the fireplace. We finally figured out flames terrified Brody, but he wouldn’t leave Rob’s side while he stoked the blaze. The lock screen photo on my phone is of Rob and Brody posing for me in the snow near Woods Canyon Lake on the Rim two years ago. It’s my favorite photo of Rob.

Wherever Rob was, Brody went, and if he couldn’t go with him, he lingered, lying in dejection, on the floor outside whatever room Rob was in or whatever door he’d disappeared through, waiting for his favorite person to reappear. Always on duty. Waiting for Rob. For as long as it took.

Now he waits for me. Outside whatever door I’m standing behind. Because we both know Rob’s not coming back.

I don’t know where Rob got the idea he didn’t want any more dogs. Maybe it’s because many animals do exactly what Brody does—gaze into your heart and expose its tenderness. Rob kept his feelings hidden much of the time, unless he was watching a movie like Mighty Joe Young. I caught him crying at the end of it once and jabbed him in the arm.

“You big phony,” I accused. “You try to act so tough and here you are weeping over a giant fake gorilla falling off a building.”

He wiped his eyes and blew his nose. “Mighty Joe Young isn’t a fake,” he said, holding back his famous grin. He knew he’d been caught. Rob was a softy and every animal on the planet knew it. Especially our dogs. And our kids. One night while they still lived at home, Rob was reading to Katy and Lee from “All Things Great And Small,” the story of a country vet in England in the ‘40’s. When he reached a part where an elderly man had to allow his aging canine to be put down, Rob couldn’t read anymore. I’m not even sure they ever finished the book.

In the interim between our last dog, Sydney, and Brody, Rob went out of town a few times and I was alone with no pet to keep me company til he returned. Once, I borrowed our daughter’s protective yellow lab, Gunner, for a week. This guy was up in years but, when duty called, he never slept through it. If I was in the shower, Gunner was positioned on the mat outside the door. If I was sleeping, he was on the floor beside the bed. Rob and I both adored Katy’s dog, almost as much as she and her family did. And when Gunner passed away last December, Rob cried on the phone as Katy told him about it.

Of the three rescue dogs we’ve owned, Brody is the most sensitive, people loving pet we’ve ever had. He needs to be with people, even if I’m the only one available. He’d rather sit with his rear end pushed up against my knees so I’ll pet his ears and massage his bony hips than do just about anything else. And when I’m crying, it doesn’t matter where he is or where I am, he finds me.

Like he found me tonight. Sometimes the loss settles in on me and I stop running and just give in to the sorrow. This morning it hit me hard and made me grateful for the very secluded, nearly soundproof space of my little garage apartment. Hopefully the only one who hears my sobs when that happens is my dog. It’s barely a few seconds before he’s at my side, head on my lap, chocolate brown eyes looking up at me with concern. Tonight, in resignation, I sat on the sofa in my room and let the sobs run their course, like a faucet left on. And Brody was there, his head on my lap, waiting, for as long as it took.

And then he did something he rarely does. He carefully launched his front legs and then most of the rest of his seventy-pound frame up on my lap, and as my salty tears fell, he licked my face. He just stayed there, my arms around him, both of us silently grieving the loss of the most important person in our world, together. For the longest time.

The memories rush in sometimes, riding the crest of the grief waves below them, and with no warning at all I am suddenly upside down, drowning in the deep. I do what I can to hang on if that happens in public, or in the truck at seventy miles an hour, or on the produce aisle of a grocery store. But when it happens here, in my room, I’m learning to let those feelings have their day.

And to let Rob’s dog comfort me until it passes by. I know he’ll be at my side while I miss Rob and cry, offering his presence, never running after something more fun the way our other dogs did. It’s not the same as having Roby here, but having Brody at my side is a comfort nevertheless.

Rob’s dog will stay with me, just like the grief does. For as long as it takes.

Dear Rob

 

Hi, Honey,

It’s been another hard day without you, Baby. My counselor keeps reminding me to be kind to myself. Compassionate with myself. To give myself grace in this space. I have to remind myself to do that because it doesn’t come naturally. We’re all so hard on ourselves, aren’t we? While I grieve your absence, I feel so much inward pressure to get my act together, put on a brave front, and keep moving forward.

It’s just that you’re not going to be there when I do.

I was sitting at the dinner table tonight and found myself staring off into space, remembering the way you used to walk up behind me, put your arms around me, and kiss my neck. Or touch my shoulder as you went by. Friends and the kids give me hugs, but they’re not the same as one of yours. What I’d give right now to bury my head in your shoulder and cry my eyes out.

I’d give it all away just to be able to do that.

Sometimes I can sense your presence, if I quiet my thoughts and am still. I really believe the veil between this life and the dimension where you’re living now is thin. That you and others who’ve gone ahead of us can see what we’re dealing with here. Randy Alcorn wrote a book about heaven and said you pray for us. I am so comforted by that. It makes the separation feel less . . . separate.

I’m reading a book on grief, too - “It’s Ok That You’re Not Ok.” The writer lost her husband in a drowning accident. She knows what this feels like. We lost you three months ago last Wednesday. Every day forward since then has been, as my counselor says, “a slog through grief.” Like my feet are stuck in a tarpit and I have to pull them up one at a time and try to keep living. Surviving. Doing this terrible thing life is asking of me—that I go on without you beside me.

I am wracked with sorrow today. Somehow, my brain and body have tried to protect me from the terrible truth that you’re really gone. I keep expecting you to walk through the door. Or call me. Or send me a text. It's instinct. I reach for my phone to check in with you and then . . . I remember. I read a lot in the grief book today about why it’s so hard for such a simple thing like that to sink in—how there’s nothing in my previous experience to relate that information to, so my brain has to develop new pathways for accepting this heartbreaking reality.

“Reality.” Now there’s a word. My husband, my best friend, my lover, my soul mate, is . . . see? I can’t even finish the sentence. You’re not dead. Your body is gone, and God, that hurts enough to say. But you’re still alive, standing here perhaps, beside me, on the other side of that thin veil that only you can see through.

Which isn’t fair.

That’s not why I’m writing, though. I just need to reach out to your spirit, your heart, and say that familiar thing I’ve said to you for nearly forty-seven years. That I love you, Baby. I miss you so much and I can’t imagine how to do the next thing and the next thing after that. I don’t know why I bother putting on foundation and mascara every morning since I cry it all off anyway. Three months since you left feels like a lifetime, but it’s a drop in the bucket compared to the rest of my life here without you.

And that’s the sad thought that keeps me crying.

I know, I’ve always known, this thing would happen someday. We got older when we weren’t looking and we both knew our bodies are tired. They don’t work like they used to. Now that I’m a single instead of part of a couple, all I seem to see are couples. They’re all young, doing the things you and I used to do together. Strong and energetic, caught up in the excitement of life together, raising children, making their dreams come true. We were them once. Yesterday. It feels like it was only yesterday.

And now, here I am, writing a letter you may or may not read, since I don’t know if you get mail where you’re living now. I wish you did. I’d write you every day, just like I did while you were overseas in the Air Force for those sixteen months that we were apart. We survived that separation, too, Baby. That time, though, we counted down the days until we could be in each other’s arms again. In this scenario, the days ahead of us are building instead of reducing.

This time is harder. And I hate it.

My counselor told me it hurts so much because I loved you so much. It’s the risk of loving someone wholeheartedly. Losing that someone will take you down. Knock you out. Wound you so badly you’ll never be the same again.

But what other choice is there in this life? Not to love? Not to take the risk? Protect your heart from the bad and deny it the good it deserves? That would kill it just as much as loving and losing.

That thought leads to the realization that someday all the memories we made together will bring me comfort. Every now and then one of them will pop up and the kids and I will talk about it and even laugh about something funny you said or did. But today, the memories are too beautiful to be comforting. They’re painful and I can’t let them in, which is too bad. It makes me miss you even more.

How many times can I say this before I find something new to say? “I miss you. God, how I miss you.” I read over our text messages tonight—all the conversation we had between phones when we first went into the hospital. Your love for me and mine for you was all over them. We thought we’d come out together. We went to the hospital planning to get well, not to die.

I just want you to know I love you with all my heart. I have always loved you. I always will love you. I’m so sorry it turned out this way. Maybe tonight in my dreams I’ll see you. Feel your hand on my shoulder. See your smile.

If not tonight, then Someday. That was always our word, wasn’t it, Baby?

Someday, my love. Until then, good night.

Love,

Eula

Chicken Scratch

When you’re an experienced farm hand like me, from time to time you gotta do farm hand kind of things. Like, drive your ten-year-old granddaughter to the local Tack and Feed Store to buy a bag of chicken scratch. We were out running errands together anyway, so when Juliet’s ma asked if we’d grab some o’ that scratch, Jules volunteered us.

Buckling up our seat belts, I turned over the engine on the Tahoe and looked at Jules, who sat up front with me. “Do you know what chicken scratch looks like?” I asked.

“Sure do,” she said nonchalantly. That’s how we farm folks are. Nonchalant. And familiar with chicken scratch. “Comes in a fifty pound sack,” she added. I put the truck in reverse and breathed a sigh of relief. Thank goodness it was some kind of feed. For a minute, I was worried it was an ointment we’d need after handling all those chickens.

We sashayed in through the front doors of the chicken scratch store like we knew what we were doing and gave a friendly farm hand wave to the girl behind the counter who must have been called in to work before she could finish dying her black hair. Half of it was bright purple. She nodded in our direction, her nose ring bouncing in time to the country western music playing on the intercom, and Jules and I wandered over to the pallets in the middle of the store where all the scratch was stacked up. We loaded our shopping cart and headed to the back of the store where the eggplant haired girl had told us the facilities were located.

I waited for Juliet in the plumbing aisle but got bored pretty fast. I’m a farm hand. I don’t know much about plumbing. So, staying close in case Jules hurried back out of the facilities, I was exploring the end caps where they kept jumper cables and plastic gas cans and the like when I saw something that interested me.

Scorpion weapons. Now here was something I could use.

I don’t know why God invented scorpions. They’re mean, fast, poisonous little varmints. They sneak up on you when you’re not paying attention and sting worse than a jellyfish, I think, although I’ve never been stung by a jellyfish. If they’d just stay outside where they belong, I wouldn’t give ‘em a second thought. But here in the desert, and even on the farm, they tiptoe into the house and cause havoc. They’re a dadgum nuisance.

I was examining some kind o’ mop with a trigger handle and a black light attached to its long pole when a salesman stopped to chat.

“Scorpions,” he announced, making me jump. I thought he saw one.

I squeezed the trigger a few times and stared at him. “I don’t rightly know how this thing works,” I admitted. The two green feet at the bottom of the pole didn’t look like they could catch anything, let alone an angry bug with a poisonous stinger on its tail. “I thought I’d take some o’ these here stick-n-seal traps,” I told him, tossing the slender box into my cart. “But I can’t figure this thing out.”

He looked as lost as I was. “Me neither,” he agreed. “We used to have scorpions, but we got a bug guy for that.” He wasn’t much of a salesman, I decided.

Interesting, though. We got a bug guy, too, but we still have scorpions. A bug guy Rob and I used to have once told me you can spray scorpions with poison, but it won’t kill ‘em. They’ll just lie there and play dead for a couple of days til they’re sure you’re not looking, and then they’ll jump up and hunt you down. I’ve never trusted a bug guy since.

I put the contraption back on the rack just as Jules came around the corner and we paid for the chicken scratch and the stick-n-seal scorpion traps and headed back to the farm. Once inside my room, I took a look at the seriously sticky traps I’d purchased. It wasn’t exactly an impulse purchase. Last week, I found two big scorpions in my room. Gives me the shivers just thinking about it. Katy’s husband dispatched them for me, thank goodness. After that, Katy loaned me a blacklight so’s I can find the little demons in the dark and dispatch them myself, especially if I locate one in the middle of the night.

I don’t mind grabbing chicken scratch now that I know it’s food, but handling even the demise of deadly bugs is way above my pay grade. I’m inexperienced and unqualified and I want to keep it that way. These sticky pads were just what I needed. They’d give me peace of mind. I’d just fold ‘em up, place ‘em around the room, and ta dah! They’d be decorated with dead scorpions by the next morning.

I turned over the box to read the directions. To say the least, it was enlightening.

SCORPIONS ARE DANGEROUS AND THEY CAN STING YOU!
DO NOT ATTEMPT TO CAPTURE INSECT OVERHEAD AS THEY MAY FALL ON YOU!
SCORPION MAY STILL BE ALIVE – DO NOT UNSEAL THE TRAP!

Disclaimer: This product may leave adhesive residue, remove paint, or otherwise damage the wall or surface. Buyer assumes any responsibility for any cleanup or damage. USE AT YOUR OWN RISK!

Well, that was troubling. I was beginning to think the stick-n-seal traps were more risky than trying to kill a scorpion. Even if I’d bought the long-handled gadget from the end cap at the Tack and Feed Store, I couldn’t have used it to kill one of the critters, especially the huge version I’d found napping on the top of the door frame leading to my room. If the poisonous varmint fell on me, the warranty would be voided.

I opened the box of traps and pulled out one of the long sheets. There weren’t no way to fold it into a trap at all. Well, for Pete’s sake. The sticky things were refills for use with the green-footed Scorpion Bug Grabber that even the sales clerk couldn’t figure out.  I was stuck with a worthless five dollar box of paint remover sheets that are useless without the gadget. And, frankly, I’m not even sure the gadget is worth anything.

So now I’ve got to go back to the Tack and Feed Store and get my money back. All that annoyance just because we needed some feed for the chickens. When I told Jules about my troubles, she said there’s an easy way to get rid of scorpions and we already have the solution here on the farm. Turns out chickens are a natural predator and gobble up scorpions faster than chicken scratch.

I don’t know if I can live with a chicken in my bedroom. I’ll have to think on it some. But if I find any more scorpions in here, I’d consider it.

As long as the Tack and Feed Store sells ointment.

With thanks to Andrew for this great chicken profile. The original can be viewed by following this link: 

Chicken! | Andrew | Flickr

In Pieces

 

Piece by piece, I’m shutting everything down.

By this time next week, our house in Heber will belong to someone else. I’m disconnecting my responsibility for paying the electric bill tomorrow. And the propane. That brand new tank we were so proud to have installed—it won’t be ours anymore. Then I’m mailing back the medical test kit Rob needed every month. That’s all in the past. I have a couple of monthly bills we’ve hung onto for years that I don’t need to donate money to now. This morning I moved all the investments Rob made from one company to another. They’re all in my name now at a firm he’s never heard of.

I am systematically closing down everything we used to handle together. It hurts my heart again to have to do it, so, naturally, I got mad at Rob.

Standing in a hot shower a while later, I added my tears to those of the flowing water. “I hate shutting down every part of the life we had together!” I cried into the steamy space, hoping Rob could hear me on his end. “I just want you to know I don’t want to do these things,” I added. I don't want to live without him. but I have no choice. 

Crying in the shower works pretty well, except for that snotty nose part. Awkward.

The list of changes I have to deal with seems to be getting shorter. Every one of them could have been handled with one or two phone calls. None of them took less than ten. Some, like selling the house, seemed to take forever. All of it while my heart is broken and my red eyes are blurry and every piece of it is unfamiliar and painful. My motto for months has been, “I don’t know what I’m doing,” and yet I have to keep doing it no matter how much every bit of it reminds me of what I’ve lost.

It feels like I just keep losing what little is left of what Rob and I built together for more than four decades.

Sometimes I want nothing more than to simply run away. I keep threatening to buy a little villa in the South of France. Not because I enjoy the Riviera or sunbathers or even the sun, for that matter, but because it’s fun to say the South of France. And watch eyebrows rise in response. I’ve studied French for a few years. A long time ago. I could immerse myself in French culture for a while and forget my problems here. While I create new ones there. But running away wouldn’t leave the loss behind. It would just plant me in a foreign country where not only would there be no one around who knows me, there would be no one around who speaks English.

I’d better just stay here where I don’t know what I’m doing and can still order a Starbucks in my native tongue.

I was telling my son tonight how hard all these details are and asking his advice on a couple of those bills I don’t think I need to pay anymore, even though Rob and I took them on together because once upon a time we thought they mattered. Now all that matters is letting go of baggage that drains my bank account.

My son agreed. “Yeah, Mom. I don’t think it makes sense to keep making payments on services you don’t need any more just as a way of memorializing Dad.”

I burst out laughing at that. He was right. “Well, I am keeping his phone on for the unseen future even though no one uses it,” I said. “I can let go of pre-paid legal services but checking his phone for messages makes me feel a little like I still have a piece of him here.”

Any little piece of him I can keep around me helps me feel like I haven’t lost him completely. On my birthday last week, my sister gave me a charm to add to the thistle necklace Katy had already given me. The thistle, Scotland’s national “flower,” is a symbol of strength and courage under duress, and Katy bought one for every member of our family to wear in honor of Roby, his love of Scotland, and our own bravery in the face of overwhelming loss.

My sister’s gift was a silver circle with the words, “My Love,” stamped on one side and Rob’s initials, “RLM,” on the other. Any time I want to, I can caress these two charms, knowing that I’m still wearing his initials on a silver chain around my neck. The MVD may take his name off their list, but his name is still alive and well with me.

Today in the mail my eight-year-old granddaughter in Kentucky sent me a picture she painted of her Chief from a favorite photo she keeps on the wall above her bed. This afternoon, my daughter and son-in-law picked up one of Rob’s fire department helmets that had been borrowed for his memorial video, as well as the drum he always played with the Pipe and Drum Band. Katy handed the helmet to me the way an honor guard will soon hand me the flag folded in Rob’s memory, and I kissed the face shield and hung the sacred item on the wall in my room. It’s smudged with smoke, the visor is scratched, and the Chandler FD emblem is nearly worn away. But it’s a piece of Rob that was a major part of his life and mine, and now I can see it from the table where I write or its reflection in the mirror across the room when I sit in my chair.

Surrounded by my family, here and across the country, I realize that every time I see them, talk with them, or hug them, I’m holding a piece of Rob in my arms. They carry his blood in their veins, his DNA in their cells, and memories of him in their minds. He left a huge part of himself here in his children and grandchildren, and his mother and sisters.

For every piece of our life that I have to close down, another piece of him surfaces and takes its place of honor. The fire hydrant given to him years ago is outside my room, waiting to be planted near the casita we’ll soon be building for me to live in. The hand painted rock my friend in Tucson made for Rob when he retired is propped up beside the gardenia bush our Idaho friends sent me when we lost him.

I have to remember that his life was not the financial things I’m dealing with—those things that cause me added pain right now. His life still lives—with Jesus, as well as in the treasures he left behind that carry so many memories in them. That’s where I find comfort. And every time I see or touch or kiss the things, and especially the people, that connect me to him, I think of RLM, My Love, and ask Jesus to tell him again, for me, how much I love him.

Robert Lee McLeod IV. Always on my mind. Forever in my heart.

Throwing Down The Gauntlet

He wears the regal name with such pride, you’d think the Queen of England knighted him herself. 

Sir Thomas Turkey, squire of the vast, pastured green and all who inhabit therein. Thus was he named upon adoption. Thus doth he perceive the expansive property as entirely his. Thus deludeth he himself. Verily.

For a critter who showed up in this world dressed only in pinfeathers, he sure loves puffing himself up to his full stature—all eighteen inches of it—while strutting around the back acreage.  He carries himself with such an air, you’d think he personally planted the grassy field himself. He’s no gentleman farmer, though. Sometimes he’s just plain mean. He chases away the three little pigs by using his beak to jab them in the ham hocks. Then, in flamboyant malevolence, he takes a run at the ducks, even flustering Queen Penelope with his bad manners. I once saw him grab one of her minions in his tiny mouth, carrying Daffy around like a bird trophy until she got dizzy. Then he dropped her cold, like a bored boyfriend. Ducks always walk like they’re dizzy, though, so maybe it didn’t hurt her feelings too much.

Sir Thomas can be a bully in the barnyard.

I was afraid of him for a while, especially after Katy worried about him developing spurs, but he doesn’t scare me anymore. Not since he snuck up beside me once and did his mating dance. He’s kind of a weirdo. This bird, for all his boasting, is still pubescent. He looks like an adult, but he’s only half grown. Nevertheless, once those sharp appendages appeared on the backs of his forked feet, Katy warned the kids that if he ever runs at them the way he does the other animals, he’ll find himself the guest of honor at the dinner table.

So far, he hasn’t threatened any of us. He thinks he’s a people. And I’m pretty sure he’s convinced the other inhabitants of his kingdom are his competition. Like I said, this bird flirts with us.

I don’t know whether to feel flattered or offended.

One night a couple of months ago, my son-in-law, Dan, and his daughter, Allie, brought their guitars out to a fire pit on the far side of the pasture, pulled up a couple of chairs, and played a few songs together under the stars. Suddenly, Sir Thomas, puffed up full tilt with tail feathers on high alert, began weaving in and out around Dan’s feet, pacing between the two musicians. Then, right on cue, he gobbled in time to the music. It was no accident. Dan and Allie repeated the Irish folk song and Tom the Turkey did it again. He likes country music, too, which doesn’t surprise me at all. He’s a natural at yodeling.

The boy’s got skills. And rhythm. And a sneaky ace up his sleeve in case Katy ever tries to make good on that threat of hers. Seriously—who’s gonna eat a musical prodigy for supper?

As talented as Sir Thomas is, though, his favorite thing remains terrorizing the rest of the flock. He hates the dogs, too, although in that case the feeling is mutual. Whenever I stand near the back fence, Brody at my side, Tom body slams himself against the gate while Brody snarls and bares his teeth, returning the insult, bark for gobble.

I think they’re both trying to protect me from the other. Again, not really sure what to make of that.

Every day, the possibility loomed that Tom the Turkey would go too far and wind up as an appetizer. Until the day the girls showed up. Two naturally curly blondes and a couple of redheads, neighbors from the south, they sauntered out across the pasture like they owned the place. Which did not sit well with our favorite turkey. Tom was not impressed. Accepting the challenge, he snapped his tail feathers into position. Then, tucking his red wattle in tight against his arrogant chest, he took deliberate steps toward the intruders, determined to make it clear he was lord of this estate and they’d be wise to curtsy in his honor.

They.Did.Not.Bow.

They.Did.Not.Curtsy.

See, the gals were all related. You don’t mess with a mass of women. Especially not the redheads.

“Mom!” Allie’s little sister, Jules, yelled from the kitchen window where she was watching the showdown. “The sheep are headbutting Tom!”

We all crowded in to witness the impossible as it went down beyond the fencing around the pasture. Sir Thomas stood in the open where we could see him, facing his hidden opponents who stood on the other side of the barn, out of our view. He took two steps toward a harem of wooly women, flew backwards into the air, and fell on his pride in the ducky doo doo.

It was awesome.

“You go, girls!” we cheered as Tom dusted himself off and went after them again, determined to retain his role as master of the pasture.

“They got him again!” someone laughed, and we doubled over in hysterics as tail feathers blew off and unseen forces threw him back another ten feet again. He’d finally met his match. The sheep, a gift from a neighbor who is moving, had taken him on, face to wattle, and won.

It was a great day for women’s lib.

And duck and chicken lib.

Even piggy lib.

Shoulder to shoulder, forming an impenetrable woolen wall, the four sister-sheep held their ground, stared down the intimidating turkey, and made it clear that he was no longer king of the castle and would not be pushing them around. Outnumbered four to one, Tom brushed it all off like it was his idea, turned tail, and trotted off across the pasture.

I learned a lot watching the standoff that day.

• 1.      One good head butt can put a bully in his place. Or two.
• 2.      Hold your ground until he gets the message.
• 3.      Co-existing doesn’t mean you have to be a pushover.
• 4.      Animals are better at solving conflicts than people are.
• 5.      Heroes come in all shapes and sizes.
• 6.      Being a sheep doesn’t mean you don’t have confidence.
• 7.      Once a turkey, always a turkey.

Sir Thomas Turkey still struts around the pasture. He still body slams the gate when the dogs get too close. He still does that weird mating dance whenever we're around. And he’s still a musical prodigy—if you’re into yodeling.

But he steers clear of those sheep. He may be arrogant, but he’s not stupid.

He’s still missing some tail feathers.

Pluviophile

It was 102 degrees outside today, but tonight I’m listening to rain on the windows, punctuated by occasional claps of thunder. It’s my secret place, inside my little garage apartment. The window across from the sofa where I’m seated looks out into a foggy, drenched forest framed by window panes that are trailed with falling rain.

It’s so realistic, I’m always shocked when I step outside my room and discover the sidewalks are still dry.

You can find anything on YouTube.

I really miss Rob tonight. He and I loved rain. Chased it at every opportunity, even when we visited his home state of Florida. You wouldn’t think they’d have droughts there, but ever since beach high rises took over the coastlines, you’ve got to go pretty far inland to find a good thunderstorm now. But we did it. We both loved wild weather. We’d jump in the car and head for the dark gray horizon, driving until the water pummeled us and we couldn’t hear each other above the noisy storm.

There’s a noisy storm in my heart tonight, but I didn’t go looking for it. This one chases after me. Three months ago, twelve weeks ago today, I stood in a hospital room and told Rob it was all right to leave. It was all right to go be with Jesus. I wish he hadn’t believed me. I’m so tired of this unfamiliar thing called ‘carving out a new life for myself.’ What was wrong with the old one? That’s the question of the year. Nothing, I suppose. It’s just that it left me, too.

I’m finally getting painful details wrapped up. I had to gather the tax info alone this year. I couldn’t figure out why I dreaded it so much until I made myself focus on it so I could make the deadline. Every receipt represents the normal life we used to share. All our typical meds, his and mine. Our habitual charitable contributions. The mortgage interest on the home we owned together. His signature was everywhere, splashed carelessly across documents as if he could do it anytime he wanted to. I could feel the indentation on some of them still and my eyes grew blurry as I traced the outline of the name I love so much.

Next week the sale of my house in Heber—our house—finally closes, as will another piece of that heartbreaking chapter of my life. But at least I won’t be making payments anymore on a home I haven’t lived in for four months. All the painful insurance monies are safely deposited now, too. Soon, I can just get down to the business of grieving and rebuilding and recovering instead of putting Rob’s life to rest the same way we’ll put his body to rest two short months from now.

I wish that part was behind me, too. I’ve wept over that today, as well.

I still can’t believe he’s gone. Everyday, I expect him to walk through the door so this nightmare can go away. But he never does. I long to dream of him at night, to be held in the safe embrace that always calmed my fears. But the one time he showed up in my dreams, after I begged God to allow it, I woke up and was crushed to remember once more that it’s no longer my reality. Maybe dreams like that aren’t a good idea after all.

“You’re still in the early stages of grief,” my counselor reminds me from time to time. That’s never good news. It helps me give myself grace and compassion while I grieve over my darling for as long as it takes, but I think it’s going to take a long time. The tears come on their own timetable but, when they do, they seem to last forever.

Just like the video loop of rain I’ve been watching and listening to for the last two hours. The rain never stops. The gray is constant. The only interruption is thunder, the voice of the storm. I'm staring at a tv screen, watching a night sky grieve.

You really can find anything on YouTube.

 

Funny Farm

My daughter calls it the funny farm, this acre or so where she and her family have been living for the last eight years. Most places come with refrigerators and maybe a washer/dryer set at closing. Katy’s place conveyed with two mouser cats and a couple of pampered goats. Since then, their back pasture has been home to as many as three alpacas, one three-hundred pound hog, at least seventy-five chickens, one or two unwelcome roosters, a failed turkey crop, and two beloved dogs, one of whom now rests in peace near the barn.

Currently, the combined population of Dan and Katy’s little farm stands at thirty-three. There are ten ducks, nine plucky chickens, three little pigs, four used sheep, two dogs (including one of mine), three mouser cats, one introverted tortoise, and a bossy tom turkey who thinks he’s a people. The whole menagerie co-exists on about half an acre of irrigated pasture, but they’re not quiet about it. Especially the turkey, aka, Thanksgiving Dinner.

This has been a soft place to land after all the heartache and loss I’ve experienced. There’s a sense of simplicity in this pastoral sanctuary hidden in the desert. It’s healing to my wounded soul. I knew if I could just get off that mountain and get to my daughter’s place, I’d get well. Sunshine and quiet, shady breezes, happy voices of children, and especially the tranquility in being surrounded by farm animals.

It’s just what the doctor ordered for this recovering widow. But it’s not quite as tranquil as I thought.

I may look like a city girl, but I’ve always wanted to wear overalls, milk a bunch of cows, and gather eggs. Don’t let these fake nails fool you—I was an expert on farm life long before I got here. After all, I visited my great-uncle’s pig plantation in Kansas once when I was ten, so I know farm life is just one big 4-H exhibition after another. Get up at the crack of dawn, feed the livestock, tend the garden, wrastle a stray coyote or two, shoot a vagrant viper in the back pasture, drink you some homemade sarsaparilla, and clean out chicken coop poop.

Sigh. That’s the life. That I never had. Until now. Except I’m too citified to clean up poop in the coop. Gross.

Katy and the family headed up to their mountain cabin last month, and I thought, why should they ask a neighbor to take care of the animals when I’m living here and perfectly capable of doing it instead? Though they looked a little skeptical at my offer, they decided to give me a chance. After all, they’d lost chickens to coyotes before. Animals are replaceable. What harm could come by leaving me in charge of all the livestock for three days?

My tutor granddaughter, Jules, gave me a one-day crash course on animal husbandry right before they left, followed by a quick pass/fail exam the next morning. Make no mistake—the herd in the pasture belongs to this ten-year-old, aptly nicknamed the animal whisperer. When Jules opens the door to the chicken coop, all the fowl residents rush outside and spend the day in the pasture dutifully devouring the bug population. At night when she re-opens the gate, every chicken and duck lines up single file and marches inside for supper and safety.

“Now you do it, YaYa,” she instructed. Feeling her expert eyes bore into my soul, I nervously opened the gate, standing back where I couldn’t be pecked to death by hungry hens. “Very good,” Jules said, reveling in her position as the yard boss. I tossed pellets to the sheep and pigs, watered the ducks, ignored the turkey, made the cats happy, and locked all the gates behind me. I was pretty satisfied with myself. Following my every move, Jules agreed I’d gotten the hang of it and earned my overalls.

Then they left town.

And I was on my own.

With thirty-three wild animals.

“Don’t worry about doing everything the way Juliet does,” my daughter furtively whispered as she climbed in the car. “Just try to keep them alive. Call if you need anything!” And they roared off.

Suddenly, I was overwhelmed by déjà vu. That’s exactly what the doctor said the morning we left the hospital with our newborn baby.

I stood there, alone, shaking in my chicken poop boots.

The day evaporated quickly, and soon it was time for me to put away the animals. I headed to the barn to scoop up alfalfa pellets and dry cat food, reviewing the order of chores in my mind. Throw some pellets to the pigs to distract them while you open the gate and wait for the poultry to head inside, but don’t forget to lock the gate behind you. I realized that made me a prisoner and potential target of a herd of stampeding livestock. I cleared my throat in case I needed to yell for help. Not that anyone could hear me, trampled to death as I’d be, lying in a pile of duck doo doo in the middle of the pasture. Gross.

The pigs were delighted by the barrage of pellets I threw their way, while all four sheep forced their way into the pigpen, competing with the swine for snacks. That wasn’t supposed to happen. It’s not that big an enclosure. They didn’t act all selfish like that when Juliet was here, I thought in frustration. I’d already opened the gate to the chicken coop and watched in relief as the hens scuttled inside, but the ducks, recognizing my inexperience, immediately broke rank from the rest of the poultry and headed west to the opposite end of the pasture just because they could.

Who knew ducks have such bad attitudes? I decided I’d deal with them later and turned my attention to the crowded pigpen which had been overrun by the entire cast of fluffy sheep. Somehow, I had to convince two hundred pounds of wooly mutton to leave through the narrow opening they’d run into—without the aid of my four-foot-eight granddaughter.

“Here, sheepy sheepy,” I called in my friendliest farmer voice. “Let’s go. Come on, girls. Outside.” I had no idea sheep could be so stubborn, but as we locked eyes, I wanted them to know they’d met their match. There was no way they were gonna trick me into going in after them in my chicken poop shoes where I’d end up sinking to my ankles in piggy poo.  

I guess I called their bluff because three of them turned and sauntered back out through the open gate, rolling their eyes as they did it. Snobs. But the fourth sheep, looking panicked, realized she’d been left there alone—the sacrificial lamb. I tried to reassure her that she’d be happier if she’d just follow the crowd. Using that same, unappealing farmer voice I’d created, I leaned on the fence outside the pigsty and tried negotiating with her.

“Come on, Ruth,” I encouraged. “I’ve got a nice pizza here for you. You know you’re hungry.” But her name was Abbie—sheep all look alike to me—and I wasn’t really holding a pizza.  Instead of accepting my offer of amnesty, she backed up against the fence railing, and calculated the distance between me and the two-foot-wide opening on my left.

It was a poorly executed maneuver.

Launching herself straight up in the air, she aimed for the exit, slammed into the post, and fell headlong into the pasture. A curly swath of wool on the fencing fluttered in the breeze, but she lived, and that’s all Katy had asked of me.

This is so much harder than it looks, I thought, as I closed the gate on the pigs.

“Okay, little ducks. It’s your turn now,” I announced to a gaggle of uninterested feathers. I knew if Jules were here, she’d run over to the plastic pool where they were all hanging out sipping from the massive martini and gossiping about the city girl in overalls who was trying to boss them around. Then she’d chase them all the way across the pasture until they ran into the coop of their own free will.

But I don’t chase.

Across pastures.

Where I could fall down in ducky doo doo.

I was beginning to lose my patience. My knees hurt and my feet hurt and it was hot outside and the turkey stood at my heels making fun of me. Those gobbles of his were really getting on my nerves.

“Come on!” I yelled at the uncooperative flock. I pointed west to the open coop door. “Get in there where you belong!” One of the ducks—Penelope, I think—slipped into the muddy pool water instead, splashing around with absolutely no respect for my authority.

“Fine,” I muttered, exasperated. I knew how to handle this. I’ve raised two children and three dogs, after all. There wasn’t an animal alive who enjoyed being sprayed in the face with a water hose. I limped over to the spicket, turned it on, and aimed the stream full force, right at that herd of waterfowl.

Who loved it.

“Ooh!” one of them quacked. “A little more to the left.” Ducks are so sarcastic.

Soon there was a mudhole the size of a Volkswagen full of filthy, flapping criminals and at least a dozen blackbirds who crashed the pool party. If I didn’t get this under control, Jules would find out and take away my chicken poop boots. I knew that snoopy turkey would turn tail and rat me out.

I racked my brain for another brilliant plan and suddenly remembered how Katy handled a potential drowning in the same duck pond. Penelope—remember, I told you about her earlier—had been hogging the play pool when she was joined by an innocent bystander who just wanted to join in the fun. Penelope jumped on her back, grabbed the intruder’s neck in her beak and held her head under water while the other bird fought for her life.

I stared at the murderous scene in horror and glanced at Katy. “Is that bird going to drown the other one?” I asked. Katy sighed and reached for a downed limb on the ground beside her. “I don’t know,” she said in resignation. Then she threw the branch at the pair who immediately skedaddled out of the pool and waddled off, side by side, as though nothing untoward had happened.

So, I picked up a branch and threw it at the sunbathing ducks. They scattered across the pasture in an explosion of wet feathers. I picked up another branch, limped toward the surprised flock, and threw that one at them, too. The same thing happened. In two poorly executed pitches, I’d managed to force those dirty birds two-thirds of the way back to the coop where the chickens watched, safely hidden behind the fencing, fascinated. By the time I’d picked up a third branch and sent it sailing toward the last stragglers, every duck and chicken had scooted into the coop where they knew they’d be safe from the crazed city girl standing in animal poop in the pasture.

I slammed the gate behind them, locked it up tighter than a teenager’s bedroom window, and glared at the turkey who'd been standing behind me watching the entire spectacle with judgy eyes.

“One word of this to Jules,” I growled, “and you’ll be stuffed with Chestnut Dressing faster than you can say ‘Plymouth Rock,’” I warned.

He didn’t even gobble at me. He just turned around and walked off.

Don’t let anyone kid you.

Turkeys are a lot smarter than ducks.

With thanks to Samantha Durfee for permission to use the above photo in this post. The original can be viewed at the following link: ducks | Samantha Durfee | Flickr

Lost and Found

Eleven weeks. Almost three months since the unimaginable happened. At least, I tried not to imagine it. I avoided it like the plague—little good that did me. We talked around it sometimes, but I always changed the subject, hoping the day would never come. This one, where I live now. Well, I never said I was logical.

Rob was the objective one. He could accept whatever came his way and adjust. Pragmatic, he liked to call it. Stoic, was the way I described him. Either way, he faced life head on. It’s the same way he faced death. As a firefighter, his job required that. As a husband—same thing. More than once, when either of us faced medical challenges, I asked him fearfully if we were going to die, hoping he’d laugh it off and tell me to stop worrying. “Eventually,” was always his deadpan response. Not helpful, but logical.

There just weren’t many things that caught him off guard. Except when he lost things. And he lost a lot of things. Keys. Sunglasses. Uniform shirts with fire department badges—that’s a big no-no. Sunglasses. Paperwork. Gloves. Sunglasses. Things just seemed to up and walk away. Especially tiny little handwritten notes he’d left on his desk six months earlier and needed right this minute. And sunglasses.

But the worst thing he had a habit of losing was his wallet.

In 2001, while we were on our twenty-fifth anniversary trip to Scotland, at the very moment Rob was supposed to pay our B&B owner for a complete kilt the man had just sold him in his downtown shop, my husband reached into his empty pocket and came up with a blank stare. And I knew. It was a quiet bus ride back to our room in Edinburgh. Those three flights of stairs felt like thirty, but thankfully when we opened the door, there was his forgotten wallet, lying on the bed. Why no one has developed a wallet with a built-in satellite tracking system, I will never understand.

It wasn’t just his wallet he’d misplace. His debit card had a way of disappearing, too, because he didn’t always put it back in his wallet. Losing things was Rob’s hobby. But usually he found them again—except for that uniform shirt and badge.

The last time his wallet disappeared was during his hospital stay in Show Low. I got worried about it after the first couple of weeks of his illness and asked the nurses to look for it, but with no luck. Though we searched our home in Heber repeatedly, we never found it. Worried, I decided to shut down one of his credit cards, but when I called American Express, I discovered someone had made a purchase on his card two days before his death, while he was unconscious in ICU.

I was livid.

A call to hospital security was futile. They referred me to the Show Low Police Department who filled out a report that had zero to no chance of ever accomplishing anything. It was salt in the wound. Though I knew there were no photos inside and I’d already closed other accounts, I still wanted the wallet back because it was his. Anything of his that I can locate is another connection to the husband I lost.

It was just one more in a long line of losses. My beloved. Our future together. My security. Our home. Peace. And, at times, my faith. How something as small as a man’s wallet could encapsulate all the things I’d lost is hard to explain, but it did. And just like everything else, there was nothing I could do about it.

If only I’d figured things out sooner, I reasoned, maybe I could have held on to him. If I’d known he’d be so susceptible, one of the miniscule percentages of people who would never recover from a virus that almost everyone else overcame, I could have done a better job of protecting him, I thought.

What was that missing thing I overlooked that cost me everything? Why couldn’t I figure it out? And, more importantly, what difference did it make now? Suddenly, it became two questions—why did I lose him, and why does that question torment me?

I knew it’s part of grief. Still, the questions remained, unanswered. I needed to find a way to put them to rest—so maybe I could rest. It’s hard enough living day after day without Rob without adding to the suffering this way.

Three weeks ago, as I stood in Katy’s garage sorting through some things I was going to donate and those I wanted to take to storage, she asked, “Are these tennis shoes yours or Dad’s?” I looked them over, trying to place them. “They’ve been in here for a while, but they don’t belong to any of us,” she added.

“Dad’s,” I said after a minute. I almost tossed them into the give-away pile, but since Rob and I wore nearly the same size shoe, I decided to hang onto them. Maybe they’d make a good pair of knock-arounds to wear when I help with the animals. You need dedicated shoes when you walk through the pasture where nineteen birds do their business in public. Everything’s contaminated after an experience like that.

“Let’s toss ‘em in the back of the truck til I decide what to do with them,” I told her. “When I have time, I’ll see if they fit me.”   

I left to run some errands, making a quick stop at my storage unit. Loading up one of their flatbed wagon things with everything I’d carried in the truck, I picked up the shoes and chucked them out of the way. One of his tennies looked odd, though, and I could see there was some paper inside it. Maybe it was one of those tiny little handwritten notes he used to leave everywhere. It feels like Christmas when something else of his turns up now so, curious, I picked up the shoe and looked inside. Something dark filled up the toe, and I had to work at it to pull it out.

It was Rob’s wallet.

Two months to the day after we lost him, I found his missing wallet. Everything, including his driver’s license and some cash, was still in it. I don’t know how or why his American Express account was compromised, but even the card was still there. For a brief moment, I stood staring in disbelief at the wallet in my hand, then put my head down on the back of my open truck bed and cried my eyes out.

For weeks, while I called nurses and searched high and low for something I was sure I’d never see again, it had been hidden in the toe of an unrecognized pair of tennis shoes shuffled around in the garage. Lost. And found. Hidden. And revealed. Safe. And sound. I had nothing to do with his wallet going missing. And, honestly, I had nothing to do with its return. God knew where it was all along and gave it back to me when there was no hope of my ever finding it again.

Does that seem coincidental to you? Me neither.

I had nothing to do with Rob’s illness. I had nothing to do with the turn it took or the way it took my husband from me. We think answers will lessen the pain of our grief, but they don’t. We even think we’re responsible for explaining why things turn out as they do, but we aren’t. Because we don’t know. We are not in control.

“Deep down,” my son told me recently, “we want to blame someone. It can’t just be tragic.”

But it is. It was a tragedy. It was no one’s fault.

I keep saying I lost Rob when what I mean is I can’t be with him right now. He’s not lost. He’s not dead either. He’s just not here with me. That sounds like I’m making a fine distinction, maybe even playing around with words. But I’m not.

He’s not lost. He knows exactly where he is. I just miss him more than the moon would miss the sun. And I can’t explain why things ended here like they did. I wanted more time with him. We all did. We’ve been robbed and God understands that and grieves with us while we’re away from one another.

Rob is not lost.

I’m just lost without him.