We Always Thought We Would Go Back

 

Apalachicola: laidback, dog-friendly, on the Gulf

…[W]hen you wander it is hard to believe that you will not one day revisit the places that have captured your imagination and struck a chord of sympathy.

 

- Helen Humphreys, The Lost Garden

 

 

The Artist and I did not imagine that the trip we made to France in the year 2000 would be unrepeated. Dreamers, both of us, we imagined returning every September, not only to Paris but also to the Auvergne, to spend perhaps a week or more in the commune of Blesle, and certainly to visit the home of Jean-Henri Fabre ("the Homer of the insects") in Provence, a particular wish of mine that was thwarted when we found the home closed for renovations that September.

 

For my 50^th birthday, David’s present to me was a road trip to Montreal – and again, we were so enraptured by that cosmopolitan city that we pictured ourselves renting an apartment there someday. 

 

Over the years there were smaller, less obvious, more intimate discoveries, too: a dirt road leading to an old iron bridge over a pretty little river in southwest Michigan, with nothing around but farm fields; a bend on the Little Rabbit River, I think it was, where we sought refuge in a storm and were regaled with Depression-era stories of turtle fishing from a lifelong inhabitant; a mom-and-pop bakery café in a small, dusty north Texas town, where we talked cattle ranching with the caterer’s husband while she was off on another job; the dog park in Florida that our Sarah loved so much she began warbling with anticipation when we came within a couple of blocks of the place, hoping her “boyfriend” would be there! We made a lot of trips to the dog park but only saw that iron bridge, only met the turtle-fishing oldtimer, only visited the bakery café once, though we always thought we would revisit those places we remembered so clearly.

 

There were many places we did visit more than once. When living in Kalamazoo, we were drawn west repeatedly by Paw Paw and South Haven on weekends, the former for summer flea markets, the latter to walk on the beach of Lake Michigan. During our years together we traveled regularly to Grand Marais, Michigan, our home away from home, and more recently we had begun repeating visits to inland Mio and to Tawas on Lake Huron. A few winters found us on the Gulf Coast of Florida, where one of our favorite day trips was Tarpon Springs. Lately, of course, Cochise County, Arizona, has come to feel like a second home. 

 

Then in the past couple of years he started to ask me, “Do you think we’ll ever go back to France?” And now David and I won’t be making another trip to Tucson together, let alone Sérignan-du-Comtat. The places we always went, I will now go alone or not at all. The places we saw only once and thought we would see again together, we will not. Trips we didn't make – to the Pacific Northwest, to the Black Hills of South Dakota, to Italy!!! -- will never take place. Saying all this is not self-pity or ingratitude. It is simply stating facts.

 

Other facts, though, just as real, are that my love and I made many wonderful trips together and had all manner of wonderful travel adventures, majuscule et miniscule. So yes, I am grateful -- and can you wonder that I would want to revisit them over and over in memory?

Being silly in Paris, Missouri. We were often silly on the road.

 

Books Read Since Last List

 

It’s a short list. 

 

39.      Marquez, Gabriel Garcia. Strange Pilgrims: Stories (fiction)

40.      Ehrenreich, Barbara. Natural Causes (nonfiction)

41.      Shapiro, Elena Mauli. 13 rue Thérèse (fiction)

42.      Brougham, Rachel. Widowland (nonfiction)

 

You might wonder about #s 40 and 42. Why in the world would I want to dwell on death in my reading? Wouldn’t escaping thoughts of death be preferable? 

 

Ah, but you see, not only is death one of life’s biggest mysteries, but there are also times when escaping thoughts of death and dying and hitherto unimaginable loss is impossible, so you might as well face the music and dig in. 

 

A very good friend sent me Widowland, after first telling me about it and asking what I thought about reading it, because she is a sensitive person and did not want to give me more pain than I already have. She described the memoir as “pretty raw” and “extremely honest,” which you might think would give me pause, but no, it inclined me to say yes. (Hallmark “happy talk” about lessons learned – that I don’t need. I don’t need to be told to “count my blessings.” I do that every day. And the pain is still there.) My friend Karen also knows Rachel, the author, and knew Colin, Rachel’s late husband, who worked for Karen’s husband, and all of these are Michigan people, so there was added incentive.

 

I read the book in a single day. I cried through most of it. I skimmed some chapters that were not pertinent to my particular situation but appreciate having the opportunity to read Rachel’s story and am grateful to her for having written it. 

 

Here’s an old memory some of the pages brought back to me: My first husband and I (centuries ago, in another lifetime), ages 21 and 18 (children!), having received a wedding gift from the parents of a good friend of ours, were determined not to respond with clichéd thanks, so when we visited the older couple, we went on and on and on about the wonders of their gift. I don’t remember now what it was. The key to my anecdote is that neither of us uttered the words “Thank you.” To our idealistic young ears, the phrase “Thank you” would have sounded trite. Later we were told by our friend that his parents had been rather put out that we never thanked them for the gift! All our original and personally worded appreciation went for nought.

 

Why this memory now? Because more and more I have come to appreciate formal phrases. I no longer see them as clichés but as appropriate and recognizable responses to situations we all find ourselves in sooner or later.

 

“I’m sorry for your loss” means more to me than the question of how I’m doing. People want to make other people feel better, Rachel Brougham writes, and so they say things intended to encourage positive thoughts. (I won’t quote things people said to her but just note that my friends have, in general, been much more sensitive!) What I like about “I’m sorry for your loss” is that it acknowledges the loss. 

 

The other formal phrase I find meaningful is “May his memory be a blessing.” A friend whose mother died only days before my husband says he’s been thinking a lot about those words lately. For myself, I hear it as a blessing in itself and also as a wish that the bereaved person might find future comfort, despite present pain. A blessing, a wish – these are not predictive statements. Again, without pain and loss having been explicitly addressed, they have been acknowledged. 

 

Rachel Brougham also writes that many people will avoid mentioning the recently deceased, as if doing so would “remind” the widow that he has died – as if it might have slipped her mind! What meant a great deal to her, on the other hand, was hearing stories about her husband from people who had known him, and I have to say that I love that, too. Also, I don’t wait for others to tell me stories or ask me about the Artist: I talk and write about our life together every chance I get. And today I even managed to work a book into my post, didn't I? 

Neither Rachel nor I chose to travel to Widowland. The place came to us, and there is no leaving once you’re there. Wherever you go after losing your husband, widowland will be an integral and inescapable part of your life’s landscape.

 

Once again, then, the book is Widowland, by Rachel Brougham.

 

All my love forever --