20th Century Woman

My friend and Mah Jongg buddy Diane started planning the wedding a year ago.  That was when she booked my rental apartment for some of the guests.  Her husband’s daughter was to have a commitment ceremony here on the island with her long time partner.  There is a pretty old church here and a lady minister.  The church and the minister are progressive leaning and theologically liberal; they welcome gay and lesbian unions.  The island’s fundamentalists have gone their separate ways and started their own “chapel” at the Grange.

Lummi Island is a favorite setting for summer weddings.  The weather is almost always good in August, cool and sunny, and the scenery is stunning. Diane groomed her yard to perfection and reserved a number of tables and chairs from the mainland to set up the reception dinner in her the back yard with its view of Hales Passage and Mt Baker.  The front yard, with its view of Legoe Bay and Orcas Island, was where cocktails would be served.  Her cozy cottage would not be large enough for 70 guests.

The first sign of trouble was when the ferry broke down in early June.  But after about a week it was fixed temporarily.  Then, suddenly, the county decided to advance the date of drydock, the time when we have a passenger ferry only, from September to early August.  That meant there would be no way to get the tables and chairs across the water.  Quickly Diane booked the Grange for the dinner.  Cocktails would still be in the yard, front and back, and she borrowed some vehicles (our van was one) to transport people the mile ride to the grange.  She hired John Granger‘s elegant buggy and trotters to take the brides and their attendants to the Grange for the dinner reception.

A week before the wedding, at Thursday night Mah Jongg, Diane was beginning to be nervous about the Saturday weather.  The long range forecast had been predicting a 30% chance of rain for some weeks, but the odds still seemed good.

She was worried, too, about where all her house guests would sleep.  She could utilize some sofas and tents in the yard.  But the mother of the other bride had announced her intention to bring a Muslim exchange student she had befriended and he was prevented by his religion from sleeping on the floor or in a tent.  Diane didn’t know what to do about that.  I was surprised at the tent prohibition — I thought Muslims sometimes lived in tents — but I suggested the futon in my rental apartment which Diane had already booked.  In the end the Muslim exchange student didn’t come, so I didn’t get to write a post entitled “The Muslim Slept on the Futon.”

On Thursday morning before the wedding day Mike came by to borrow our van and get some additional flower pots for the decorations.  He showed us his to do list which Diane had printed out.  Diane’s pre-retirement job had been to plan routes for the Seattle buses.  She was a planner.  Mike’s list was timed to the hour and color coded for grandchildren to engaged in certain chores.  The list was pages long.  He said it actually saved him.  He didn’t need to think, just follow instructions.

The weather, which up to then had been perfect, was beginning to look iffy.  It was overcast.  They were predicting showers for the wedding Saturday.  Saturday came.  It was raining, hard.  Mah Jongg players called each other, saying, poor Diane, hope it clears.  I went out in the rain and cut bunches of hydrangeas and sweetpeas to take to Diane for use as Grange decorations.   As I delivered the flowers to her house Mike emerged looking harried.  He said, “Diane’s still at the Grange.  I forgot to take the meat for the dinner out of the freezer last night.  Now I have it in the bathtub in hot water, thawing.”

A few minutes later Diane came by my house for flowers.  I said, “ I took them to your house.  Sorry to hear about your problem with the meat.”  She looked horrified.  “Problem with the meat, what problem?”  I explained.  “Oh my God!” she said, and rushed off.  It was raining really hard.

Afternoon came, and the downpour intensified.  Jerry and I had been  invited for cocktails and dinner, so I called Cathy, who was helping with the cocktails, to ask whether I should skip that part, since Diane’s house was really too small for a lot of people.  Cathy said come.

The house was jammed but everyone was jolly.  It is astonishing how many people can fit in a small space.  John Granger was taking grandchildren and others on rides around the island in his carriage.

The brides

There was lots of wonderful salmon, smoked for the occasion by Steve Thatcher.  Everyone looked happy, and the brides were both radiant.  They each have 4 children who were there and having a ball.  Joy, the tall bride, had on a fitted strapless wedding gown that clung to her marvelous figure.  Donna, Mike’s daughter, the short bride, wore white leather motorcycle pants and a lacy shirt. She had a yellow daisy in her hair.  The brides and all the attendants wore dark glasses with white rims.

The happy couple

Dinner went off without a hitch.  The meat had thawed in time, and catering was done by some island neighbors.

Cathy and Russ in the dinner line

The Grange was overflowing with flowers and gladness and there was dancing in the rain on its new deck.

Dancing in the rain

Among the many toasts was a thank you for the new Washington “Everything but marriage” law which provides the same legal status as marriage to gay and lesbian couples.  That law is under attack in this fall’s election; there is a ballot initiative to repeal it.  I wonder why the people who are behind the initiative want to prohibit others from such happiness as I saw on that rainy August evening.

Diane and Mike

Yesterday was my birthday.  I was 78 years old.  Birthdays were always events as I grew up.  My mother was usually offended with somebody on her birthday, often with me because I often forgot the day.  As we both got older I remembered it more and so she was usually offended at someone else rather than at me.  Ours is a big family so somebody almost always forgot.

I tried to de-emphasize birthdays.  That made life easier for me, since I am not good at remembering other peoples’.  I never feel offended with my friends or my children if they don’t remember my birthday.  They are busy, and besides, I often forget theirs.

But my husband is a different matter.  Husbands should remember their wives’ birthdays.  My husbands of the past generally remembered and took notice.  Although my husband of the present, Jerry, is my favorite husband, he is a birthday problem.

A little of his history and character will help explain.  I am his third wife.  His second marriage was a long and happy one.  His wife had died shortly before I met him.  She was a strong, intelligent organized creative and sensible woman.  He is much the same.  Together they were practical, unsentimental and frugal.  They didn’t do holidays or birthdays which they regarded as ways that commercial interests get people to needlessly spend money.

My family and I, frivolous lot that we are, often make a big fuss over birthdays and holidays (and just as often forget them).

So on this birthday I got a card from one daughter (she will do more on her own schedule – she is a busy lawyer) and a call from my British daughter.  I got an email from one grandchild, a call from my cousin in New Zealand, a card from my sister (one for “Sister” with flowers and glitter on it) and a card from my insurance agent.

Jerry woke me up at 5:30 in the morning and said “Happy Birthday.”   I went back to sleep, and when I woke again at 7 I could see that no more was to be said or done about it.  I struggled not to sulk.

I washed my hair, put on my favorite pants and a pink tunic and a necklace.  I thought I should look well groomed on my birthday.  Jerry made my tea as he always does, and we caught the 10 o’clock ferry to town to see our tax person to get our taxes done.

I thought that Tracy, our friend and tax lady, would notice that it was my birthday.  But she didn’t, so I pointed it out.  She immediately congratulated me, and we went on with the work at hand.  After a while she remarked that we would get a refund.  “Well,” I said looking meaningfully at Jerry, “There’s a birthday present.”

When we left I said to Jerry (with damp eyes and a little quiver in my voice), “It hurts my feelings when you ignore my birthday.”

He said, sadly, “I would do something, but I just can’t think what.  I could take you out to breakfast.  I could get you flowers, but you already got them yourself” (I had bought a bunch of daffodils at the grocery store a couple of days before.)

I pointed out that we already had breakfast.  We went to Costco to get allergy pills.  I lingered at the flowers in Costco, gazing miserably at them.  He noticed, and asked, nervously, “Do you want me to get you some flowers?  If so, you’ll have to pick them out.  I don’t know what to get.”

I sighed deeply, and with my best martyr attitude said, “You don’t have to get me flowers.”

I had been considering my birthday dinner.  My friend Gwen had suggested that Jerry take me out to dinner on Valentine’s Day, which he had done, so I knew I wasn’t due for a dinner out, and didn’t really want it anyhow.  But I thought of getting lobster tails which Costco usually has.  I found 2 small lobster tails for an appetizer, with plans for steak as a second course.  I rethought the flowers, and told Jerry I would have some.  I picked them out.  (Red carnations: they last a long time and the roses looked a bit tired.)  Once, a couple of years ago, Jerry bought me roses – without being asked to.

Then we bought the New York Times and went to Barns and Noble for a latte.  (Barnes and Noble doesn’t sell newspapers any more which makes it less desirable as a stop to avoid waits at the ferry.)  At B and N I bought a book of poetry by Billy Collins.  My mood was improving, and I said to Jerry, “Don’t worry, tomorrow I’ll be back to normal.  It won’t be my birthday for another year.”  Since it was Monday, I had the cross word puzzle finished by the time we got to the ferry dock.

At home I went inside to let the dogs out.  They squeaked ecstatically.  Jerry brought the stuff in from the car.

“Oh, you bought me flowers! How sweet of you!” I said.  We laughed and embraced.

I mixed the carnations with the daffodils and some white iberis from the garden and put them on the table.

Birtheay flowers

We lay down for a nap and my British daughter called to say happy birthday.  I said, “I’m so glad you called.  I can’t tell from your blog how you really are.  It sounds so cheerful.  Are you really that cheerful?”

“I’m in the Pub, Muth, on my cell phone.”  This child doesn’t reveal much, but I think she sounded pretty cheerful.  She said nothing much was happening.  We had a nice chat.

Then Jerry and I went for our afternoon walk with the dogs.  At our beach we found our friend Larry pulling his boat up the beach.  It had been damaged by a log in extra high tides.  We lingered in the sunshine and discussed island politics for a few minutes.  I told Larry that it was my birthday, and he wished me a happy birthday.

On the way home Jerry and I discussed national politics.  We agreed that the health care industry is not a “market” as the Republicans seem to think.  When we got home I cooked an artichoke.  While I was cooking dinner Jerry wrapped his arms around me, which he often does, and refers to it as “messing with the cook.” For dinner we had, first, the artichoke, then the lobster tails.  They were good, but not as good as Maine lobsters.  Then we had T-bone steak, cooked outside on the grill, and salad.  A close to perfect dinner.

Later I tried to watch the Olympics, because I like to see the ice dancing.  But there were just too many commercials.  I really think there are more commercials than actual competitions shown.

Today I am back to normal.  A whole year before I’m 79.

I was up a lot last night with a sick cat. Every time I came back to bed a sleepy man wrapped an arm around me and mumbled something sympathetic. He was really tired because all day long he had been shopping for plumbing bits on the mainland and then crawling around under the house fixing a stopped up kitchen sink and a leak in the hot water intake. We discovered these disasters on Sunday, a couple of hours before 10 people were coming to dinner, but we managed to muddle through until the next morning.

After fixing the pipes he came out covered with cobwebs and dirt, grumbling that the crawl spaces in houses he built himself were clean and had lights in them. But he had fulfilled his promise to me when we got married — “You’ll never have to call the plumber again.”

This illustrates some of what I began to know when he came to dinner a little over 2 years ago. I learned that he is sweet natured, he is calm, and, praise be, he is competent. None of my 3 other husbands (two college professors and a lawyer) could connect a hammer with a nail, let alone cope with plumbing issues.

On a fine summer evening in late June 2006 he arrived at my door without a bottle of wine because I told him I would provide it. I didn’t trust him to choose the wine. I judged him to be a meat and potatoes sort of fellow. Sometimes I like to cook fancy food, but steak and mashed potatoes makes me happy too, and that’s what we had. It was a lovely evening.

A week later he said he thought he should go home to mow the lawn.

Here’s some of what I learned during that week. He had started flying when he was 14. He paid for his flying lessons with money he earned repairing radios. While he was in college he homesteaded in Fairbanks, Alaska, and made his own airstrip. In his 40’s he flew solo from Victoria, BC across the Atlantic to London, England, and back, in an air race. In Alaska he flew commercially as a bush pilot. He had taught physics at the University of Alaska and done research on the Aurora Borealis. He owned an electric company, which he ran single handed in Manley, and he started a telephone company there as well.

During that week I was designated driver for his colonoscopy, although it turned out he didn’t need a designated driver. When the Doctor offered him sedation he remarked that the last time he had done without. The doctor said, “We can do that,” so Jerry walked out of the exam alert and hungry.

My 14 year old British granddaughter was coming to visit and I thought this was an appropriate time for a break from my new romance, so Jerry went home to mow the lawn. I planned to take my granddaughter to Vancouver to see some Shakespeare plays in tents by the river. My British grandchildren love Shakespeare.

I kept finding reasons to telephone Jerry. In the end he came to Vancouver with us, but because his hearing is not what it used to be, he had trouble following plot twists and understanding Shakespearian English.

I began to think that falling in love was a possibility, and that marriage might not be out of the question.

What changed my mind? Was it partly some way in which our minds connected? We both had training in science; mine in biology, his in physics, and we thought the same way about the world and how it works. All four of Jerry’s grandparents were Finnish, and Finns are noted for thriftiness with words, but despite his Finnish roots we talked for hours. There was a loveable quality about him that I can’t define. What can I say? He is an adorable man. I am always comfortable with him, and he always seems to be so with me.

Jerry has been emotionally drawn to the north all his life. Perhaps it’s those Finnish genes. He grew up in California. In the army he was sent to Fairbanks, Alaska, and soon after he was discharged he went back. He went to the University of Alaska on the GI bill, and later became a researcher at the Geophysics Institute there.

On the side of his island house he had carved in the shingles the shape of a goose.  “It’s flying north,” he said wistfully. I said, “Why don’t we take a trip to Alaska?” He had not been back for many years, but the next thing I knew we had a copy of the Milepost and were packing the van. We drove the Alcan Highway.

Before we left, having known each other for about 6 weeks, we had decided to get married, but had not decided on a time. I thought my 5 children would need a lot of convincing. I knew their collective response would be, “Oh God, what’s Mother doing now!” Perhaps next year, I said, since much planning would be involved.

I think it was somewhere in the vicinity of Dawson city that Jerry said “I wonder what you have to do in Washington to get married. The last time I did it in Alaska it took 3 days.” I said nothing, but I was thinking.

We stayed in Whitehorse, Yukon, on August 3, 2006. It was Jerry’s 74th birthday. In his youth, Jerry said, if he stopped in Whitehorse he would go out in the evening to watch the bar fights. Today Whitehorse is a modern, sophisticated town, with some of the old flavor nicely preserved in its architecture. We stayed in a comfortable Chinese owned hotel with the decorating oddity that each of the 2 queen beds in our room had identical paintings hung over them. Before going out for Jerry’s birthday dinner we had a celebratory glass of wine. I said, “I wonder if it still takes only 3 days.”

So it was decided. This would solve all the problems of arguments with children and unwanted advice from friends. I could do what I liked, no matter how crazy and risky, though I never had any sense that what I was planning was anything but completely sound. Jerry’s character so combines authenticity, honesty and caution and he always makes me feel safe.

We stayed in Fairbanks long enough to begin the paper work to get married. Actually, it turned out to be 3 working days, and with the complication of getting Jerry’s friend, Bea, appointed to perform the ceremony, it took a week. So we signed the papers and went to Manley Hot Springs, Jerry‘s Alaska home, 150 miles west on a gravel road.

The forms were simple, but they required some specific information, to wit, the dates of all previous marriages, the dates of divorce, and the names of spouses. I was able to pull up marriage dates and names, but the dates of divorce were lost in the mist time. The young woman who was helping us said reassuringly, “Oh, don’t worry, we never check anything. I couldn’t remember the date of my divorce either.” Jerry’s problem, however, was worse than mine. He had been married twice, the first time in his 20’s and for only 2 years, and he couldn’t remember either the date of his marriage or his first wife’s last name, let alone the divorce date. Again, she assured him that there was no checking. (The name, of course, came to him later.)

We were married in Manley. We stayed in a cabin without indoor plumbing, so we had a bath in the hot springs before the wedding.

The hot spring bath

Bea officiated in her pretty yard, and the guests were old friends of Jerry’s. I didn’t know any of them. It was, for me, a brief few days of life without a complicating past.

the ceremony

I knew I would soon have to go home to face the children, and others, but I could put it off a little longer because Jerry had booked the Alaska ferry from Haines to Prince Rupert. Those days became our Honeymoon — the only one I ever had.

After the ceremony

Jerry had heart problems this week. He felt dizzy a couple to times, once after unloading fencing materials from the pickup, and the second time while we were walking with a friend and the dogs in the woods. Between those two events he had 2 visits at the cardiologist, had a stress test and wore a monitor for 24 hours. He is now heading for another session of catheter insertion in his femoral artery to look for cells in his heart that may be causing electrical irregularities. I spend time at night worrying about it

Before I go to bed I take 8 pills prescribed by two doctors, and a couple of other pills that rumor has it will prevent me from getting silly in my 80’s or 90’s (if I live that long). If you saw Jerry and me you would see that we are physically fit, well preserved old people.

Today we walked down to the ferry dock parking lot to retrieve one of our cars left there for a couple of days. We shuffle cars between the island and the mainland to avoid ferry fares and carrying heavy groceries (like cases of beer). We both knew where in the small parking lot our car was parked, and we went straight to the spot. No car. Well perhaps we were mistaken, perhaps that was another time. We wandered around the lot. Had it been towed? Could someone have actually wanted to steal a 3 door ‘99 Saturn? (That’s right, 3 door. Two on the driver side, one on the passenger side.) Still no car. We wondered who to call about towing. We felt despondent as we started out of the lot. And, naturally, that’s when we saw the car. We had walked past it when entering the lot. That sort of thing leaves you feeling less than competent. You wonder whether it’s age.

At least we are together. Yesterday, because I was unnerved by Jerry’s heart problem and our subsequent indecision about whether or not to go to the hospital, I didn‘t cook dinner and we ate at the local island eatery. There we saw a friend much younger than us, 62, who often eats there since his wife died of breast cancer. He is alone (well, 3 cats) with a multitude of medical problems (prostate cancer and Parkinson’s to mention a couple, but there are a lot more.)

Our friend sat with us. He and Jerry talked about building houses and geology and flying. Jerry had been a physicist and a bush pilot in Alaska, and our friend had been a geologist and science teacher. They exchanged sympathetic talk about their late wives struggle with breast cancer. Our friend said that he was dating a few women, but would be going on trips with his brother. I advised him to get on the internet and find a more permanent partner.

That’s how Jerry and I met. In my long life I have had a multitude of romantic misadventures and 3 failed marriages. When I signed up for Match.com I was not looking for a husband, but I had been entirely alone for the 3 years since my quite reprehensible part time partner had died of cancer. I thought it would be pleasant to have a companion for trips, theater and dinners. I have to admit, I met some weird and not wonderful elderly guys through the internet.

When I took the ferry to a distant island to meet Jerry, a recent widower, I was ready to give up. His experience with internet dating had been similar. We had exchanged a few emails, and he said he would meet me on the mainland and take the ferry over to his island with me. I told him what kind of car I would be driving, and he said he would wear his orange hat. Right there I felt a qualm. Orange hat? A guy who wears an orange hat? As I locked the car in the ferry parking lot I saw, lurking by a telephone pole, a tall, lanky slightly stooped old man wearing an orange baseball hat.

It was a long day. I was feeling nervous and blue, and he was guarded and subdued. He was nice, and he tried. After lunch (hamburger, no wine) we toured the island, and then I went with him to his house for tea. He had built his house entirely by himself on top of a doublewide trailer. He and his wife lived on the newly built second floor while he removed the trailer bit by bit from the inside of the first floor and then finished that floor.

His wife had had a passionate interest in collecting things, and she was in an Arts and Crafts phase when they furnished the house. Many of the things she accumulated had value, but I was not familiar with the period and didn’t relate to the décor. His politics, libertarian/conservative, were different from mine, classical liberal. He was not interested in travel. He said his marriage had been a good one, and his wife had died only 3 months before. I thought, he’s looking for a replacement wife. I thought, not me, babe.

I went back to the mainland on the 4 o’clock ferry. It was a long trip, 1 ½ hours, then an hour drive to my ferry. I felt tired and discouraged. I had an email from Jerry saying that it had been a good first meeting and that we should meet again. Here is, in part what I responded:

“I want to tell you what a nice day I had with you. You are an intelligent and gentle man, and we had lots to talk about. But I have to say that I do not see romance for us in the future. A friendship would be a thing I would value. I’m afraid that isn’t what you are looking for, and I know that I would not fill the real need you have for an intimate life companion.”

I told him I thought he should spend more time mourning his loss before making any life changing plans.

He responded, in part:

“I am of course disappointed. I also thought it was unlikely that we would have a future. For my selfish interest I need to be with a lively woman, do a few things with her . . . Then think more seriously about the future. I need something between my recent past life and what ever the future is going to be. I expect that you do not see how you fit into this. What else can I say?”

His reply to my suggestion that he wait before changing his life was:

“I have come to realize that I am not going from one marriage right into another. I do not need to mourn anymore. I need to do some living. After you left….there is a real live woman.”

Flattery often works.  I wrote back:

“Let me think this over. I like you very much. We might try again, but I couldn’t let you hope for anything long term, and I had no idea that a fling would be your cup of tea. Falling in love would be a bad idea.”

We negotiated a visit to my island. I wrote “…not sure when, but soon. You come here, have dinner and we’ll see what’s next. No promises of anything but good food — and some wine for heaven’s sake!”

To be continued……