Month: July 2024

Recently Michael asked me if I ever write about politics on my blog. I told him that I don’t often broach that subject even though I have been passionately political throughout my adult life. I have a group of friends that I have known for years, women I met when my kids were in grade school. We are well-informed about current events, and it is usually the first thing we talk about whenever we get together. We each have strong opinions that we listen to, sometimes argue against, and always respect. Many years ago, when I was listening to a heated argument regarding politics amongst several couples, one of the women turned to me and said, “Let’s talk about something else. I hate politics.” I have never understood that position. Everything from the water you drink, the interest rate on your mortgage, and your kids’ education is political. Why would you ever let someone else decide those things for you without weighing in?

My intent this morning was to write about the fabulous trip Michael and I just took to Ireland and that will happen. But yesterday as we were adjusting to getting back home after a hellish travel day, doing laundry, yardwork, and stocking the fridge, the news broke that President Biden was dropping out of the race and with it my heart dropped. Michael and I have disagreed about whether he should stay in the race or not and I was steadfastly behind him. His debate performance? Awful, but I thought he’d recover and serve again. That was not to be and as I later lay wide awake in bed due to jet lag and thinking about the fast-moving events hours before, I started to cry which has never been a habit of mine when it comes to politicians.

Whenever I saw Joe Biden, I saw his pain. I think that switch flips on when you have an out-of-order loss and never flips off. Since my own traumatic loss, I see it everywhere – the people in The Club. For me he represented such decency, such perseverance and fight when his world imploded twice, the grace to say that these losses of his would always hurt, and that staunch Catholicism of his that reminded me so much of my dad.

During our rough day of travel on Saturday when we still had a long way to go, Michael and I landed in Newark. Over a glass of wine, I thought how much I couldn’t wait to get a good night’s sleep and call my mom in the morning to tell her all about the trip. Then I remembered she was gone, and just like that I felt like I was plopped from a life with this woman who was funny and beautiful, who carried her faith with her wherever she went, and of course couldn’t wait to hear everything about your trip.

During those early morning tears of mine, I thought that this president of ours who is very familiar with having your back against the wall would have cried with me, handed me his handkerchief as I blew my snotty nose into the presidential seal, and then said, “C’mon, kid, put your game face back on, we’ve got a woman to elect.”

While Mark was an avid cyclist, I preferred walking. The only gear required was a decent pair of gym shoes, and while he was supportive of my daily walks, my husband much preferred the manly sport he chose. I felt like a little kid who was patted on the head whenever I’d leave for the park doing my lil exercise. Then he did some research, found out that daily walking was good for your brain health, and all of a sudden he wanted to join me.

The summer prior to his death, we’d head outside after dinner and roam around our neighborhood and the expensive one next door. Two blocks from our house we would pass by an older woman tending her garden in her front yard. She would scoop small amounts of mulch from a bag with her spade, dump it in the dirt, smooth it out, and repeat over and over. I felt like we should offer to pick up the whole bag and dump it which would be so much faster, but she seemed content with her plan and so we’d say “hello, beautiful night, your garden is looking great” and keep moving. On the way back she’d still be out there in the dark with her spade, her garden, and her plan. “I want to be like her when I get older,” I told Mark, “tending the earth with the lightning bugs keeping me company.”

For the longest time I didn’t see her and was worried that she had died except I hadn’t seen a moving truck in the driveway or for sale sign planted in her yard. The one person I knew who lived near her had moved so I had no way of finding out what was going on or why she wasn’t in her garden every night. A few weeks ago I passed her house on the way to the park and there she was, sitting in a wheelchair by the front door watching the neighborhood activities. Dottie was still with us. I smiled and waved and teared up from relief and happiness.

Michael is an avid, daily walker and after one of his early morning walks told me that he passed by a house where an ambulance was parked in the driveway. He described the house and I peppered him with questions. Was it next to the gray house that was for sale? Did it have a white iron bench in front and a small garden next to the driveway? Did you see an older woman with gray hair being brought out? He didn’t have an answer to any of my questions until a few days later when we were in the car and he pointed the house out.

My heart sank.

Weeks later I still don’t know what happened and for now I prefer it that way. Watching this woman in her garden and knowing my mom was safe and cared for in a memory care unit made life feel safe. On the way to work the other day I was stopped at a light and an older man in a different park was walking the path and picking up sticks along the way. He didn’t toss them aside into the grass but held onto them stooping over to pick them up. I prayed he wouldn’t fall when he bent over as my mom often had.

The light turned green, and I wished I could have had a bit more time watching him. Salman Rushdie once said, “We all owe death a life,” and as I have grown older, I prefer that it be simpler, much like Dottie the Nighttime Gardener or the man I saw picking up sticks. Stewards along the path, caring for what is beneath our feet, and making the journey a bit more beautiful as we watch each other grow in wisdom and gratitude.