What I know to be true, and what I feel in my heart.

Friday and Sunday nights continue to be a problem for me.  Friday nights are synonymous with the joy I felt at being reunited with Gwen after a week of being apart and, a lifetime later, having her physical presence leave me.  On Sunday nights I would begin missing Gwen the moment she walked into the house and I backed out or her driveway and headed for Birch Creek.  Then, of course, I could feel her lips on mine all the way home, and look forward to next Friday night.  The hard part now is not being able to look forward to the next Friday night; when I would once again feel her lips on mine.  

  Sunday night, after Anne left for the airport, I had this forlorn feeling, that it just wasn't  right that Gwen wasn’t there with me to say goodbye to her, and it would be just me in the house again after she left.  Gwen needs to be here with me; we weren’t through loving each other.  It was cloudy and cold, and, as night began to fall I remembered Gwen once saying, “my mood reflects the weather—gloomy.” 

I wrote these words to a friend today, “the battle between what we know to be true cognitively and what we feel in our heart is at the core of our pain.”  My friend also talked about her struggle to restore meaning, value and identity to her life.  We face that struggle every day of our life, but it becomes so much more difficult when the one who automatically added those things to our life isn’t here to do it.  Now family and friends do that for us, but, face it, it will never be the same.

There are thing for which I am grateful.  Singing in the choir at church was special yesterday when a string quartet accompanied us.  After that Anne and I drove to Brighton where we met John, Amy and Brooke for brunch. . .nothing to be sad about there.  My plan to drive to Hershey to visit with Mike and Deann next weekend is firmed up; in spite of my melancholy mood, there is much for which to be grateful.

This morning, Dear, as I was typing this, out of the corner of my eye I saw Max standing and looking out the window while you scratched behind his ears.  Of course, Max had only one thought in his mind, there are squirrels running around out there!  I had only one thought in mind; I’ll go sit on the couch with Gwen and rub her feet.  Meaning, value and identity will once again be mine.  (No, kids, that part about Max doesn't mean what you think it does.)

Silent Sunday

Things are stirring.

I don't know if any of this will make sense;  I just have to write about it.  Two thoughts I’ve had lately have to do with something I heard somewhere recently.  The first is this: “We cannot change our past, but we can change our relationship to it.”  The second is related to the first: “In order for the new self to emerge the old self has to die.”  Those two thoughts capture the essence of how I’ve been going about dealing with my grief over the fact that Gwen, my soul mate, has died. 

My relationship to the past is in large part about my relationship to Gwen.  There are so many wonderful memories wrapped up in that relationship.  Then there are at least two ways to look at that.  I can stay stuck in the past and be sad that those days are gone.  On the other hand, I can bring those memories into my present life and cherish them as fond reminders of the love that Gwen and I shared for so long, and appreciate and be grateful for them.  That is not as easy to do as it may sound.  It’s kind of like putting toothpaste back in the tube.  When those memories are a part of my life once again it’s as though they add sweetness to my life that makes the lonely emptiness bearable.  I can’t just put them back where they were before I found them, much like I can’t put the toothpaste back in the tube.  It’s always the smallest thing that triggers these kind of feeling—the Tennessee Waltz was playing on my i-Pod earlier today, and I was back dancing with Gwen at her folk's cottage, feeling her, smelling her, seeing her, hearing her say sweet things, tasting her lipstick, wanting her as much as ever.  As I write this I realize how sentimental, maybe even naive it sounds, but that’s what it’s like for me. 

Then the second idea comes into play.  Can I let the old self die in order that a new life may emerge?  Can I allow all those memories of things in the past become just that—memories?   There are times during the day when I am able to do that, yet, when I walk into the empty house, even this weekend when Anne is visiting; there is the realization, almost as though for the first time, that Gwen isn’t there to greet me.  And, that just plain hurts.   I know that Gwen wants me to let a new life emerge.  Yet, there’s always a part of me that wants to say, “easy for her to say.”  So, I go on, day by day, sometimes moment by moment, being the best father, grandfather, friend, person filled with faith and hope—me—that I know how to be.  What I’m left with is my favorite saying, from the Quakers, “A way will show.”   Soon it will be a year since Gwen died.  I wonder what it will be like a year from now, two years from now; then I remember that a year ago I would have been sitting with Gwen enjoying a TV show, or just talking.  Can life again be like that for me. . .filled with familiar routines and enjoying the company of those I love?  It has helped to write about this, things have gotten a bit clearer.

There were times when I was working at the stadium today, Dear, when I was by myself with time on my hands.  At times like that my thoughts always turn to you.  I don’t ever want that relationship to my past to change.  And, as the old me dies and the new me emerges, I want you always to be part of whomever I am.

HER PERFECT POEM

One of the things I most loved about Gwen was her ability to surprise me; sometimes it would be her unexpected sense of humor.  We had a discussion about funerals.  Her wish was that she be cremated and laid to rest in a simple ceremony.  I argued that it would be better to have a traditional funeral with her lying in state in a casket.  She reluctantly agreed.  Shortly before her death she had begun experiencing pain in her joints, and, when I would roll her on her side to bathe or clothe her it was important to do so carefully so as not to put undue pressure on her joint, causing more pain.  On one occasion I forgot this, and simply rolled her onto her side.  I immediately saw that I had caused her to have a good deal of unnecessary pain. Before I could begin telling her how sorry I was, she looked at me with tears in her eyes and said: "John, you're going to have to be more careful about how you roll me over or I won't let you put me in that coffin."  That type of gallows humor may not appeal to some, but it remains one of my treasured memories of Gwen's unflagging courage and ability to make light of even the most dire circumstances.

Gwen loved it when I would write poems for her.  On my birthday, shortly after that magic evening when we realized that, as Gwen put it, "maybe we should think about getting married," she surprised me with a birthday card that revealed a romantic, poetic side of her that she didn't often show:

HER PERFECT POEM

It was tucked away,

among our treasured letters;

simple, a piece of plain white paper

carefully folded into quadrants;

on the front is written:

Happy Birthday “Hon”

Inside, her carefully printed words

fill my heart even more today:

I searched and searched

for a card for one so

perfect as you but could

find none to compare.

It is probably a good

thing that you can’t see your-

self in the mirror of my

heart.  You’d probably

be “conceited.”

Happy Birthday

to  the “perfect” guy!!

ALL my Love,

Gwen

In my hand I hold the most perfect

poem ever written.

John A. Bayerl, September 15, 2011

Living with you was never boring, Dear, I see the legacy of your humor and poetic nature in each of our children, and now our grandchildren.  

First encounter

Perhaps, by writing about some of those moments when "time stood still" for Gwen and me it will help to ease the way November 12 will be experienced.

Ours wasn't one of those fabled "love at first sight" encounters.  We liked each other, and dated after our initial meeting, but continued dating others.  Surprisingly, I wasn't crushed when Gwen told me that she had dated the same guy all during her break break at Christmas but saw it as a challenge to become someone she would see exclusively.  I too had dated other women during that time, but was still feeling fragile as the result of a previous love affair that had gone badly.  Over time, we became fascinated with each other.  I knew that I was hooked when I began to "stalk" her.  Everyone knows how that goes; I knew what her schedule of classes was, and would conveniently arrange to be at the foot of the long stairway in Pierce Hall when she came down from her history class.  "I didn't know you had a class this hour."   "Could I help you carry your books?"  "What are your plans for the weekend?"

Later in the spring we were what a that time was called "going steady."  I asked Gwen to attend the dinner dance at my fraternity, and then heard that a guy from another fraternity was going to ask her to go to his.  It was quite unlike me, but I immediately sought out that guy and let him know in no uncertain terms that as far as I was concerned Gwen was off limits to him.  I told Gwen about it the night we fell in love.  She said that she didn't like the guy and wouldn't have accepted his invitation, but I could see in her eyes that she liked what I had done.

One night Gwen and I were "studying" in the library.  Actually, she was teaching me how to write shorthand, I would have to pass the class if I wanted to become a  business teacher.  She said that she couldn't concentrate because I gave her too much to think about herself.  She wrote me a  note in shorthand that I still have.  In it she mentions "what happened" last weekend, and said the she wasn't ready to talk about it; she was confused about it.  What had happened was a moment when we became simply who we were; two people who were meant for each other.  We had been invited to a party at a friend's house.  The house was in a grove of pine trees, and I parked beneath one of them.  I'd like to say that there was a bright full moon, but, as often happens in moments like  these, we remember the event with great clarity, but the details are sketchy.  A detail I do remember is that we both became aware of each other's presence in a way we had never before experienced,  and began to kiss.  The kiss became a passionate embrace, and that was the moment when nothing else in the world mattered.  There's a line in the song, When a Man Loves a Woman about seeing your unborn children in her eyes.  When we pulled apart and looked into each other's eyes, I don't know if I was seeing our unborn children, but I was seeing something I had never seen before.  "Should we go into the party?" I asked.  "No," she replied.

Everyone has those moments like we had, Dear, moments when being with each other is all that matters.  It is comforting now to look back at some of ours and see them for what they were--brief moments when two ordinary people felt the grace of the gift of an extraordinary love.  By losing ourself in each other we became who we were.

Oh, Anne is going to be staying at our house for the rest of this week while she works in Detroit.  When I awoke this morning it felt good to hear someone stirring in the house and smell coffee brewing.  And, yes, I did remember to get a card for her adoption birthday.  We are still negotiating a gift.

Moments of love.

Recently I've participated in a book club where we discussed Thomas Merton's book, The Seven Storey Mountain.  The person who led the discussion of the book, a professor in the School of Business at UM, sent me a  quote from Merton: "My true meaning and worth are shown to me not in my estimation of myself, but in the eyes of the one who loves me; and that one must love me as I am, with my faults and limitations, revealing to me the truth that these faults and limitations cannot destroy my worth in their eyes; and that I am therefore valuable as a person, in spite of my shortcomings.. ."  Perhaps it is because November 12 is approaching, the day that marks one year since Gwen died.  Whatever the reason, I've been thinking about what Gwen meant to me and how I felt when I was with her.  A short answer is that she meant everything to me, and that I felt complete when she was with me.  A longer answer involves remembering profound, defining moments in our relationship.  These are moments when the chatter and clatter of life fades into the background and we become simply who we are.  Four of those moments were when our three children were born and when adoption procedures were finalized and Anne Marie came to be part of our family.   Only those who mourn the loss of someone they truly love can know what it is like to be without that person.  Likewise, only those who have welcomed new members into their families can know what it is like to feel the joyful awe, (Or, is it awful joy?)  that accompanies the moment when a new life becomes their responsibility.  


Gwen and I shared several moments when the only thing that mattered was what was happening then and there.  The first of those moments was when we looked into each other's eyes and saw something there that we had never seen with anyone else.  The words "I love you" that tumbled from my mouth at that instant were the most sincere and spontaneous words that I have ever spoken. Fourteen months after that, on our wedding night, before falling asleep, my whole world consisted of Gwen's body next to mine and I knew that this was how it would be for the rest of our lives.  Another time, definitely joyful, was when we were reunited in Portland, Oregon, after Gwen had spent two weeks at home with our two children and her parents.

Other moments weren't always joyful.  There was the moment when I held Gwen in my arms in the hospital after the devastating diagnosis of diabetes and the delivery of stillborn child she had been carrying.  There was the moment we sat in Gwen's doctor's office and heard the word cancer.  Lastly, there was the moment when I saw Gwen lying in bed, eyes closed, mouth open, no longer breathing.  Each one of these moments deserves to be considered in its own right with much reflection and contemplation.  It will give me something to do in the days ahead.

What I remember most about these moment, Dear, is the constancy of a love that ran through each one.

The Beatles Revisited

From early on poems were an important part of our relationship.  I read a lot,  and found it fun to rhyme words, sometimes I would put them together into what I called a poem.  Gwen enjoyed my poems,  and would occasionally ask me to write one for her.  It was always difficult for me to do my rhyming under that kind of pressure; but I would always try to please her.  During my year as a commercial teacher in Stephenson my students would also ask me to write poems for certain occasions.  I must have done OK on that because they always asked for more.

Much later in my life I met Dick Mc Mullen, an English teacher and accomplished poet, who introduced me to and encouraged me to simply write what was in my heart--free verse.  Later still, Dave Stringer and Stan Bidlack, both superb writers, also encouraged me.  Dave said, "Write something  every day.  Now and then you will surprise yourself and write something."     Dick was the editor of monthly newsletter that was circulated among our local chapter of the Michigan Education Association.  If one wishes to see what one has written in print, it is good to know an  editor.  This is the first of my  poems that Dick published:

THE BEATLES REVISITED

Let it be
but  don't let it alone
the person no one sees
but you
cries.

A little boy weeping
sometimes a woman
afraid, unsure
but trying

to homogenize without pasteurizing
what I see with what you see
creating real
and free.

A part of, yet
apart from the person
everyone sees.

Tears
          of
               joy.

John A. Bayerl, circa 1980


We talked about this poem, Dear.  You told me  that it moved you.  I told you that it was about a counseling session but could be about any genuine human encounter, the miracle of our love being a  prime example of that..  Today it has taken on more meaning.  Our friend, Mary,  returned my call from last night, and cried as she told me about receiving my telephone message while she was at the bedside of a thirteen-year old girl who died of leukemia.     "You never call me at night," she said, "it felt so good to know that your were thinking about me at that moment."   She also told me that she felt your presence with her all night long.  Then I cried.

Appreciating what I had and have.

 Often,  I awake with a song going through my mind.  This morning it was Today by the New Christy Minstrels.  "Today while the blossoms still cling to the vine I'l taste your strawberries, I'll drink your sweet wine. . ."  I looked at one of the many pictures of Gwen in my room, and felt that same longing and loving tug that I so often feel.  I wondered why the song had such a strong hold on me until I did some research on it.  The song was released in 1964 and rose right to the top of the charts.  Gwen and I were in the first year of our marriage then--mystery solved.

This morning I had breakfast with an old friend whose wife died of cancer a few months before Gwen.  He and I relate well to each other, and it is heartening to talk with him and discover that he experiences many of the same things that I do.  One of the things we talked about was the war that goes on inside us as we work through our grief and at the same time try to be grateful and appreciative of the many years we were able to share love with our spouse.  This was again evident Saturday night and yesterday when Brooke filled our house and my heart with joy.  She so enjoyed "playing" with grandma, and I try hard to fill that  void, knowing of course that it's an impossible task--only grandma could love Brooke the way grandma did.

Brooke and I attended choir practice and Mass yesterday morning.  For more than two hours she patiently sat with me, first through choir practice, and then for Mass.  At one point she even whispered to me that I have a pretty voice.  We then went straight to the movie theater where we saw "A Dolphin Tale."   We sat in the same seats where Gwen and I used to sit; having that sweet eight-year old girl with me made it so much easier.  Then we went home and made soup; I chopped vegetables and Brooke stirred.  After John came to get her and they left for home the house  didn't feel quite as empty as it sometimes does.

I have been worried about my oldest sister Cookie after hearing that she had fallen and fractured some bones in her body.  She called me later today, and I was relieved that the injuries aren't nearly as bad as was originally  thought.  Another bit of good news was when someone from WUOM called and apologized that the day sponsorship on Saturday, in loving memory of the day 50 years ago when Gwen and I first met, had not gone exactly as planned, and he offered me another day.  It will be November 12.

You were there with Brooke and me, Dear.  I'll never be the grandparent that you were; it was your passion.  But, it is good to have you as a role model.  

Silent Sunday

MENDING A BROKEN HEART

It was homecoming weekend at what was then called Northern Michigan College.  It was the first semester of my senior year.  I was struggling through classes like shorthand, having just switched my major from business administration to business education.  Rather than preparing to be a captain of industry, the availability of National Defense Education Act loans helped me decide to make a difference by being a teacher--a decision I have never regretted.  Gwen was also a business major; she was a scholarship student, and also worked as a student assistant at the campus health center, that may account for her decision later in life to complete her college education and earn a bachelor's degree in nursing.  She was way better at shorthand than I would ever be; in fact she was better at all the courses in the business curriculum than I.

On a clear, crisp October evening some fraternity brothers and I decided to visit the place where the sorority to which Gwen belonged was building their homecoming float.  Ostensibly we there to offer some technical support and help out a little, but everyone knew we were there to "check  out the girls." Part of the construction of the float involved stuffing paper napkins through chicken wire, and I remember seeing Gwen there as part of the work crew.  She looked familiar; the year before I had served as president of the campus Newman Club, and I had seen her sitting in the front row at a meeting I conducted; looking all cute, petite and full of life and energy.  But, I had never been formally introduced to her.

When work on the float was competed for the night,  some of the girls, Gwen included, asked for a ride back to their dormitory.  My friend, Smitty, in whose car I had ridden over, offered to transport some of them.  I got into the back seat of the car, and, as the saying goes, the rest is history:

MENDING A BROKEN HEART, October 22, 1961

There I was,

minding my own business,

tending to the broken heart

left behind by a girl named Betty Jo.

Out of nowhere she crawled into

the back seat of the car

sat herself on my lap

put her arms around my neck

and told me that her name was Gwen.

I told her that was a pretty name

for a pretty girl.

She never minced words from the start—

“that sounds like a line,” she said.

My heart began to mend that day

when, sassy as could be, she put herself

in the middle of my life—

then became my life—

“always and forever,” she said,

and we both liked it that way.

A year later, we called it our first anniversary.

We looked forward to many firsts,

never dreaming of this one—

the first time we are apart on this earth,

on our anniversary.   

 Now the heart she mended

is once again broken.

I can’t find a line that fits the situation,

John A. Bayerl, October 22, 2011

How fortunate we were, Dear, to have found each other on that fall evening.  Not much later we discovered that we shared the same beliefs about faith, marriage, children, life in general--we could talk about anything with each other.  And, we did.

Tomorrow is a special day.

Tomorrow is a special day in more ways than one.  On Thursday night, October 22, 1961, some friends and I decided to take a break from working on our fraternity's entry in the homecoming parade on Saturday.  We decided to visit a barn where one of the sororities would be working on their float.  That was  when I first met Gwen.  More about that tomorrow.  In honor of that occasion I have taken out a day sponsorship on WUOM, 91.7, The University of Michigan public radio station.  A special message I wrote will be read six times during the day.  Friends have asked me when those times are: 6:59 a. m., 9:59 a. m., 12:59 p. m., 2:59 p. m., 4:59 p. m., and 7:59 p. m.

At 5:00 I'll attend a Mass that is being offered in Gwen's name.  After that, Brooke is coming to spend a night with me.  We're thinking maybe a movie buttered popcorn and ju jubis.  I can't think of a nicer way to keep Gwen with us.  At Thanksgiving I'll continue our tradition of having the grand kids go with me to purchase a toy for the Toys for Tots drive.  Gwen loved that too.

Fifty years ago tonight, Dear, I went to bed not knowing that on the next day my life would be altered in the best possible way--thank you for the gift of your love and all that followed.  You once said this to me:  "I love you dearly and miss you terribly," now it's my turn to say it to you. 

Little things: big reminders

The feeling I get when some small thing reminds me of Gwen is a mixture of gratitude and sorrow.  The temperature was in the 40s this morning when I headed over to Pioneer High to spend an hour with Nolan in the AP Physics class he teaches first hour.  The car was cold when I got in, and I could hear Gwen telling me to open the vents on the dashboard and put the fan on high so that she could quickly warm up, then snuggling close to me to get warm.  Am I grateful that we were able to share moments like that?  Of course I am.   Am I sad that we are no longer able to share them?  Of course I am.

Later in the morning I had an appointment to get my teeth cleaned.  I remembered to brush my teeth before heading over to the dentist; as Gwen would have me do.  It never made sense to me that I should clean my teeth before going to get them cleaned; but I never raised that issue with Gwen.  She had beautiful teeth--pretty hard to argue with that.  I thought about my lovely wife as I brushed my teeth.

On the way home from the dentist's office a song by Tracy Grammer came up on my i-Pod.  It's was a sentimental, sad song entitled It's Always Winter When He (She) Is Gone.  I said it out loud in the car: "You can say that again!"

This was one of those days when my calendar was filled.  In early afternoon I had my singing lesson, which went very well.  As I walked through the parking lot afterwards I was singing the song Kyle and I had worked on.  When I got into the car I felt Gwen's presence in a way that made aware that she had enjoyed my singing and was happy that I was taking lessons.  

One more thing on the calendar today, Dear.  My friend Tom and I have gotten the Men's Club at church going again, and that's tonight.  Sister Dorothy was kind enough to help us get going, and she will be with us tonight.  I know you love that; a nun working with a men's club.  I can hear you laughing now; you always had that little anti-establishment streak in you.

. . . .to become a deeper person.

It's a cloudy, rainy, very dark day; the kind of day it must have been when Gwen wrote this in a letter to me: "Today is just miserable.  It's raining and you're not here."  Today as I read those words I am taken by their sheer simplicity and the raw emotion they reveal.  At the time  she wrote them she had no way of knowing how much comfort they would bring me on a day like today; and they are as true now as they were then.

All morning I've had that "I still can't believe it's true that Gwen is dead." kind of feeling.  It's been almost a year, yet I have no clear picture in my head of what I look like without her.  Marje, a friend in a bereavement group I attend, said it well while we were sharing pictures of our beloved:  "I have no pictures of the life I have now."  Those pictures are slowly beginning to develop in my life.  It will eventually be a collage of pictures of an individual who is grateful that he shared a love with someone who made sure that none of his rainy days were miserable.  The person in those pictures will look happy, but at times there will also be a sad, far-away look in his eyes.  I'm reminded again of a quote by Oscar Wilde: " . . . .to become a deeper person is the privilege of those who suffer."  Gwen wants me to be happy, and I know I will be, but in a deeper, more meaningful way, because of days like today.

Thank you, Dear, for allowing your poetic self to write those words to me long ago.

NOTHING TO EXPLAIN

The emotional roller-coaster ride continues.  This morning my spirits were high as I observed Kara performing her duties as a student teacher in a second-grade classroom.  She and Becky, her cooperating teacher, had prepared the class in advance, and when I walked into the classroom they all said: "Good morning, Dr. B."  It's been a while since I've been that moved.  Crying is good.  For the rest of the hour I was privileged to once again see someone in action who loves what she does and does it well.  As I watched, I reflected that the many current critics of public education would be well served by spending a week in a classroom like the one I was in.  I used my i-Phone to take a snippet of a video of the class room to use in my report later.  I thought to myself: "Gwen will enjoy seeing. . .Oops.

Yesterday's experience was similar.  After playing nine hole with Ed, he went home, and I stayed and played the back nine by myself.  It was quiet on the course, there weren't many other players, and I enjoyed being alone, having my conversations with Gwen.  As I was coming down the eighteenth fairway I was hit by a thought I frequently have about how unfair it is that I was in good health, enjoying myself, and Gwen wasn't there to enjoy it with me.  Sadness overtook me, and I had no choice but to lean my head on the steering wheel of the cart and have a good cry.  Afterwards I felt better, somehow more alive, and once again engaged in the internal dialogue that ends up with me reminding myself to be grateful for the many years of life and love that Gwen and I shared.  And then there are our four beautiful children, my brothers and sister, Gwen's brother and sister, and my many relatives and friends.  Many people aren't at all that fortunate.  Be thankful, John!

One of the things I am grateful for is Gwen's straightforward, in a confused sort of way, manner of expressing the love that she and I shared from the start:

NOTHING TO EXPLAIN

“I can’t explain,

it’s  just the way it is;”

is how you described

the miracle of our love.

There was never any doubt,

never anything to explain,

it was just the way it was—

perfect!

  

John A. Bayerl, September 4, 2011

We move forward, Dear; not always in a straight line, it's more that roller coaster.  

LIPSTICK

So, what's it like; being without Gwen this Monday morning?  I awakened to sunshine streaming in the window and shining bright on my favorite picture of her.  It's one of those sunny, clear, crisp days that she loved.  Sometimes I wonder if there will come a time when I'm not constantly remembering things about her.  Then I remind myself that there are fifty years worth of memories; it should not be a surprise that they pop up out of nowhere, like mushrooms after a warm rain in May.  This summer, when I emptied the glove box of our car, I discovered a tube of lipstick that Gwen always kept there:

LIPSTICK

Her lipstick tube remains

in the car glove box

where she left it;

we never went anywhere

without it.

Peruvian Bronze seems like

a strange color for those red lips

I once kissed;

I twist it open,

see where it matched

the contours of her lips—

knowing that it once

massaged her lips 

brings her near.

Brings back the many times

before church,  a movie, a visit with friends;

it was the last thing she did;

pull down the visor,

look in the mirror, trace her lips,

blot with a tissue.

I can hear her gaily announce:

“OK, I’m ready, let’s go.”

And go we did.

John A. Bayerl, October 17, 2011

How could I have been annoyed, Dear, when you insisted on putting on lipstick before we went in to the meeting, or doctor appointment or whenever you thought it was important to look your best?  You wanted me to be proud of you--as if I weren't already.  

Silent Sunday

WHAT LIES AHEAD

Gwen and I enjoyed going for a walk together; especially this time  of the year, on a clear, crisp autumn day.  We'd amble along, kicking the leaves and talking about the things people who love being married talk about.  As I'm writing this the sun is breaking through some clouds and shining bright through the oak tree in the back yard. It is beginning to look a bit barren even though oaks are stubborn and hold onto their leaves for a long time.  I can imagine them standing tall in golden glory and lording it over the naked maples.  Nature has a way of keeping things in balance, and, in the spring, the oaks and maples will be equal.  This poem is about that:

WHAT LIES AHEAD

The signs are everywhere:

purple  asters in fading bloom

leaves gather on the lawn

jeans replace shorts

the smell of fireplace smoke

south-bound geese honking overhead

the taste of cider and donuts.

These signs of approaching winter

were welcomed by us

as we strolled through

quickly-darkening fall evenings

holding hands like school children

warmed against the early chill

by the certainty of our love.

This October is different,

the chill in the air fills my heart.

I do not welcome what lies ahead

on that November day

when we no longer owned the world.

 John A. Bayerl, September 15, 2011

I take some comfort, Dear, in knowing that, faith aside, even nature tells us that temporary beauty must pass away in order for a more beautiful new life to emerge.  

Free Association Friday

There's a real touch of autumn in the air today.  It's cloudy, windy and chilly.  That also means there aren't many days left to play golf, so. . .out I went at 7:30 this morning, hoping to beat the rain forecast for later in the day.  Not only did I beat the rain, I also beat everyone else to the golf course.  My friend, Ed, wimped out on me because of the weather, but I enjoyed the time alone.  It was another of those time when I strongly felt Gwen's presence; I could hear her cheering good shots, teasing me about missed putts, just being there with me.  It's that bittersweet thing again because I long to have her actually sitting next to me.  There goes that sinking feeling in my stomach.

As I was driving home, the rain began.  Lately I've been thinking about chicken noodle soup, and what better day than today to make that favorite of Gwen's and mine.  There's a Meijer's Thrifty Acres store on the way home where I got some carrots, celery, parsley, and, of course, a chicken.  The soup is on the stove right now, and the smell is as delicious as the soup will be later.  There are always those associations--Gwen would compliment me on my chicken noodle soup and tell me that her dad liked it because I put big chunks of chicken in it.

One thing leads to another, and my eyes misted over as I thought about  how I'll miss our dog, Max, when I'm removing the meat from the carcass.  The sight of me making chicken noodle soup was a big deal to him.  He would lie on the floor at my feet, pretending to be bored and disinterested in what I was doing.  He would sure come to life when I tossed him some skin or other scraps.  Gwen's voice was in the background, warning me not to give him any bones that might get caught in his throat.  Oh, the sweet memories.  He was a good dog, and I miss him.  (Don't get excited, kids, it's not going to happen.)

I have to remember to talk with my brothers and sisters more often.  Last night I talked with Andy and Cindy; it was good to get caught up on what's going on with them.  Anne's job had taken her to Boston, and they had dinner together last night.

Call it what you will; as I follow my thoughts and feelings they always lead back to you, Dear.  I've been working on a poem about autumn without you; it will be ready tomorrow.  (I just got choked up when I realized that you not only help me write the poems, you also enjoy reading them.)  That's the thing about a poem; good, bad or indifferent, it's something from the heart that is unique and didn't exist before.

SIGNS OF THINGS TO COME

By now I should be used to how easy it is to dance two separate dances through life.  There's the fast, fun dance; the polka.  I can hear Gwen urging me to spin faster and faster.  That's the dance I'll dance today when I'm out there in the world; attending a meeting of The University of Michigan Retirees Association, where I'll learn about insurance benefits I'm entitled to as a surviving spouse/beneficiary.   (I will always hate how cold and sterile that sounds: "surviving spouse/beneficiary."  Makes me want to shout:  "Hey, I'm John, not some legalese phrase;  Gwen was the best thing that ever happened to me, and I'll never think of her as someone whom I'm surviving!")  Later today I'll again do that lively dance when I am with my group of  Story Time Players at an elementary school, hamming it up and reading about the three little pigs.  (There is no pun intended by saying hamming it up with the tree little pigs.)

For the rest of today I'll do the slow, dreamy waltz; remembering the soft warmth of my perfect partner as we slowly circled around the dance floor.  Today it is cloudy and cold--a perfect day to stay inside for a while and let God and Gwen speak to me:

AS  LEAVES DRIFT PAST MY WINDOW

Today, as leaves drift past my window,

I know that our certain love

warms against the oncoming winter;

Like the bulbs I planted Sunday,

I await the spring,

John A. Bayerl, October 13, 2011

It doesn't matter if the dance is fast or slow, Dear, it will always be with you.

Self-improvement Wednesday

In spite of what can only be called a self-improvement day for me, at one point I found myself sobbing.  It was while I was taking laundry out of the dryer and folding it.  Gwen always complimented me on how carefully and well I folded tee shirts.  As I moved an exceptionally well folded stack of tee shirts into the laundry basket I looked up the stairs and realized, it felt like almost for the first time, that when I brought them upstairs Gwen would not be there to fuss over how well I had folded this week's batch of tee shirts.  As I write about moments like that, I know it is important for me to face them and work them through if I am to continue being the strong person Gwen wants me to be.  Easy to say; never easy to do.

That wasn't the only "self-improvement"m thing I did today.  Bright and early, at  8:00 a. m., I met with Kyle for my singing lesson.  With each lesson I become more aware of how the discipline and skills it takes to sing well  can be used in other areas of my life--breathing properly, for example.

At noon I had my golf lesson.  Today it went very well, and I was again reminded of how the discipline it takes to hit a golf ball efficiently carries over to other areas of my life; standing strong and tall comes to mind.

Right after golf it was time for my memoir-writing group.  Today I wrote about Gwen's dad's funeral.  Barney and I got off to a rocky start.  I took his gruff, unequivocal NO! when I asked for Gwen's hand in marriage as a challenge to earn his respect and trust, and over time I was able to do just that.  I grew to love him, and I miss him.

Lots of sweet reminders of you today, Dear.  I particularly enjoyed remembering how we schemed against your dad to convince him that we were ready to accept the responsibilities of marriage.  It was a great moment when he told you that he would hold the ladder when you eloped.