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Escape Plans

Apr2

When the alarm clock rang at five o’clock in the morning, I lifted my head off the pillow to moan, “No, no, no!” My husband, Arnie, grunted unhappily, but sat up on the side of the bed.

Reaching over Arnie gave me a shake. He growled, “Come on, get up! I’m tired too, but I want to get to Canada before it gets dark tonight.” After having worked so many hours in the last few weeks, we were both tired. All I wanted to do was to start our vacation by sleeping in.

Our drive north began silent and grumpy, but as the sun rose higher into the sky, tiredness left us. Cheered by the anticipation of spending the week fishing together, our happy comradery returned. Passing through International Falls into Fort Frances we stopped to buy bait for the fish we planned to catch.

At a bait shop on our way out of town, Arnie bought four dozen minnows. The shop owner put them, along with a great deal of water in a large, clear plastic bag. This clammy, bag-o-fish ended up riding on my lap so I could keep it safe until we reached our destination.

I’d gone fishing in Canada with Arnie for the last three years. This time we were going to a new location. The cabins we usually rented were always very basic and plain, having no luxury features, so I wasn’t expecting anything different this time. Arnie had made the reservations for this trip without having ever visited the camp or lake. After turning off the main highway onto a side road and driving a long way, I asked, “What’s the name of this resort and the name of the lake?”

Stopping to study a map, Arnie said, “The place is named ‘Moose Track Cottages’ and it’s on Lake Despair.” The name of the lake didn’t sound promising. Seeing the disconcerted expression on my face, my husband quickly added, “The man who owns the place is a bricklayer in Minnesota during the winter and runs this place in the summer.”

We pulled in at Moose Track Cottages at 4 in the afternoon. Terry, the owner was there to greet us. Bright, early June sunshine made the lake shimmer, and a gentle breeze caused the tree leaves above us to rustle soothingly. Pointing to a small building near the shore, Terry said, “That’s the fish cleaning house.” Close to it was a brand-new dock extending out into the lake. It seemed unnaturally long-legged and stood high above the water. Terry explained. This part of Canada has been having a drought, so the lake’s water level is low right now. I hope we get rain soon.”

Leading us to a cabin that had a small deck along one side and a big one on the back, Terry opened the door, and I stepped in. My jaw dropped open. The place looked fantastic! The kitchen had a modern, full-size refrigerator, stove and dishwasher, lots of counters and cabinets. A gas fireplace in the living room was flanked by two sofas and rocking chairs. Through a sliding glass door, I saw a gas grill we could use on the back deck. The cabin had two bedrooms and two bathrooms. I gasped, “I love this place!”

Arnie had our boat in the water by 6 P.M. and was ready to go fishing. I caught the first fish, a small northern we didn’t keep. Arnie pulled in a walleye we kept. I felt relaxed and happy. In the quiet, we heard the water lap against the boat and birds in the trees singing. An eagle screeched in the distance. Looking up at the sky, I commented, “I see mare’s tail clouds overhead, and on the horizon, there are thunderheads. My brother, Billy, would say this means it’s going to rain.”

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The Tapioca Incident

Feb19

Holding her largest mixing bowl, Mom vigorously stirred the batter. As if making cookies wasn’t enough work, she was multitasking by making our evening meal at the same time. Glancing at the stove top, Mom grumbled under her breath, “Tisk, why isn’t that burner heating up?” Impatiently, she put her right hand on the electric coil and instantly pulled back with a yelp. It was hot, just not glowing red.

Jumping up from where I had been sitting at the kitchen table, I questioned, “Mom! How badly did you burn your hand?”

Running cold water over her hand at the sink, my mother ruefully commented, “That was a stupid thing to do.” The imprinted rings of the burner could be seen on her fingers and palm, but other than the skin being tender, the burn was surprisingly superficial. Allowing the cold water to continue running over her hand, Mom instructed, “Put the pot of potatoes on that burner.”

I usually never cooked or baked with Mom while I was growing up. I always had the feeling that she preferred to work alone. She never asked for help, even when she was rushed or trying to get other things done at the same time. For years I sat at the kitchen table watching her work and assumed this would help me know what to do someday when I had to make meals.

I know for certain that I did learn a few things. With Mom’s hand burn incident, I learned two things. One was how to injure yourself without saying a single bad word. The second thing I learned was to never touch the stove top, even if it didn’t look hot.

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Last Laugh

Dec18

Arnie always told me I was pretty.

We were the same age when he died in 2007. Now I am 18 years older than him.

Will he still think I am pretty when we meet in the here-after?

The digital clock on the stove showed four, but the dimming daylight made it feel like it was eight. My husband called home a while ago and said he would be home soon. We were having roast beef for supper. I opened the oven door to check on its progress, and a blast of heat made me turn my face away. The metal necklace around my throat began to feel hot against my skin. The beef roast looked brown, juicy and tender.

Tossing potholders on the counter, I turned toward the kitchen windows in time to see Arnie driving his work truck and trailer into our driveway. All the lights and reflectors on his rig looked impressive in the late afternoon’s growing darkness. Remembering that today my husband had had fresh lettering applied on his truck and trailer, I slipped into a pair of shoes and pulled on a coat as I hurried out the back door of the house to see it.

Arnie pulled to a stop under the yard light, which automatically turned on just as I walked across the yard. Stepping out of the truck cab, he proudly questioned, “How does it look?”

Both sides of his truck and trailer displayed the words, ‘Arnie’s Farm Care’. His cell and home phone numbers were listed under his business’ name. “Beautiful!” I exclaimed. “The letters are large and easy to see. The garage did a good job!”

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Moon Rock Bread

Oct30
It wasn’t pretty to start with, but Arnie’s photo makes it look worse than it was.

Like the good, brand-new wife that I was, I made Arnie, my young husband, a scrambled egg and fried bratwurst breakfast. This was my one day off from working as a nursing assistant for the week, so I planned to crawl back into bed for a couple more hours of sleep the minute I kissed Arnie good-bye.

After he left for his job at the Praschak Machine Company, the house felt too quiet, so on my way back to bed, I stopped in the living room to turn on the stereo. 

A few hours later when I crawled out from under the covers, the sun was much higher in the sky. I felt guilty for spending so much of my day off in bed, but I rationalized, “I needed the extra sleep because I’m in my second trimester of pregnancy.” From the living room I could hear, “The Age of Aquarius” by the 5th Dimensions playing on the stereo. They were singing, “When the moon is in the 7th house, and Jupiter aligns with Mars…” It made me think of how, though hard to imagine, just a little over a year ago astronauts had landed on the moon.

While eating buttered toast, I wondered what to make for supper. My inexperienced kitchen skills limited me to what I could make. My husband’s brand of pickiness also limited me. He’d once told me, “I’m not a picky eater. Just make me meat and potatoes and I’ll be happy.”

It never occurred to Arnie that he really was a picky eater. He hated most vegetables, wouldn’t eat casseroles, and he considered it fancy cooking when I added a can of mushrooms to fried venison steak. Many years passed before my husband eventually learned to eat and enjoy more than meat and potatoes.

I felt pleased with myself after settling on making boiled potatoes, heating a can of sauerkraut, and using leftover bratwurst for supper. Then, a daring thought came to me. It would be nice to make a loaf of rye bread!

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Empty Nest Flight

Jun5

My husband Arnie sat down at the dining room table and announced, “I want to see mountains when we vacation this summer. Mount Rainier is on the top of my list!”

I placed bread and butter on the table, settled into my chair, and pointedly commented, “Seattle, Washington, is a long drive from here. In fact, to visit any decent mountain would be a long drive for us since we live in Wisconsin. I hate spending most of my vacation in a car! What fun is that?”

Starting when our daughters were six and ten years of age, I occasionally took them on camping weekend vacations during the summer months. Then, as they grew older, Arnie began taking the whole family on late summer vacations to places like Mount Rushmore, Kentucky, and to Canada for a sightseeing train ride and to visit Sauté Saint Marie. These vacations were always taken by car and at times I suffered motion sickness.

I asked, “Didn’t you get your fill of mountains when we visited Mount Rushmore?”

Arnie exclaimed, “But that was ten years ago! I want to see the mountains again!”

Our eighteen-year-old daughter, who was at the table with us eagerly suggested, “We could fly! Do you want me to use the computer to find the cost of the tickets and other attractions we could see while in Seattle?”

Having found an ally in Tammie, my husband smiled broadly as he ordered, “Find whatever information you can for us. This’ll be a special vacation because you’re leaving home this fall.”

At that time, Arnie and I were far from comfortable navigating the cyber world in a computer. I didn’t even know that a computer could be used for comparing prices and buying tickets, organizing places to stay, and signing up for tours.

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Hooked and Cooked

May29

Once supper was over, I washed the dishes and cleaned the kitchen. My husband Arnie left the house once he finished eating. From the window over the sink, I spotted him walking into the shed where he kept his boat. Golden evening sunshine streaming into the dining room and living room windows made me feel happy and content. I loved the longer, warmer days of spring. I was reaching into one of the cabinets to put away kettles when I heard the back door slam. Arnie walked into the living room.

Having finished my evening chores, I strolled through the dining room, sniffing appreciatively. The scent of our delicious supper still lingered in the air. We’d had one of Arnie’s favorite meals; potatoes, pan fried in my trusty old cast iron skillet, kielbasa, and Van Camps pork n’ beans. I came to a sudden halt when I reached the living room. My husband was sitting on the sofa. He had his fishing tackle box on a small tv table in front of him and was sorting through the fishing supplies.

 I exclaimed, “Arnie, what in the world are you doing? And why would you do that in the living room?”

My husband defensively replied, “I’m going fishing on Saturday, and my tackle box needs to be cleaned and put in order. I thought I’d do the job here so I can watch television as I work.”

Dropping into a chair across from the sofa, I warned, “You’re going to be in big trouble if you drop a fishhook in the carpet and I end up stepping on it.”

Arnie promised, “I’ll be careful.”

The next day I cleaned the house and vacuumed the living room in preparation for having my daughter Tammie home from college for the weekend. Figuring she’d arrive late Friday afternoon since she was hitching a ride with a friend, I decided to run a few errands after work before going home.

I heard Tammie screaming the minute I unlocked the back door. Rushing into the living room, I found her laying on her belly in the middle of the carpet. “Help me!” she demanded. My mouth dropped open in amazement. A fishhook from Arnie’s tackle box was tangled in the carpeting. Its sharply hooked end had completely gone through one of my daughter’s finger pads, effectively preventing her from being able to get up to call for help.

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Different Models

Apr10

I walked into the living room munching on a cookie. Arnie looked over the top of the newspaper he held in his hands and asked, “Is that a cookie you have?” As I took another bite from the sweet treat, he demanded, “Get me one of them, too.”

Knowing my husband wouldn’t be content with just one cookie, I put three on a plate and set it on the side table near his elbow. Sinking into a chair across from where Arnie sat on the sofa, I asked, before taking a bite from another cookie, “Do you remember the summer when we were kids that there was an invasion of June bugs?”

Arnie chewed the cookie in his mouth before asking, “Why in the world are you asking about June bugs?”

Self-consciously, I explained, “I want to write about a memory I have of them. One summer they were everywhere in the farmyard. Because they were so large, catching them was easy. It was as if they had Velcro on their feet, making them cling to our hands. At night we heard the June bugs chewing on tree leaves. When we went into the house after it was too dark to be outside, the June bugs scrabbled at the window screens. Their rapidly flapping wings made a loud buzzing noise. It appeared they would fly through the screen if they could.”

Looking mystified, Arnie claimed, “I don’t remember anything about June bugs.”

My husband seldom recounted memories from his childhood. If I worked at it, I sometimes managed to get Arnie to remember small things. That day I succeeded in pulling a small treasure out of him. He finally remembered a summer where he found huge June bugs and put them in a toy truck bed while playing in a sandbox.

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Moments of Grace

Mar27

I put down the book I was reading. My husband, Arnie, fresh from having taken a shower, stretched out next to me on our bed. We talked about our day and who we had seen and talked to. I told him what our children, Niki and Tammie and I had done that evening. Then, yawning, Arnie turned to his side.  He said, “I’m tired.” Then he fell instantly asleep.

Placing a bookmark in my book, I set it on the bedside table. The lamp’s light made our pale peach bedroom walls glow a warm, happy color. I glanced over at my sleeping husband and experienced a moment of total appreciation for the love we shared. In that blessed moment of realization, I leaned against my husband’s warm body and breathed in the scent of his freshly showered skin. I very clearly remember thinking, “Remember this! I may not always have this for as long as I’d like.”

After my husband died in 2007, I remembered that moment with especial tenderness and recognized it as a moment of grace. Memories like that one gave me comfort amid the loss.

A moment of grace is a time where a person is totally aware of the preciousness of what is possessed. Sometimes it is a moment of respite between the troubles of the past and whatever future troubles that we might have come. My husband and I had weathered the loss of an infant and had raised another one with a handicap, but that was all behind us. We anticipated growing old together. I had no idea that soon a radical change would take place in my life. I never dreamed that Arnie would die at such a young age as 56.

Now, looking back, I recognize that I have experienced these special moments of grace on several occasions through the years. One of these moments happened when I packed and moved out of my childhood home. I stopped at the door of my bedroom to look back and remembered my growing up years. I was happy to be a young adult, but the future felt both exciting and scary. Another moment of grace in my life happened the moment my first baby was placed in my arms. I looked at her and understood, “This baby needs more care than the average baby, and I’ve never been a mother before!” Sadly, Christy only lived two months.   

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A Career Change

Oct18

I looked forward to attending the Rochester Silo convention because for me it was a vacation from my job as a nursing assistant. My husband Arnie and I would stay at a hotel and attend catered events. A few months earlier, Arnie had decided to go into business with a man from Indiana. They named their joint operation, ‘R&R Sales and Services.’ This career change came as a surprise to me. Up until then, my husband had been a welder and had never expressed an interest in becoming a salesman. The new business sold farm equipment and Rochester Siloes. So far, Arnie hadn’t sold a single silo.

All the activities at the convention appeared to be geared toward pumping the salesmen up to a fever-pitch of excitement. The company claimed Rochester Silos were the best silos in the Midwest. They pointed out with pride how their logo could be seen on top of new silos all throughout the countryside. Everyone attending the silo convention was lavished generously with fine foods and drinks.           

To encourage stronger sales, the Rochester company handed out rewards to their most productive salesmen. The pinnacle of the evening was when the top salesman was presented with a briefcase stuffed with cash.

On our long drive home, Arnie uncharacteristically began talking about what he needed to do to become a good salesman. I suspected he was worried about being a good provider for me and the baby we had on the way. At one point he glanced over at me and admitted, “I need to be able to talk to people as easily as you do.” After a slight pause he added, “I want to be able to start conversations with people in elevators like you do.”

I was surprised.. Did he really admire my crazy ability to talk to anyone who would listen?

In the months that followed, Arnie and I were very busy. He worked on making sales and I was entirely wrapped up in all things that had to do with our newly arrived baby daughter. His business papers piled up on the dining room table because we didn’t have a desk. I wanted the use of the table back, so I made two shelves, one on top of the other along a wall next to the table using four boxes and two planks.

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Cup of Comfort

Oct11

On the other end of the phone, a man identified himself as a Hospital Emergency Room doctor. He said, “I’m sorry, but I must inform you that your husband, Arnie Richardson was brought to the hospital in an ambulance an hour ago, but we were unable to save him. He passed away shortly after arriving here.”  My body felt limp and bloodless as I processed the sudden shock at what the doctor told me.

The minute I put down the phone, doubt flooded into my mind. I told myself that the doctor must have accidentally called the wrong wife. The man who was dead was someone else, not my husband. Once I was ushered into an Emergency Room to identify my husband’s body, my initial shock turned into long term shock. Now, I knew with certainty that the unthinkable was true.

I had a job to do; letting family members know what had happened, plan a funeral, and somehow manage to emotionally live through this unwelcome reality. It was as if I was operating on remote control. During that first week after Arnie died, if someone would have asked me to climb Mount Everest, swim the English Channel or fight off a den of hungry lions, I would have mindlessly, mechanically began climbing, swimming, or fighting.

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