“Has the mental image of ‘widow’ changed all that much?

One of my friends shared a post with me yesterday. Ironically, it turns out I know the woman who wrote it. And, I know her well enough to understand what she meant by what she said about being called a widow. The writer, Jan, said she didn’t like the term “widow” because it conjures up this preconceived notion of “old” and “feeble”. As she says, we live in an era where ageism runs rampant. Our gray hair and social mores puts the widow in an unenviable position on more levels than grief alone.

“A satellite view of The Farm….lots and lots of trees and hills.”

You have seen pictures of the farmhouse I’ve been caring for…the home of my heart. I’ve tried to describe what the 74 acres looks like. “Lots of trees and woods” is a bit of an understatement and it’s hard to picture if you are unfamiliar with the dense deciduous woods of West Virginia.

I went on Google Maps and took a satellite view of the farm. I wasn’t able to get all the land in one picture without making the house look so small you couldn’t see it. But, that little red dot in the lower left corner is the map pin on the house. And those dense woods you see there is maybe two-thirds of the farm itself. Inside those woods are trails and roads, creeks and rocky outcroppings. And somewhere off to the right about one-third up from the bottom is the strawberry shed where we sorted berries for the farmer’s market.

“Grandma always carried a fresh hanky wherever she went.”

I was looking through my picture albums on my iPad yesterday. I sometimes browse to find old memories that stir up a story for you. This one did just that. I’ve been writing about The Farm since early on in this blog. Grandma’s farm holds a king-sized piece of real estate in my heart so my stories often center around my memories there. And, since I am knee deep in editing my rough draft for the book, I have been writing and re-reading these stories.

“Coffee at The Bodega”

I decided to treat myself yesterday and stopped in the brand new coffee house that just opened. The Bodega. In Spanish, bodega actually means grocery store. But a broader meaning is a meeting place where you get supplies. I knew when I walked into this sweet storefront…this wasn’t your average run-of-the-mill coffee house. There was something special going on here.

The atmosphere is soft, inviting, with a great big overstuffed sofa with a soft blanket and pillows. Next to it was a huge, supple leather chair. Small tables, fresh flowers, and a sort of fresh vintage farmhouse vibe made the place very comfortable. I ordered one of the homemade cinnamon rolls and a latte. Both were delicious. The staff were warm and inviting and are willing to accommodate the Coffee Divas when we gather for our monthly caffeine infusions.

“I am hoping this is the one!”

The last time I was a Mother of the Bride was in 1995. It’s been a while. I’m an entirely different person this time around than I was when my older daughter got married. I was a hyper-involved helicopter mom back then. Just ask my daughter. She will tell you that she really had very little to do with her wedding because it was MY party. Many years of therapy later, I can now see that I lived the life I wished I’d had vicariously through her. I had terrible stage fright. She was in theater. SO cool! I wasn’t popular or athletic enough to be a cheerleader. She was. Uber awesome! She had cool friends that I got to hang out with. She got to go to college and live in a dorm! I was positively green with envy. She married the first young man she met in college and they were (and still are) perfect for each other. I wanted the fairy tail life she had. She loved me because I was her mom. But she hated me all the same. And I don’t blame her.

“Tea is my friend!”

Sunday after church, my little great granddaughter couldn’t wait to come to me after her mama got her out of the kids area. Oh….she is the sweetest little thing. She reached out and I took her in my arms and she promptly stuck her full hand in my mouth. Ugh…you have know idea where that little hand has been but she’s a baby. What can you do? You extricate her hand and give her squidgy kisses all over her little face, that’s what you do!

“Awakened Women know from whence they came. Overcoming brokenness takes a great deal of hard work and patience.”

It would probably be safe to say most of us have been wounded in one way or another in our lives. You don’t get to 65 without some bumps and bruises. I spent so much of my adult life as one of the walking wounded. Growing up with an alcoholic father, being subjected to sexual abuse, experiencing brutality at the hands of a teacher, and getting the pee scared out of me by a traveling preacher were the foundation of fear that wounded my little girl psyche. That led me down a path of self destruction that nearly ended my life.

“Ahhhh, the vagaries of youth…some I miss, most I don’t!”

So, here’s a topic we’ve never delved into…that dreaded part of being a woman during her reproductive years. Yes…that monthly visit from Aunt Flo. I can tell you this, when I had a total hysterectomy in 1994, I was tickled as all get out to get rid of that monster. Unfortunately, it was immediately replaced with a rampant case of “InstaPause”…full on menopause symptoms felt all at once when I came out of anesthesia. None of that slip-sliding into the quasi psychotic stages of hot flashes, weight gain, depression, anxiety, and hair growing out of places where hair should NEVER grow on a woman. Noooooo….I dove head first into that lovely mess. The only good part about the whole thing was saying goodbye to Aunt Flo for good!

“I love vintage embroidered linens.”

When we finally got home from town after church yesterday, I went out to TOW-Wanda and started getting her ready for the camping season. And, by getting her ready I mean I made the bed. And got in it. There’s nothing better than a good book in your camper on a Sunday afternoon. That, and a little snooze.

As I was getting the linens out to dress the bed, I came across these pillow cases. The blue and white one was purchased as part of a set made from antique German linens I purchased in Colorado in the ‘80s. The antique dealer had them embroidered…the pillow cases with the scroll embroidery and the shams with “Good Morning” and “Good Night”. I love this set and had forgotten the pillowcase had made it’s way into my camper at some point. 

“We’re all Irish on St. Paddy’s Day!”

According to my DNA test results, I am 23% Irish-Scottish. I wish I would have known this  before Mr. Virgo died because he was a very, very proud Irish lad. I mean…McKinney, right? It doesn’t get much more Irish than that. He acted like he had a corner on the market when it came to Irish roots. He adored St. Patrick’s Day. Every year, we had corned beef and cabbage and fried apples for dinner. He stopped short of wearing green since he worked in 5-Star hotels and restaurants. He had a certain decorum about him. But, ohhhhhh, that was HIS holiday.