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First Easter
I learned, many years ago, that when a loved one dies, the twelve months following is a year of “firsts.” My first birthday without at least a phone call from Dad. The first Christmas without one of Michael’s slightly off-color cards (which he loved so much, and at whose awful jokes and our pained expressions, he laughed with such glee). The first Mother’s day without lunch or dinner at Eat ‘n Park, an establishment so beloved by Mr. She’s mother that she’d eschew a meal at the finest restaurant within a hundred miles for their meatloaf and mashed potatoes, washed down with a root beer float. The first winter without my own mother’s frequent and apocalyptic predictions of weather catastrophe. The first 4th of July without Sam in charge of the pyrotechnics, every year putting on a fireworks show for the ages.
And this year, my first Easter in over forty years (gosh, that’s a long time) without Mr. She at my side.
I amused myself yesterday in construction work–far above my skill or experience level, but it’s coming along. Framing walls, a small pantry, and a coat closet. Once I’ve got it all sorted (another week, perhaps), then it will be time to call on my neighbor Dave, who’s going to do the drywall for me. I can’t do that anymore; it’s too heavy and awkward, and I’ve always hated taping and plastering. Dave’s been doing it for over forty years (gosh, that’s a long time) and he loves it, and he’s good at it. Thank you, Lord. And thank you, Dave.
Mr. She and I built this house ourselves. We made a lot of mistakes. About ten years ago, we started dismantling the house from the inside out and fixing them. Then Mr. She got very sick and things went into a holding pattern for several years. And now, I’m going to finish the job. It’s what I was taught to do. And although the job I’m doing here still isn’t perfect, I love building things, and I’m generally disposed to be pleased with my efforts, when I know I’ve done my best. Because, really, what’s the alternative if you want to stay sane and be at peace with yourself? If there is one, I haven’t found it yet.
But that doesn’t mean I’m not occasionally a bit wistful or a bit sad. And as I was working away yesterday, I started (as usual) to grumble about the fact that I can’t count on a single surface in the house to be anything resembling level, that no individual wall is within an inch of plumb, and that no corner, anywhere, is even remotely square. (Yeah, if you’re going to start with fresh, rough-sawn, poplar and maple posts and beams from a small, local sawmill, you’re kinda letting yourself in for that.)
I like to think that, if nothing else, all of this gives the house character. And I love the way it looks at Christmas:
Long ago, I decided that the reaction I want from people I care about who visit for the first time is more along the lines of “Oh, how charming! You’ve restored an old barn,” than the other polite response, which is “Well, this is … unusual …” Over the years, though, I’ve learned to enjoy both reactions equally. We can’t all be trailblazers in the country living department, after all. Speaking of which, note to self: Pick up the hay bits off the kitchen floor before vacuuming. They clog the nozzle. And next year, for the love of Pete, put a sheet under the playpen before you bring the lambs into the house….
Still, there’s something to be said for a floor on which any object with a slightly rounded surface doesn’t immediately roll into the lowest corner in the room, and on which a floor lamp can actually stand vertically without wedges of varying sizes tucked underneath to stabilize it and stop it from falling over. I wonder what it is (the something. That’s to be said).
The outside of the house is about finished. I’m doing some gardening, and getting a couple of new flower beds put in this Spring, and I’m coming into the home stretch (see what I did there) inside too.
But yesterday morning I was feeling a bit down-at-the-mouth, and thinking of one of Mr. She’s favorite poems. It’s called Love Song: I and Thou, by Alan Dugan, and it goes like this:
Nothing is plumb, level, or square:
the studs are bowed, the joists
are shaky by nature, no piece fits
any other piece without a gap
or pinch, and bent nails
dance all over the surfacing
like maggots. By Christ
I am no carpenter. I built
the roof for myself, the walls
for myself, the floors
for myself, and got
hung up in it myself. I
danced with a purple thumb
at this house-warming, drunk
with my prime whiskey: rage.
Oh I spat rage’s nails
into the frame-up of my work:
it held. It settled plumb,
level, solid, square and true
for that great moment. Then
it screamed and went on through,
skewing as wrong the other way.
God damned it. This is hell,
but I planned it. I sawed it,
I nailed it, and I
will live in it until it kills me.
I can nail my left palm
to the left-hand crosspiece but
I can’t do everything myself.
I need a hand to nail the right,
a help, a love, a you, a wife.
This is clearly an angry guy. One who’s not generally pleased with his efforts, and who has come down on the side of rage, venom, and vituperation to deal with his unhappiness. I can’t even tell if he’s grateful for his helpmeet, or if he’s as angry with her as he seems to be with God and all else that he thinks has wrecked his life for him. Clearly more Salieri than Mozart, at least as they’re portrayed in the movie.
But Mr. She read the poem his way, and would recite it when he was particularly irate at a construction project that wasn’t going well; then he’d roar with laughter, give me a hug, and tell me that marrying me, and being the father of his children, were the best things that had ever happened to him.
And we were happy as we muddled through, in our lives, in our home, and on our farm.
I’ve done some daft things, and made some silly, and sometimes regrettable mistakes in the sixty-six years of my life to this point. And I’ve tried to learn from them, or at least not repeat them too often. I think that’s a pretty good roadmap for life which, let’s face it, doesn’t always come with instructions. And whose guideposts and flashing red lights, even when they’re shown to us, we sometimes miss, deliberately ignore, or revise and amend to suit ourselves.
But I’m very sure that getting married to Mr. She wasn’t one of those mistakes.
Happy Easter to you and yours. May the memories of your absent friends and loved ones comfort you, as mine do me, while the seasons, the cycles, and the year all move us forward into the light.
Published in General
It is the better way.
Now that is the best piece I’ve ever read on Ricochet. I call it a wonder on this Easter day. You ought to be proud, Mrs. She. Very proud.
We’re no substitute, but you have many Ricochetti by your side.
Happy Easter!
Thanks, you two. I’m glad to be here with you. Happy Easter.
Happy Easter! How wonderful that Mr. She has left you with poetry for every occasion.
Blessed Easter, She.
Happy Easter! Give Oleg a kiss.
Can something be deeply lovely? This post was. Thank you, She.
I emphatically agree! One of the best on this site, ever. A beautiful and poignant post. Thank you for being with us, She.
Thanks, all. I hope, after what’s been a trying year in so very many ways, that you’ve been able to spend some time with those you love this Easter, Passover, and Spring. I had a a lovely day together with Jenny, who’d magicked up a spectacular meal from a local eatery, a plate of delicious charcuterie, and some nifty adult beverages to accompany. All of that, plus the new kitten in the house made for another nice memory and special day. Even if you can’t be with them in person, please find a way to hug, even from afar, all those you hold dear. And tell them that you’re thinking of them.
Here’s the virtual Hallelujah Chorus, summoned before Covid was even a gleam in anyone’s eye:
The story of how it was put together is told here.
Oh, yes!!