February 14, 2018. This day of love hadn’t started out too well. My old lady dog sleeps with me, her head pressing the bend of my knees.
This morning when I got out of bed, she made sharp yelping noises, as if she were having a bad dream. I had a hard time waking her up.
“I need you, June Cleaver.”
As if she’d heard me, and sensed what I was feeling, The Cleave raised her head. I dressed in a red warmup and laced a pair of red, thick-soled, tennis shoes, (no spangles darn it) and lifted June Cleaver out of the bed. I fed my other dogs, Roo and Petey, and then hooked June to her leash, for our short, slow walk. I lost husband Willard on Valentines, and I have kept a few mementos from that time on a buffet in the dining room. On the way out, I stopped by and pulled a dried rose stem from a vase, carefully stuck it into my pocket. I picked up an old pink Valentine in a pink envelope with a scrawled, hard-to-read, handwritten message on the front. I knew there had been a gift with the note, just couldn’t remember what it had been. Scotch-Irish, Willard wasn’t big on bought presents. He just didn’t think much about them, one way or the other.
But on the day of love, now that was always a little different for him.
On most Valentine’s days I would receive a box of chocolates (my husband loved candy) and even though it would be hard to read, always a card with a handwritten message. Every now and then there were more gifts.
One year, I was thinking ahead and gave him a list. I wrote two things I didn’t want; a yellow golf bag, and red tennis shoes. Guess what? He never saw the “don’t want” at the top of the list. I got both from a proud presenter.
I’m sure I slumped my shoulders, shook my head in disappointment and sighed painful martyrdom sighs for days.
It’s been three years now, and with these thoughts in my mind and mementos in pocket, I did my morning dog walk. A short stroll with June Cleaver, then a pick ‘em up and put ‘em down fast step with Roo Roo.
Done with the dog walks and exercise, back home I kept an eye on the time.
February 14, 2015:
It was not long after lunch. Family was with Willard at Ridgeland Hospice and I had gone home to rest. There had been a knock on my bedroom door; even before son Bob spoke I knew what he had come to tell me. Our loved one had slipped away, to join his brother Bobby, and his girls, Pat, Linda, and grand-daughter, Brent.
‘Soft your tread above me.’
Valentine’s, February 2018, early afternoon: My heart felt heavy. The doorbell rang. Bob had sent a bouquet of fresh flowers.
I would soon go to the cemetery for a visit. I didn’t want to be by myself, so I gave June Cleaver her meds early and carried her with me. When we got there I opened the door but she quickly made it known that she didn’t want to get out of the car. She lay on the floor, rested her head between her paws and looked at me.
I bent down and scattered a few dusty leaves and petals left from last year’s bouquet and set out some of today’s fresh flowers. I went back to the car, slipped in a disc, and was humming the words to an old Irish melody as I reread one of the cards Willard had given me, whispering, ‘I’ll be here in sunshine or in shadow.’
Every day with this man had been a gift. With him, thoughts of others always came first - until it came to winning a game - his family knew those rules full well.
Then, no holds barred-he was first. But, only then.
Love was a way of life with Willard. When he practiced medicine, he was a healer in the truest sense of the word. He knew how to bring hope when it was possible, solace when it was needed. He took loving care of his patients, as he did his family and his wife for 59 years.
He served me coffee in bed, brought me the paper. He took out the garbage, would warm my car up and pull it around front for me. When we skied, Willard put my ski boots on my feet in the morning, unsnapped and pulled them off in the afternoon. He set out all my pills, arranged them in the order in which I needed to take them. If I had a hard time sleeping, he rubbed my back. And never a day passed that he didn’t tell me he loved me.
Now, it’s late evening. The dogs and I have made our evening walk. June Cleaver has stretched out on the floor beside me. Her dreams seem to be warm and sweet, every now and then her legs move slowly, as if she’s off on a pleasant, peaceful run somewhere.
I untie my old thick-soled tennis shoes and take them off.
Red. Even with no bling, I wore them all day and put them back on the shelf - to wear again next year.
On Valentine Day.
