I wanted to get married in a sunny field of wildflowers, wearing a cotton dress I’d made myself. He couldn’t have cared how we did it, just so we did. My mother, however, had some pretty definite ideas. Bad enough that I was marrying a schoolteacher from Maine (not a lawyer/banker/doctor from some more civilized place – as in, close to her), but no way would I be making the dress.

At least that’s the story I’ve told. She wasn’t complicated, my mother. Her world was narrow, true for most of us, I guess. She couldn’t see beyond the borders of our tightly-controlled, “restricted” (no Jews or blacks allowed – really!), and exclusive little suburb. Funny, as I write this, to realize that her daughter’s world is just as narrow, though arguably my world is way more interesting.

So we had a regular wedding: white brocade dress and veil, Father Hanner presiding in the very Episcopal church I was raised in (St. Thomas is virtually a duplicate of the Holy Comforter – yes, some call it the Holy Blanket), and reception at the Kenilworth Club. The day had its quirks, though; our wedding would never make the bride magazines, then or now.

It was four o’clock on a Monday, school vacation week. Wally had driven out with his brother who was to be his best man. I think I’d taken a few days off from school and had arrived earlier, to spend every spare moment sewing beads onto the dress, the one personal touch my mother had allowed. Linda, my lifelong friend, was my attendant, and she wore a dress she’d worn in someone else’s wedding. Green, I see in the photos of that day.

And there we are. Of course, no videos exist of our wedding; that was way in the future. We must have had a photographer, but the small album I have isn’t very revealing – no photos of the guests, the toasts, whatever it was we did. Truthfully, I’ve never remembered much about the day. Wally’s memory was specific and singular. Sitting in the vestry, I think they called it, in an upholstered chair, waiting for the ceremony to begin, he nervously dug down into the cushions and came up with, what, 76 cents in change (he always told us the exact amount). That’s it.

My one strong memory is of walking down the aisle on my father’s arm and thinking, “This is exactly the right thing to be doing.” Marrying this man. This man is the right one for me. The previous two and a half years had their rocky moments, to be sure. Driving in from St. George every morning to my job in Rockland I’d mutter over and over “I’ll never marry him, never. Never!”

Until the day, for some reason lost in the muddle of my mind, I said yes. He’d been after me all along, had known long before I did that this was right. He truly believed we were meant for each other, as in fate, as in only him and only me. I never did, still don’t, believe that. “We made it work,” I’d argue. He, on the other hand, thought we were destined to be together. Funny coming from a man who, at the same time, believed that when you die you’re just gone. Practical me, on the other hand, holds out faith that there’s some kind of living on.

Talking with a friend the other night, a woman who has recently had a double mastectomy, she spoke of the surgery in the most basic, down-to-earth way, simply something that had happened to her. I think we even had a couple of laughs about some of it. You have to laugh when they cut away part of you. Don’t you? Some of us dramatize everything, some are just more practical.

She said something that sounded so true: “I’m sort of fascinated with how this plays out,” or words to that effect. She meant how she was adjusting to this new reality of hers, how the changes that occur in our lives fundamentally change us.

I’ve been looking at the loss of half of me – the half that reassured me, made me laugh, read to me, held me, loved me – in much the same way. Stepping back and observing the process. People say, “you’re doing so well.” And that’s true. Except for the part of me that isn’t. That’s the part no one sees, but every other widow/er does.

But increasingly, when the ground beneath me feels as if it’s fallen away, it’s more of a sadness for the times that will never come again, not the intense grief of the first few weeks. The books we’d laid aside to read someday, the towns we never visited. Our bucket list included trips to Lubec, Dover Foxcroft, Pittsfield, West Paris, even a couple of days in Aroostook County if we were feeling adventurous. We loved hopping in the car and driving somewhere new for lunch. 

Cleaning out the barn I discovered six golf bags full of clubs. I’ve never played golf, have no interest in golf, yet here I was heaving those six heavy, dusty bags out of the loft. “What the hell,” I shouted to the dog. “Look at this. Dad’s clubs, my brother’s clubs, even Wally’s! And they’ve all died, every one of them, and left these damn things for me to deal with!” The clubs were beyond rescue, rusty and tattered looking. Nobody showed any interest on the LBB.

But of course, I went through the little zippered pockets and saved the scorecards, remembering how Dad loved Goose River, and Wally’s favorite course was out in Brooks. I actually accused my oldest son of leaving his clubs in the barn too, but he replied, somewhat smugly I thought, that he’d sold his last summer in his big moving sale. Got $250 for them.

One more thing, and I hope everyone in a relationship with a spouse/partner pays attention here, my credit card was cancelled because my husband died!It was time to activate the card that had come in the mail, you know, with a new expiration date. So when I called I mentioned that as my husband had died, his name should be removed from the account. Turns out I was only an “authorized user” on the account; he was the “primary card holder”. (I googled this, and learned that an authorized user is like being someone’s house guest; just because you’re sleeping there doesn’t mean you’ll pay their taxes.)

In other words, it wasn’t my card; it was his. I sputtered and fumed into the phone, making some Citi Bank worker’s day more miserable than it probably already was, for which I’m sorry. But I couldn’t believe it. We shared an income, filed jointly, and most importantly, I handled all our finances! I always paid off the whole balance every month. She did offer to send me an application for a new card, assuming, of course, that I qualified. Grrrrr!

 This Tuesday, April 25 from 4 to 6 p.m., is needlework time at the Lincolnville Community Library. Bring a knitting or other project to work on and stay for all or part of the time. This group is for everyone, no matter their level of experience. 

In less than 24 hours I saw nine deer; four were crossing Slab City Road Friday night after dark, and five more were crossing back and forth across Ducktrap Road the next morning. I also heard from John Pincince that a moose was wandering through Sleepy Hollow on Friday as well. He stopped and watched it for a good while, and it came over and sniffed at his car.