The Coffee Table

Widowhood Ain’t for Sissies 

I missed the widows & widowers support group meeting—again. My property wouldn’t allow me the two hours off to attend.

Consequently, I am pretty teed off at my late husband. When he was still alive and I would talk to him about his health, he pooh-poohed all my worries. He was so certain he’d live forever. I’d ask him how on earth I was going to care for our property if he should kick the bucket before me, and he’d say, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Well, he lied.  

This morning I was outside at 7 a.m. with a weed-whacker and some lopping shears trying to do serious damage to the 6-foot forest of unwanted vegetation taking over my backyard. I was swearing at my husband. Especially when the weed-whacker cord got tangled—surely that was his fault. After about three hours of this, I started wondering if there is an afterlife. Because if there is, and I should be rejoined with my darling husband when I die, I am going to kick his bleeping bottom when I get there.

About the time I quit working (because of the heat), a gentleman hired to do some brush-hogging showed up on his tractor. We chatted a little, and he told me he owned some acreage and his wife was beginning to wonder about the wisdom of keeping all the property they have. I nodded my head vigorously to indicate she had a valid point.  

An hour or so later, the wife shows up at my door looking for her husband. “Beautiful property,” she tells me. I say “Thanks,” and then proceed to tell her that my husband died and I can’t easily manage it alone.  

Now she is vigorously nodding her head in agreement. She sees the wisdom of downsizing prior to the point widowhood, regardless of who goes first. I hope she can get her man to listen better than mine did. Or she might join me in entering the afterlife with boxing gloves.   

I have a piece of paper that says I own my home and the acreage it stands on, but the reality is the property owns me. I can work 10-hour days, 8 days a week and never get caught up. Mowing—OMG!  I mow acres, and have had to learn the art of lawn mower maintenance. Weeding. Tree trimming. Pruning the peaches and apples so the weight of the fruit won’t overload the limbs they hang on. 

Deck boards need replacing. The house needs paint—inside and out. You get the picture. And that’s in addition to the routine chores of living—the dishes, the laundry, etc. 

The fact is, if I take a day off—like I did yesterday, to run errands in Fayetteville—the property lets me know how displeased it is with my behavior. Weeds poke their heads between the deck boards and sneer. The grass is waving to get my attention—“See how tall I’ve grown!”  

Communing with my homestead is like having a running argument with somebody who is way bigger and stronger and has a lot more book knowledge to boot. I can’t win. Clearly, I need to hang out with a smaller house. A yard that can be mown in 30 minutes or less. Or maybe there’s no lawn at all. The house should be practical. Not too clever. Not too full of itself—or anything else.

To those of you who think you are going to live forever—think again. And have mercy on those who’ll be flailing in your wake.