Independence Day...

 This day in 1983, I spent camping at Acadia National Park with a college friend and my dog, Drummer, a blond Cocker Spaniel. My grandmother slipped us $25 to go out to supper, and we did, then wandered down the main street of Bar Harbor, stopping to get ice cream cones. While I was enjoying my cone, I noticed two young men walking towards me. There was a Navy ship in the harbor for the holiday, and I could tell by the swagger that these guys were sailors. They stopped when they reached me, and the taller of the two said, "Nice dog. Ever wash him?" I was righteously offended; I kept my dog's coat in lovely shape.  However, after introductions were made, we soon started chatting, and I threw caution to the wind and invited them to ride with us to the top of Cadillac Mountain to watch the sunset. They agreed without hesitation, and when we reached my little two-door Subaru, I looked them both over and said to the chatty one, "You, sit in front." 

He did, and my dog climbed into his lap. My friend and his squeezed into the back seat and we were off. About halfway up the mountain, Chris began to sniffle and sneeze. "You wouldn't happen to be allergic to dogs, would you?" I asked. "I am," he replied. I figured that was the end of any flirtations between us, because my dog had top billing in my life. He didn't complain, however, and soon we were perched on granite expanses, sipping a wee bottle of wine and watching a magnificent sunset over the ocean. We shared a delicious kiss or two, and didn't run out of things to talk about. On the way down the mountain, he asked, "Will you marry me?" I said, "Not tonight." 

And that is the story of how I met the love of my life. This is my first Independence Day without him in 43 years, and I ache with loss. Tonight the table will be surrounded by family and friends. I'll cook burgers and hot dogs. There will be green salad, potato salad, and s'mores cooked over the fire pit. His big personality, compelling laugh, loud music, and enormous presence will be missed. But I will be aware that the daughter and son-in-love and precious grandchildren are all here because of him. That this house we made a home and this place we cherished is something we manifested together. All because he stopped to talk to a girl sharing an ice cream with her Cocker on a street in Bar Harbor, a long, sweet time ago. 

Teenager...

 Fae has been a pretty much perfect puppy. I've raised many a dog in my life, and she has been by far the easiest. She's calm and confident and was easy to housebreak, with very few accidents (and all of those in the grooming studio, where, despite rigorous cleaning, it must smell like dog to a dog). She has consistently slept through the night since the beginning, and even though she is only 5 months old, she can be left alone in the house for an hour or two without any problems. She has not chewed on shoes or furniture, either. Other than struggling with car sickness, she has been a breeze to live with. She walks politely on a leash and knows all the basic obedience commands, as well as a few fun tricks. 

Yesterday, a friend told me that Hannaford grocery store had lobster rolls for $9.99 at their deli counter. I was on my way to grocery shop right after she told me that, so I looked for them, and sure enough, a large roll stuffed with lobster found its way into my cart. I happily anticipated enjoying it for lunch, walking up and down the aisles, and driving home. After I had put all the food away, I sat down to see if the bargain-priced crustacean tasted as good as I expected. 

Just as I was ready to take the first bite, a friend stopped by. I went out to chat with him. When I returned, practically drooling about my lunch, I found a perfectly empty plate. I had stupidly left the treat in easy reach of a dog. Despite her practical perfection, Fae took full advantage of the unexpected delight. 

Not only was I terribly sad about this, but I was worried that my dog might experience gastric distress. I considered forcing her to vomit, but decided against it. I braced myself for a night of being woken up to take her out. But no, she slept peacefully, apparently happily digesting my treat.  

This afternoon I was enjoying time on the deck. Fae was outside with me, and I watched her doing all her typical things. Then I couldn't see her but could hear a funny sound. I looked over the side of the railing, and there was my puppy, digging with gusto in a planter that was full of dirt and weeds because I had not planted any flowers in it this year. She dug like she was looking for the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, scattering dirt in every direction and apparently having a marvelous time. She looked up at me, her long snout and previously white feet covered in soil. I swear she was smiling. 

My wonder puppy is a teenager. 

Glimmers...

 When I come up with an idea for a blog post, it usually happens because something catches my interest or delights me in some way, and I feel compelled to share. Since Chris died, delight has been in short supply, so my posts have been, too. 

 Oh, I'm ok. I am doing all the normal things that need to be done, like cleaning the animal houses, exercising and training the puppy, keeping the house tidy, and, of course, working. On top of all those things, I am doing all the chores that Chris used to do. Going to the transfer station, getting groceries, doing the banking, and mowing the yard. And as if that were not enough, there are a whole slew of new decisions to make, challenges to tackle, hurdles to overcome. Paying bills? Ack. Thankfully, my daughter and son-in-love have pitched in to assist. In other words, there are not many dull moments, but still, my joie de vivre is dimmed. 

As time goes by and the pain of the loss I am enduring dulls just a little, I am more able to catch the occasional glimmers of things that bring shards of happiness into my days. Visitors, for instance. I've had plenty, and am grateful for them. Cousin Chrissy came from New Hampshire, and we had a jolly time. We even visited with a handsome colt. 

Sweet friend Sumac came on her way home from hiking a mountain in Bar Harbor. I neglected to get any pictures, but I enjoyed her stay so much. Sister Deb has spent a couple of weekends here, too, and we always have fun together. More company is planned for the rest of the summer, too. Human as well as animal. 

There is a pair of Phoebe's raising a clutch of three chicks in a home they built on top of a light fixture on the garage. I can see the tops of the baby's fluffy heads wobbling over the rim of the mossy nest, and it's sweet to see the parents flitting in and out, keeping everyone well fed. When the babes are on their own, the whole family will leave, migrating somewhere warmer when summer ends. 

Today, when  I went to clean out the goat cozy, the visiting cows were lying about in the shade, looking quite content. As soon as I got to work, though, they rose from their resting places one by one and came to peer inside the little house to see what I was up to. They were pleasant companions. 

People continue to be so very kind. One man started out as a favorite customer a few years ago and has become a friend. He has checked on me almost every day since Chris died, asking if I needed help mucking animal houses or doing chores. Last week I tried to use our gas grill to cook supper, and it would not start. I was bitterly disappointed, as I enjoy grilling more than most people. The next time my friend texted and asked if I needed anything, I told him my sad story about my non-functioning grill. He came right over, changed the ignition battery, and discovered a leak in the regulator hose. Then he hustled off to the store, bought me a replacement, and installed it. It made me so happy to put a steak on my grill that night. He quickly solved what felt like an insurmountable problem to me and made it look easy. Those are the sorts of kindnesses that make my aching heart beat a little more gently. 

There are glimmers of |"happy" all around me, nudging softly to be noticed. I'm trying to be more mindful of letting them in. 

Busy...

 I find that staying busy helps quiet my mind. I stayed quite active this weekend. 

Saturday, I planted pansies in containers and window boxes. It's hard to be sad when you have your hands in dirt, flats of jewel-bright flowers, and a sunny spring day. 

Fae and I went on a wee adventure, too. She's learning to be a good girl in a vehicle. 

I wanted to introduce her to a body of water and some different terrain. She put all four feet in the water, enjoyed smelling all the smells, climbed on rocks, and took a very long nap when we were through. 

I cleaned animal houses, raked up a bunch of stuff winter left where it didn't belong, and washed a few windows. A friend helped me move a mess of brush and create a big burn pile. In between, I took Fae for a lot of romps in the pasture.  She particularly likes it when Homer races to her for some attention. He thinks she is magical. I do, too. 

A sweet neighbor came to visit. I was invited to lunch at my daughter's. Went on a scenic drive that ended with good ice cream with a friend. 

It was a busy weekend. My brain appreciated that. 

Daunting project...

 It's been a month since my life changed in a missed heartbeat. A month without hearing his gentle voice, reading a mushy text message, holding hands. Thirty days without planning and making him a meal to share. Snuggling. Washing his big clothes. Cleaning up after him. Laughing at his jokes. No, "I love yous." My chest literally aches, as if something were broken inside. 

I've learned to keep a tissue with me at all times. I have not learned to take those tissues out of my pockets, so now I am constantly picking paper segments from my clean laundry.  I'm getting used to being unable to speak because I get choked up. When people are kind (and they have been SO kind), my eyes leak, and my throat closes. 

I've surrendered to letting people help me. My son-in-love has been astonishingly wonderful. My daughter, too, amidst her own crushing grief. Siblings, nieces, and other family members have flocked here to care for me (us!) in so many amazing, generous, and thoughtful ways. So have neighbors, friends, casual acquaintances, customers, and even total strangers. I have received a mountain of cards, with the most thoughtful handwritten messages. And plants and flowers, a gorgeous weeping cherry tree, and so much more. 

I cooked a real meal tonight. People have been oh-so-sweetly cooking for me, my refrigerator filled with quiche, soups, stews, and casseroles. I like to cook, but have had no desire to do so. I made simple comfort food. Enough to eat for several days. I need to learn a different way of cooking.

My new normal is odd. Quieter. Tidier. Punctuated by bouts of weeping. Sleep is elusive. I am the most tired I have ever been. I hear grief and stress do that. 

I'm trying to focus on the good. Chris's sudden death was absolutely devastating for us, but for him, probably (hopefully) not so bad. He never had to suffer the infirmities of old age. Never had a lingering illness. He died quickly, in the middle of a very good day. I think about the decades of joy we shared. The easy camaraderie, the daily laughter, the kisses and cuddles, and the deep appreciation for the rare relationship we created. I had a gift in him, and I cannot be anything but grateful for that. Most of all, I am thankful that he didn't have experience this sense of loss. We had a favorite song by Jason Isabel, If We Were Vampires. One stanza goes like this, "I'll work hard 'til the end of my shift, and give you every second I can find, and hope it isn't me who's left behind." Being left behind is the most difficult thing I've ever experienced. I am so glad he never knew this pain.

Without Chris, my heart and our house are bizarrely empty. I've had a recurring thought since he died that goes something like this: "I'll find joy again someday." A few days ago, I chatted with a woman who lost a son to suicide. I told her about my above thoughts. She firmly said, "Oh NO. You need joy. You deserve joy. You must claim it. You see a blooming flower? That is your joy. Does your puppy make you smile? Claim it." That's a change in thinking. I'll add it to my list of adjustments. My son-in-love said, "Reimagining your whole life is a lot of work." That sentence took my breath away. 

My job now? Reimagining my whole life and finding joy. Seems like a daunting project. 

Impossible things...

I wrote my husband's obituary yesterday. It felt like an impossible thing to do, like something I should never have to even contemplate.

A week ago, we discussed our plans for the day and opted for a very quiet Sunday. I spent the morning in the living room watching puppy training videos. He drank coffee by the fire, made himself an omelet, and listened to music.  

We had a family dinner with our daughters' crew planned for 6 PM, roast lamb, summer squash, and zucchini sauteed with onion, garlic, and cherry tomatoes. I thought I'd bake some focaccia for a treat. Chris loved family supper nights and was happily looking forward to the meal, conversation, and time with the grandgirls. After our peaceful morning, we took a nap. My man loved a Sunday nap. There was pillow talk and snuggles, and at one point, he said, "I cherish our time alone together." I did, too. We were the best of companions, our time peaceful and tender. 

Later, while I began to cook, he started the blower to move the inch or two of wet snow that had been slowly falling for hours. He came in after a little while to warm up. "My asthma's bothering me," he said, and used his inhaler. Then he fiddled on his phone for a few minutes and said, "I just ordered pirate hats for the girls. They'll be here on Wednesday. I can't wait to play with them. You know what kind of vehicle a pirate drives, right?" I rolled my eyes and shook my head, "Tell me." He grinned and said, "a cARRRR!" 

He leaned against the counter, watching me knead the dough for the bread, "Look at you," he said. "You are a marvelous cook, you are beautiful, you create a wonderful home, and you make me the happiest man alive." 

Then he went back out to finish up the snow removal. Within moments, he had a fatal heart attack. A kind passerby saw him lying there and thought perhaps he had slipped. He came to the door to get me. We both performed CPR while we waited for the ambulance, but my love was gone. In one awful instant, every single thing about my wonderful life changed. 

Two days later, a strange man appeared at the door. "Are you the woman who just lost her husband?" he asked. He handed me some donuts along with that new title. They both felt heavy. 

 

Fate...

 When we found out that Bravo was going to be leaving us far sooner than we hoped, I was forced to think about a future without him. He is more than a pet; he actively helps with the livestock. We also depend on him to alert us to people arriving, chase foxes from the pasture, and so much more. The thought of having no farm dog around was very hard to imagine.

I began to think about what dog should come here next. I thought about a variety of breeds. There are several on my life list, but really, Bravo has been such an incredible addition to the family, I felt driven to try to find a dog as similar to him as possible. One nice thing about having a purebred dog is that they tend to share important characteristics. Since Bravo's intelligence and personality suited our life so very well, I decided another English Shepherd was the best fit. 

I reached out to people on an English Shepherd social media page I belong to, and many kind folks shared suggestions for breeders. Suddenly, I had pictures of sires and dams, information about temperaments and accomplishments, and planned litters. It was all rather confusing and a bit exciting. The thought of new life and love is always joyful and hopeful. When facing the loss of a beloved pet, joy and hope are welcome things! 

Yesterday I was contacted by a woman I have known of since I began looking for Bravo eleven years ago. She is a well-known and highly respected advocate for the breed. She messaged to express sympathy about Bravo's diagnosis and to say she had some puppies available. She lives far from us, but has two puppies heading to New England on a transport later this month. 

I wanted a female puppy this time, and she had three available. One is a sable, a color I particularly admire. She said the sable puppy is very sweet, deferential to the big dogs, and she thinks her personality will be a good fit with our family and farm. Her dogs are farm-bred and raised for their ability to work stock and be marvelous companions. The parents have all of the appropriate genetic testing done, and the pups have been raised in the home and well socialized. 

I had not planned to bring a puppy home quite yet. I imagined a long hunt before I found "the" one. But all the pieces fell into place, and this baby will be coming to FairWinds just in time for my birthday. 

Every step of the way felt like fate. Chris and I have been discussing potential names. I think we have settled on "Fae." Thebump.com says, "Fae is an enchanting, short name of Old English and French origin meaning "fairy" "fate" or "faith". As a gender-neutral or feminine name, it evokes magical, ethereal, and nature-inspired imagery. Popular variations include Faye, Fay, Fée, and Faelyn. It is often used to symbolize mystical charm, loyalty, or a connection to nature." 

Every dog I have had the privilege to love has taught me lessons. Too many, too much for me to articulate.  Right now, Bravo is teaching me how to let go gracefully. How to live in the moment. How to not wait to celebrate being together. What will Fae have to teach to me? I can hardly wait.