The day after my last post. (which I had "pre-posted), I was widowed. Anything new is further specified, and is written on July 10th, 2022.
I am heartbroken. I am grieving. I am angry. I am grateful. I am remorseful. I am afraid. I am shattered.
I am alive. I am. I am.
No longer we are. But we are. I am a widow now, not a wife. But...
I fell in love with this 1953 baby in 1992. Didn't want to. Actively avoided him. Later, was ordered to "be nice to him" by my sociably experienced roomie. I was not a sociably experienced person. Tried to run him over with my truck, only once, when he was late for dinner. He didn't learn from this. Ever, like ever. I shoulda kept trying. I still married him. I continued to want to occasionally exterminate him. If I was mad enough, I'd go and get stuck in the field, so he'd have to help me.. Okay, that happened only once, but you get the idea. Our relationship was an experiment in chemical combustions. Volatile, shall we say. **new** Tumultuous, shall we say. Never, ever dull.**new**
8 Years after I met him, and oh, I was a bride at 45. Not expected. Indeed, living with a boy was complete culture shock. Especially this boy, or not especially. I had no "living with desired human sex" frame of reference.
I was comfortable in spinsterhood. I was uncomfortable in spinsterhood. But I was cool with it. No I wasn't... I've written many journals through my years on this planet. I complained and cried about being alone, and wanting to have a man in my life. For years. I complained and cried about (rarely!!) finding a man and having brief experiences of not aloneness. In journals, and to my long-suffering, very patient friends.
I complained and cried about living with him. In journals, and to my long-suffering, very patient friends Sometimes my rage was expressed as sadness. Sadness as rage. Depression. Grief. His depression could manifest itself in pretty explosive ways, emotionally and verbally. He was extremely intelligent. As a farmer, he was always in a rage about something, as the years went by. If you've been paying any attention at all, we're losing farmland faster than ever, and he was born to feed people. His heartbreaks were mine, and it wasn't an easy life with him. It was always interesting. He was a force of nature himself, and watching him work was enough to make me weak in the knees. Unheard of, at the advanced age I was! I do believe he was born with a tiny taste of Dysprosium, because his magnetic force was palpable, at least to me. I discovered that rare earth element because of husband, I was spell-checking Ecclesiastes. Hang in there, reader. I do get to the point sometimes.
I never will stop loving him, and feeling conflicted about him. BlueHeron explained it to me, I was experiencing the many facets of loving another human of the desired sex. (I was already sociably inexperienced, remember?)
He was. He was. I can't believe he was.
This 1953 baby was a genius, and as mentioned, suffered from depression. Smart people are often bummed out, and his brain could get stuck in those neuronal pathways, especially with a generous side-order of our standard alcoholic drink in this country. I knew he drank too much when I met him. I knew he was going to be very difficult. I wonder... He called me a witch to his warlock, and we really did have/do have a weird and wonderful chemistry. I knew what he was/is thinking, and vice versa.
He was obsessed with the land, and with farming and tractors and geography and geology and topography and weather and weather and weather and weather and climate and machinery and machinery and machinery and nature and ecology and water and machinery and weather and weather and weather and weather .. do you get the drift? He was a farmer from the moment he saw how dirt worked.
"A Farmer's trade is one of worth.
His pasture with the sky and earth.
Hi Pasture with the wind and rain.
And no man loses for his gain.
For men may rise, and men may fall,
but the Farmer, he must feed them all".
author unknown, darn it.
Here he is, 8 (?) years old, standing beside Mr. Taylor, raptly watching one of the first self-propelled combines in southern Ontario. His brother remembers "He was with Mr. Taylor (Harold), who (as you know) your husband worked for as a young person and really fostered his love of farming. The machine was one of the first self-propelled combines in Ontario… it was a really big deal."
My husband's Masonic Bible has a signature in it, "Harold Taylor", so precious to him. And now, me too.
I first met my husband, walking my little red dog and my room-mates dog Tory (a sweet, loving flat-coat retriever with severe coprophagy EW...) in the rain, on our mutually beside each other's driveways, which was unusual in that rural area. Usually you'd need to drive at least a few hundred feet, (if not much more) but our driveways were right beside each other!! I had just recently moved to the his country, for little red dog. For me too. I liked not having any neighbours near me, driveways notwithstanding. A dear friend who'd lived in his country had moved all the way west, not to return, and her room-mate and I were already friends. I leaped at the chance to live there, although when I realized what I'd done to my commute time... It was still great! 5 minutes away from the barn I was keeping Tad Plaid at! Beautiful rolling hills and rivers and a wonderful conservation area nearby, that I had walked often with my friends and their dogs. It was heavenly. Rustic with a capital C, but that was fun too.
Our next door (& driveway!) neighbours lived waay in off the road, in the valley, with two ponds. (We weren't that far away from the road, at the top of the hill. Amazing views...)
Here's the extreme north east edge of my first country house, looking ESE towards their valley. The field of beans is farmed by my new neighbours. That cockeyed willow on the right was our east property line.
It's Fall 1994, in this pic. Remember that!
Sorry... I'm about to meet my future husband.
(Pay attention to acronyms, people, I use them a LOT. FH=Future Husband, GF = Girlfriend etc. etc.)
These kind neighbours allowed us to use their "front" pond, for dog play and human entertainment. Inflatable large "pool" toys (I'm remembering a palm tree contraption) were deployed. They had a Giant German Shepherd Dog called "Sam". "They" were my future husband, and his girlfriend. (And my future Sam dog.) They had a baby after Sam had barely grown up, and Sam became quite the wanderer. I thought Sam's name was "Max" for the longest time, because I could hear them calling him until late at night. They were far enough away, I couldn't make out the name. Sam would often visit us on "our" side of the pond, and we'd play with him, and then we'd go home. We didn't want to invade the neighbours' privacy anymore than necessary. ANYway.
It's raining. I'm walking little red dog and Tory back across their field, as they (my future husband, GF + new baby) pulled in their driveway. I hadn't quite crossed onto our property, and I admit I started to hurry. No meeting people for me!! I was wearing a ratty old dressing gown, tall rubber boots, and a big old raincoat. And a BIG umbrella. My hair, as usual, was feral. I hoped they wouldn't stop to say hello, being the sociably withdrawn person I was. I made it to our property driveway. They stopped. Farmers are friendly folk. I was forced (by my own politeness) to walk over and say hello. I looked into the blue eyes of the love of my life for the first time, and a lightning-bolt hit my heart.
Here he is with his beautiful daughter, 1992. I've just met him, in his truck, with his woman and child, in the pouring rain...
1992. Handsome fella. |
I kept the conversation short, and hurried back home, cursing my idiotic heart for it's useless reaction. I mean, really?? Here's a guy with wife (I didn't know they weren't married) and kid, and my heart immediately leaps? For what purpose, cardio-joker?? Sheeeesh. What a maroon. But, there it was. Cardiokinesis, at the sight of him. I would spend the next 7 years trying to talk my heart out of him.
Didn't work. Ever. He and GF didn't last, and not because of me, and GF and baby girl went away, in early 1993. As I mentioned, he had just turned forty the next time I met him. He came to my door, and seemed to want to chat. He was struggling with his age, and of course, he was grieving the loss of his little family. Not that he even mentioned them, heck, I didn't know they'd left for the longest time. Room-mate told me, I think. ANYway, I wasn't friendly, didn't invite him in. Chatted for a minute, but sent him away. I knew better, you see. Rebuff rebuff rebuff. Done. Much later in 1993, roomie invited him over for a beer, as he'd been super helpful with various old house type issues. I'd consistently missed seeing him when he was helping. Fine by me. So, roomie had to order me to "be nice to him".
I just loved him from the start. Hard to cloak that, you know?
Meeting him for the first time, you would never know he was depressed, unless you asked him, and then you could hear as much as you wanted about it. Often more than you really needed or wanted to know.
I am kidding. I am not kidding. He was utterly charming, an endless talker, without being boring. Interested in everything. Those blue eyes... (sigh). His intensity and ability to gestalt were fascinating to me, and he laughed at all my jokes. He talked like me, saying he'd have problems with stuff "falling out of his mouth". Since I suffered from, and had named that same affliction the same way, I smelled kindred spirit. But nope, not getting close to THAT. Uh-uh. No thanks. Still too fresh off his break-up. We'd shoo him home. Or I'd stay up too late chatting with him. He had such great stories. Not many were about him. Mostly about his ex-'s, his friends, their parents. His travels. His neighbours. His family and their farm. The land he'd worked for his entire sentient life.
His dog Sam (pic below, he's at "my" place, being a loveable nuisance 1995) had remained with him after the break-up, and we started getting even more visits from Sam, to Tory's utter disgust. Sam would let himself in the roomie's door (we had separate entrances, such a great house...) and go up her stairs to her bedroom and lick her face. Roomie worked odd hours, and Sam's' friendly visits (at all hours of the day or night) were NOT well-received. Have I mentioned Sam was a Giant GSD? With a very undershot jaw? An enthusiastic gardener/digger? Bringer of giant sticks to break knees and doors with? Yeah. Sam would be covered in whatever mud/dirt/dead thing/garbage on his breath/filth, and he'd share it with roomie, who was way neater than I was. Or should I say, her belongings showed mud a lot more than mine did. Having your face licked at 3 in the morning by a Giant GSD with garbage/death breath is never fun.. Roomie's dog Tory had a constant snarl face whenever Sam would come over. Good thing my door/side of the house was Sam-proof :)
So, we'd often have to bring Sam back home, because Sam wouldn't leave. He liked car and truck travel. Sam's own home had broken and my future husband was busy drinkin' with buddies and doing farming stuff. Sam was bored. Roomie and I sure were entertaining! Sam liked my little red dog, as Sam could spot a genius like himself. Rusty dog had no fear of Sam, just a healthy respect for his bulk. She'd play with him, hurling her little self against him as they'd race for whatever we'd thrown , which Sam ALWAYS received/retrieved first. Sam, Tory, little red dog, in that exact order, always... little red dog was cool with that. No other dogs were welcome at Sam's house. Coyotes and wolves, yes, but that's yet another story. ANYway.
Months passed. I was actively being trained to at least look more sociable, and my roomie would play Barbie-dolls with my face and hair. Getting all "dolled up" was another first for my brain.
Then, we'd go out and get silly in bars around the area. This was also a first for me, because 1) I really don't drink, and 2) I really hate bars. But hey, can't sit inside on a Friday night! Not when you're 38 and your bio-clock is positively clanging away in your brain.
Amazing, really, what hormones can do. I guess you could say I was a late bloomer.
Now, I don't think I've mentioned that Future Husband's GF's name was the same as mine? Yeah. Seriously. Once we finally got together, we'd laugh that at least he wouldn't be accused of saying someone else's name in the throes of extreme sociability.
I met someone in a bar, and we were very sociable for a month. I invited this someone over one night, and he drove in FH's driveway by mistake. And was VERY confused when FH said "She doesn't live here anymore". I had to laugh, how perfect was that?? And for me, the socially inept, it was sort of thrilling...
It's fall, 1994. I've met him by now, but I have avoided getting too close. He has been a consistent drop-in visitor since Spring of 1993, when he turned 40, and I rebuffed his arse back home. So, that year later, fall 1994, I finally have to explain to him not to visit anymore, as I found him too attractive, and it was difficult to pretend otherwise. So, of course, he kissed me, and said "You don't need someone like me." And left. And the story began... Because he kept coming back. I kept letting him.
He continued with this theme of "I'm not worthy of love" for several years (the rest of his life, really), and I didn't disagree with him. His temper was ferocious, and he could be terribly cruel with words. (So could I...) I wasn't exactly perfect either, was I? I just loved him, and nothing my head said would my heart listen to.
To be continued, forever. I fell in love with, loved, and will always love, forever, my husband.