The small cardboard box, about the size of eight pop tarts stacked on top of one another, came in the mail. It said HP in big, bold letters. Replacement printer cartridges. The printer was still putting ink on the page, so naturally I was in no hurry to “poke the bear”. I am a huge subscriber to the if-it-ain’t-broke mentality. Several weeks go by and then the inevitable message, “Ink supply is low” shows itself consistently when I try to print something.

It’s time……

So I open the box. Inside, a thicker black plastic hollow container and three thinner ink cartridges, marked with red, blue and yellow circles. The battle lines are drawn. I say that because every time I have to do anything related to this printer, it’s cantankerous. I’d even go so far as to say it is downright mean-spirited. It prints blank sheets. Or is completely unresponsive. Or it’s out of paper. Or there is paper stuck in the depths of the machine, removable only by ripping it from the bowels of the inside, one sliver at a time, resulting in ink-stained hands, or it’s “no longer connected to the computer”. Who disconnected it? Or there are smudges. See what I mean?

So I open the front of the computer. One of several door-options available to me. Poke around. I can see the printer cartridges, but they’re way in the depths of the interior to the far right. Definitely not easily accessible. I poke some more and the whole mechanism slides over to the left, right in front of me. Almost magical. Could this endeavor be a slam dunk — my optimism clearly getting the best of me. Believe me, I know better. And it’s inconceivable to me that HP thinks that just shoving ink cartridges into a box and sending them out the door without instructions wouldn’t qualify as “best practices” in my book.

The old cartridges aren’t just sliding right out. Turns out you have to push on the ink cartridge where there’s a little indentation, shaped much like a thumbprint. I even have the presence of mind to look and see if the circle, indicating the color of the ink, goes into the slot in the up or down position. My hands have a fair amount of ink on them…small price to pay for browbeating this machine into submission.

Close the door. Humming and whirring and the sounds of stuff realigning. I wait. Then the message on the screen, “Printer cartridges are incompatible with this model.” HUH? This printer is just this close to being incompatible with continuing to live in this house, rent free. This printer has been on my last nerve for years. I reopen the door. I push on the ink cartridges to make sure they’re seated correctly., because frankly I don’t know what else to do. Giving them a little shove seems to be a good option. I close the door again, while sighing loud enough to be heard in the next zip code. More whirring. More mechanical sounding adjustments going on. The “copy” light comes on in the display screen. I’m going for broke. I find a piece of paper with writing on it to see if the printer will print.

It prints.

HP’s winning streak is over.

I have had more than my fair share of decorating fails. The most recent, a blue paisley fabric on a couch.  A benign, conservative choice. I thought to jazz things up, to make the fabric seem more vintage-y, more trendy, more lived-in, to knock back the formality of the paisley, I decided a raspberry piping would be just the thing.  When the upholsters came into the house to deliver the newly reupholstered couch, I couldn’t begin to comprehend how the picture I had envisioned in my head could be so different from this garish, tawdry, graceless catastrophe that I was looking at in horror.  It almost had a bordello vibe. (Not that I have any real-life experience with that sort of thing.) Wood kept saying, “It’s not that bad.” on repeat, confirming what neither one of us was saying out loud…i.e., “Not that bad” is hardly a compliment. This was a mistake of mammoth proportions, A nine foot mistake. So bad that there wasn’t even any discussion of just living with it. Nope.  It had to go. We could cover it with blankets or go to Overstock.com and see how many pillows we’d need to cover this monstrosity, Or put it out on the curb and report it to insurance as stolen. But I was not about to be living in horizontal stripes for felony fraud over an ugly paisley couch.

A wallpapering fiasco back in the 80’s. Four tiny Williamsburg blue dots in a diamond shape scattered on a cream background.  Looked great on the sample, but once on the wall the dots disappeared if you were more than a foot away.  Poof.  Gone.  Four walls of bland, unimaginative cream-colored wallpaper.  

I think I come by this decorating deficit genetically.  Just before our wedding, my mother decided to reupholster the couch since we were having the reception at home.  I have no idea what color my mother thought she was picking, but it was the exact color of Campbell’s tomato soup, right out of the can, before milk or water could be added.  Cue the music, “Mmmmm Mmmmm good.”

So about 18 months ago we decided to have the house painted.  Initially, it was going to be a no-fuss-paint-it-the-same-gray-color that was already on the house that we liked well enough.  Until the family over-thinker, that would be me, found a house on Pinterest that I loved the color of.  It was blue.  Have you ever walked into a Benjamin Moore store and tried to match blues?  So off we go to the Glidden store.  Nope.  Back in the car to the PPG store.  Now we have 1267 paint chips, 5 to a strip, none of which match the color exactly, but there are some close approximations.  See where this is going?

We wind up buying a small can of Glidden Sea Blue Green.  Of course the painter in the family (not me) needs a small tray, a roller and brushes.  Oh, and a drop cloth. They threw in two wooden paint stirrers gratis, and $37.87 later, we were ready to slap this on a few shiplaps.  And we loved it.  We really loved it.  We came outside more than a dozen times to confirm that we still loved it.  We did.  That is, until we (correction, I) decided we needed to drive around looking for blue houses. My spouse was mildly resistant.  No, make that a no-attempt-to-conceal his mid-level annoyance,  I could tell by his clipped, “I thought we found the blue color we like….”  I wanted to be really sure that we were doing our due diligence.  Actually what I was doing was getting more and more confused with an added bonus of an out-of-sorts spouse. After the wallpaper and couch fiascos, I was not taking any chances on being haphazard or impulsive on this decision.

We rolled up on a house that we liked.  Five I-phone pictures later, taken from the open car window, we had five different shades of blue from the same house.  Clearly this wasn’t the right approach.  I decide to confront this head on.  I got out of the car, marched myself up the sidewalk and rang the doorbell.  I tell the nice man who answered the door how much we loved the color of his house and he said he’d look up the color.  “Twilight Stroll”.  Just the right shade of blue.  Back to the paint store.  More wooden stirrers, and a small can of paint that sets us back another $15 and some change.

We come home, and using another roller, put this color on the house.  Right next to a window that has white trim so we could make sure that the color “popped”.  We are both big believers in the popping kind of look.  Now we had our research done.  We could compare the two colors and it didn’t take a Gallup poll to realize that Twilight Stroll came in way ahead of Sea Blue Green, which now seemed like a too-bright-this-is-more-of-an-accent-color-not-a-whole-house-color.  My worst nightmare was having the house on the block that people walked by, stared at, shook their heads while muttering under their breath, “What were they thinking?”

We got the color just right. I just might have stopped the decorating-mistake momentum….

This beautiful man has traveled alongside me on this life’s journey. He has been the map, the steadfast we-can-do-this-leader. He has quietly made a difference at work, in the way he treated his employees. He put on countless magic shows for the kids’ first and second grade classrooms. He happily tramped through the neighborhood in the sleet and frigid evenings, overseeing the Halloween candy-haul. He relished all the many roles he played in Boy Scouts…Den Leader, Cubmaster, Tiger Cub Leader, Merit Badge Counselor, Boy Scout Camp Leader. His two sons were Eagle Scouts. He was on the Board of Ozanam Home and Theatre for Young America. He embraced volunteerism, always the first one with his hand in the air. When our youngest son was old enough for Tiger Cubs, he left for the first meeting, saying to me off-handedly, “Don’t worry, I’m not going to sign up for anything.” He came home, a battered shoe box in hand, full of beads, yellow plastic lanyard remnants, several chewed up, eraser-less 5 inch pencils and of course, a Tiger Cub Leader patch to put on his shirt. He looked at me, shrugging his shoulders. Like he had no idea how this newfound role had happened.

It’s been thirteen months since I lost the man who was my sidekick, who loved my out-of-control hair, my shenanigans, my cooking, my nonsensical approach to mowing the lawn (perimeter inward, until boredom got the best of me and I’d veer off in a diagonal). A man who in every single way put his family first. Who was on speed dial on eight cell phones for any number of kid- meltdowns, fender benders, boyfriend issues, career questions and occasional ATM dispensary.

I now have two Thanksgivings, one Christmas, one birth of a granddaughter, one Valentine’s Day, one Baptism, one Mother’s Day, and one Father’s Day in the rearview mirror.

I’ve written a blog for a number of years. But nothing for a year. Writer’s block on steroids. Paralysis. Complete cognitive chaos. But Hemingway said it best, “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” But I’m afraid of not just bleeding, but a hemorrhage with no tourniquet in sight. I’m rusty. I’m afraid. Afraid of the stampede of emotion that is sure to strike when I talk about life now. Because I’m not a “we” anymore. Now it’s “me.” Solo me. Couple that with not wanting my kids or the people that surround me to worry that I’m too sad, too quiet, too detached, too buttoned-up, too quick to tears, too distracted.

It occurred to me several months into this new chapter, that going forward, all of life’s happiest moments would be tinged with sadness. A college friend of mine made a very generous donation in Wood’s memory to the Boy Scouts of Kansas City. I called out to the Scout office to let them know the check was coming and wound up talking to Tanner, a thirty-something young man who worked with Wood last summer at Scout Camp. He and Wood had a mutual admiration and I told Tanner that Wood had talked fondly of him after camp was over. I broke down and Tanner said, “I wanted you to know that Wood was going to be asked to be the Lead Commissioner at Camp Naish next year.” THUD. An honor, to be sure. But Wood would not know. He would have been prouder of that than getting his Master’s degree. I’m sure there was a patch for that. Maybe even a bead.

Happiness tinged with sadness….

Likewise, when Andrew received two awards at a National Association of Government Communicators Conference in Louisville, Kentucky for a photo portfolio and a video, Wood wasn’t here for that.

Again, happiness tinged with sadness.

The birth of Abigail Wood Russell January 14, 2022. That little lady made her debut at 9:40 pm. Meghan and Isaac called me to come over to the hospital. I told them I didn’t want to intrude on their time, those first miraculous hours. They insisted. So I got out of my pjs, and raced over with out-of-the-shower wet hair, looking like a homeless grandmother.

Happiness tinged with sadness.

So many firsts. Transitions that Wood and I used to share. We would reminisce. Okay, we patted ourselves on the back for a parenting job well done. Oh there have been some big parenting stumbles as well. But I miss the camaraderie of hashing over those milestones over coffee, or after the lights were turned out for the day. Those moments of contentment. Those quiet, intimate times that are no more.

Yes, I believed it would last forever.

A brisk 52 degrees in Kansas City on a recent Saturday morning. Perfect walking weather. A nice breeze, lots of sun, and Mother Nature unabashedly showing off her finest autumn palette. A terrific backdrop to pound the sidewalk for three miles. Dressed in black yoga capris, an old Oxford cloth button-down of Wood’s, topped off with a “WE CAN DO HARD THINGS” sweatshirt that once belonged to my daughter, Meghan, who works as a children’s therapist at Children’s Mercy Hospital, where she took possession of this sweatshirt. Yup, she gave me the shirt off her back. She’s that kind of kid.

But wait. My walks are usually solitary. I wake before dawn and sip coffee, waiting until the sun comes up to begin my morning trek. I pass the same few people most mornings. But this morning there was a police car on every corner, lights lit. A large police presence in dayglo orange vests. Spectators in chairs lining the street. This morning was the Kansas City Marathon.

It was just the cleansing breath I needed. A vibrancy was in the air. The community, wracked by crime, political unrest, contentious squabbling, coming together on a Saturday morning. Strangers cheering each other on. Of course there were still the grouchy folks in their vehicles trying to turn right onto the street where the runners were seemingly oblivious to the traffic cones. That’s where the men/women in blue came in, preventing the mowing down of folks just trying to get in their miles on a too-early Saturday morn. But overall, their self-absorbed impatience couldn’t trump the buzz in the street. I love city living. Harkens me back to my roots in the Bronx, minus the cabbies in those bright yellow cars!

Just as I am getting warmed up, I see a girl in the street, one of the runners, trying to get my attention. She has hands outstretched, shoulder-height, pointing at me with both index fingers in an up-and-down wiggle. She sees the look of confusion on my face and grabs her shirt-front in both fists. She yells, “LOVE THE SWEATSHIRT”. Yes, YES. The perfect mantra for this marathon.

And haven’t we all had to do hard things? Dealing with unspeakable loss, grieving what is, what was, what could have been. Whether that is the disintegration of a marriage, a career, an awful medical diagnosis, a financial setback, a friendship that disappoints…any one of a million things that can change life in an instant. When time stands still. When the noise of life is muffled, like after a snowfall.

Happenstance. Sometimes soul-crushing. There are times that whatever it is that overwhelms right this minute will be barely a footnote in a week. Oh-no-ing despair or just a hiccup.

This I do know. We’re stronger when we walk together. Especially when wearing just the right sweatshirt that resonates with the crowd.

I can never show my face at the Rainbow Car Wash again. Not after today.

It’s where Wood got the car washed in times past. I know that only because “Rainbow Car Wash” showed up on the American Express bill each month. $18. Today, frugal woman that I am, I opted for the $12 wash. Super Wash. Not Super Duper. I stuck my credit card in the unmanned pay station and drove the car around the corner where three able-bodied young men were waiting for me. I detected a slight uptick in my blood pressure because I was worried about getting the tires aligned in the track. I had to be bailed out once, because my tires were not aligned. Not even close. Another story for another day.

As I’m waiting my turn — there’s a car ahead of me — I read the rules posted on a signboard at the car wash entrance. Car in neutral. Windows up. Windshield wipers off. Stay in your car. Got it. Well, maybe. Because I learn in a great big hurry that I have no idea how to get the car in neutral. I can only get it in drive or reverse. Neither of which will have me following the guidelines. So down goes my window. I say to the man getting ready to suds up the windshield, “Umm, I’m sorry….but I just got this car and I can’t seem to get it in neutral.” He looks in the window. He makes a few suggestions, like “Try taking your foot off the brake” which makes the car go forward, heading directly for the brick wall of the carwash building. So he calls for his buddy. He asks if I have an iPhone. I am not sure what that has to do with getting my car in neutral, so I ignore the question because I’m worried that I am missing a car app that I’m supposed to have. I open the car door, giving him the non-verbal cue that I am bailing on this whole mechanics-thing and want him to do my job and get the car in neutral. He slides into the driver’s seat, I stand beside the car and get hit with what feels like gallons of cold water. Seriously? Once I get my glasses wiped off so I can see, I notice that the three able-bodied young men are snickering and trying hard for me not to notice.

He gets the car in neutral. Now there are easily five cars behind me, all in various stages of annoyance. I smile. Give a little wave. Neither seemed to help, but at least no one is getting out of their car and stomping toward me in confrontation-stance. Clearly no one is going to be the least bit interested that I just got a new car and don’t have the foggiest notion how most of it works. I get back in the car. He tells me, “Don’t touch anything. Just sit there.” All I can think about is calling Meghan and Mary the minute I get home because both will think this is sidesplittingly funny. And then the unthinkable happens. I accidentally touch the brake and suddenly the carwash fellow is back, motioning me to lower my window telling me the car isn’t in neutral anymore. And no, I do not tell him of my mistake. I act like this brand new car is malfunctioning. He asks me to exit the vehicle. He gets in the driver’s seat and puts it in neutral – again – and asks me to walk around to the exit. I have just been evicted from my car. I am only too happy to comply.

When my car comes to the end of the tire track I apologize to the driver and his body language is unmistakable. Find another car wash, lady.

I had a daughter who struggled.  Bullies tore at her, found her vulnerable spots and turned her approach to life into an I’ll-get-you-before-you-get-me, snarling, raging human.

That was a ten-year detour.  A decade.  Half a score.

I am a woman who values her privacy, whose mama instincts compel me to protect my kid with the exact same ferocity that the bullies used against her.  As I type this, my fingers instinctively want to delete this, soften the words like “rageful” to make it more palatable, more “fit” for consumption.  Maybe even wondering if the bullys’ moms will recognize themselves.  And frankly, I don’t want any blowback.  Those wounds are still raw.  Those girls changed my daughter.  Wrote on the slate of who she is. “ You’re not good enough for our club.”  “You don’t meet the criteria.”  “We don’t like you.  Go away.”  One of the girl’s mom apologized, none of the girls ever did.

It began in Kindergarten.  A classmate started a “club”.  The club met at recess, under the monkey bars. Invitation only.  Guess who didn’t get the invite?  Birthday parties that came and went, only to be heard about after the fact.  

Then middle school.  There was a youtube video of a sixth grade talent show rendition of Taylor Swift’s “Love Story” that she sang, accompanied by her dad on the guitar.  It was standing-ovation caliber.  No one knew my kid could sing like that.  The room sat in stunned silence until she sang the last note.  A group of kids mercilessly made fun of her.  Sadly, the video was taken down by my daughter.  That sixth-grade voice, belting it out, gone for good. I still get teary if I hear that song played in a grocery store.

This girl never once followed the “protocol”.  High school graduation to college campus for this kid with a few detours.  California.  A job or two or three.  A few dead ends.  

Yet she persevered, brushed her dirt and pebble-embedded  knees off and took still another run at this thing called life.  She’s heroic in her persistence.  She keeps trying.  She never gives up.  Never tires. Always rooted for the underdog. A strong sense of justice. A sense of humor. She suits up and shows up. No unexamined life for this girl. She adjusts, refocuses, doggedly pursuing her goals, even when she couldn’t seem to find the on-ramp. She leaves more than she takes. Has fallen in love and fallen apart. And doesn’t suffer fools. She soldiered on, when there were no words for her despair. When she ran out of road, she built one. She was the unwitting poster child for struggling adolescent.

I love this complicated girl of mine.

And I honor her scars.

Sometimes my hair ignites and I am compelled to suit up and hammer out a blog. Although those instances are occasional, as opposed to all-the-time, it’s a way for me to “retaliate” from the comfort of my dining room table. It’s a throat-clearing way to give voice to something that matters to me. I don’t have to carry a sign, call a Congressman or write a check. Back in the day, I penned my fair share of Letters to the Editor for The Kansas City Star, and admittedly, it was quite the rush when Lewis Duguid, a Star columnist, would leave me a voicemail, wanting confirmation that I was the author of whatever genius opinion piece I’d submitted.

This week, I was perusing Facebook and came across this post

November 17 4:48 a.m.

Today, while shopping at Target in Hamburg Pavilion I saw a woman wearing a sweat shirt (sic) with “Guess” on it, so as I passed her, I said: “Implants?” Yep, I am sure that is going to get me called into the Boss’s office…..

Offensive? Poor taste? Inappropriate? A resounding affirmative to all three. My creep-meter was registering on the high end.

The author of this post is a Papal Missionary of Mercy. Let that soak in. He is one of 100 in the United States, appointed by the Pope. I googled his Diocese and dashed off an email, informing them of the Facebook post, letting them know that I had attended three of his missions when he was in Kansas City.

To my shock, I received an email, not from a Diocesan someone-or-other, but from this priest within two hours. It read as follows:

Dear Ms Dickson (sic)!

Greetings!

Hope you are well!  Thank you for your email!

Thank you also for attending the 3 missions in the past!  

As a #missionaryofmercy, I extend God’s grace, mercy and of course, peace to you.

I meant no disrespect in the posting that you mentioned to me in your email!

Looking forward in seeing you for Mission #4 in the future.

Peace and Happy Thanksgivings to you and your family!

Fr #####

I sent this to the Diocese, not Father ####. But I can overlook that. Sort of. I guess (ooops…bad word choice) the Diocese didn’t want to deal with this. But he’s a big megaphone (60K followers). And with that, comes responsibility. Even if this were a one-off, despite his 619 atta’ boys, there was one voice – mine – that let him know he was going all sorts of sideways. An apology would have been nice. A taking-down-of-the-post would have been even better. He made a lewd, classless comment about a woman’s breasts, and 619 people who saw his post, all either reacted with a heart or a thumbs-up emoji. His lack of insight and sophomoric humor are bewildering.

This needs no further editorializing. It speaks for itself.

I’ll take a pass on Mission #4.

Recently, I drove over to the car dealership to get a new battery for my key fob. While I was there, I thought I could pick up a brochure or two and get a price on a lease car to replace my current car whose lease would expire soon. My thinking was that I could just pop my head in someone’s office, get a quick quote and be on my way.

Apparently that’s not how things work at a car dealership.

No. This, I would discover, would require a sit-down, face-to-face with a car salesman, in my case, a young kid named Ethan. I would be asked what are called in the biz, “qualifying questions” to determine budget, transportation needs, must-have’s and can-do-withouts. A two-hour-chunk-out-of-my-morning later, I was on my way out the door with a fuzzy quote, my email/phone number in the salesman’s iPad and a stomach that was groaning because I missed lunch during this unintentional, extended foray at the car dealership.

Not even out of the dealership parking lot, my phone buzzes. Incoming text. Yup. Ethan. Wanting to schedule a test-drive, since I managed to wiggle out of that this go-round. Truth be told, I’m kind of test-drive-shy. A combination of driving with a stranger in the car and full disclosure—- I was not even close to being first in my Driver’s Ed class. No Summa cum laude for me behind the wheel. More on that in a bit.

In subsequent days, my phone was accumulating quite a few voicemails from my buddy, Ethan. Ten days went by. I finally called him back and scheduled a test drive. Turns out my test-drive-shyness didn’t line up with my inadvertent aggressive driving. Kind of a cognitive dissonance kind of thing — timid behind the wheel, but unintentionally antagonistic. I entered a round-about in the parking lot (who ever heard of a round-about in a parking lot?) and thought I had the right of way. I can sense Ethan stiffen in the seat next to me (he wasn’t savvy enough to sit in the back seat…) and then hear, “Whoa, WHOA WHOA” as I see a truck bearing down on me from the left. He tries to make light of it…I think he was a bit embarrassed that he’d yelled “WHOA” so loud. Three times. One loud WHOA would have done the trick. A car crash, with only single-digit miles on the car (nine to be exact), averted. Trying to sound nonchalant, he asks, “Did you want to go on the highway?” I declined. But detected some sweat beads on his forehead. Give this whippersnapper a break

Back to his office. I remind him of the fuzzy quote he’d given me on my last visit and told him he’d have to sharpen that pencil. He asked what number I was looking at. I gave him that number. I had some intensive text-message coaching from my son, Andrew, who lives in Maine, and is my long-distance go-to for this sort of thing. Ethan goes to check with the finance guy. He comes back, not quite low enough. He’s a good sport, I am easy-going. I’m not going to elevate the intensity because I really like this kid and I want to be fair. Besides, I have no idea what I am doing. He leaves again, another pow-wow with the finance guy. They’ll give me another thousand dollars on the trade if I give them another $250 down. Deal.

Now we’re onto the paperwork phase. He asks for the title of the lease car I’m relinquishing. I don’t have it. I don’t think I ever had it. He asks for the registration. It’s not in the car. He asks for my insurance card, the look on his face confident that we are going three for three. I also detect a hint of an eye roll. I have the insurance card, but it expired August 6. He asks me to sign a form for them to run a credit check. I forget that I have put a freeze on my credit report because I had my identity stolen four months ago. The frozen credit report results in a 1-800-Nissan call to my cell right there in Ethan’s office. I know Ethan is thinking that he’s really having to work harder than necessary for this commission. He’s probably wondering if this was a wise career choice. He probably wonders if I got my driver’s license from a mail-order catalog. Or what kind of life I live when I can’t find a title, a registration and a current insurance card. And that I need advanced training in round-about technique.

On to the finance guy. Nice fellow. In his sixties. He is new at this job, in his previous life he owned three different restaurants. We talk KC cuisine. He even intimates that we ought to try a restaurant that he loves and I’ve not been to. Match.com at the car dealership???? Whoa…

This is the eulogy that I read at Wood’s funeral on November 24, 2021 at St. Francis Xavier Church in Kansas City, Missouri.

Wood Dickinson was a beautiful soul.  He was a son, a grandson, a roll-up-his-shirtsleeves-dad, a husband, a faith-filled man, a volunteer, a board member, an uncle, a lector, a grandfather, a Eucharistic Minister, a photographer, a CEO, a writer, a movie-maker, a teacher, an adventurer, a soulmate.  

Wood was 69.  That was…..

Time enough to meet me at a dance in a darkened Sion gym in April of 1969

Time enough to teach eight kids how to ride a two-wheeler. Wood would hang onto the seat of the little red bicycle, running alongside screaming, “Pedal, pedal, pedal” into the wind.

Time enough to help with countless elementary school science fair projects, the most memorable being a metal trash can full of dirt and worms that we fed coffee grounds to in the basement

Time enough to play “backup” at elementary school talent shows, whether that be playing his guitar or helping with a magic trick.  A beautiful metaphor for his role as dad, playing backup in his kids’ lives. 

Time enough to cheer the kids on in high school sports, swimming, wrestling, tennis, soccer, track, cross country, basketball, volleyball and softball — and the crazy number of miles he clocked driving to/from practices

Time enough to be on speed dial on eight kids’ phones to field kid-meltdowns, whether that be Meghan’s “check engine” light coming on way too often or Mary needing babysitting for her trio of boys. But those calls weren’t all meltdowns……those calls also shared good news….a University of Nebraska editor-in-chief accomplishment, a summer residency at the Kansas City Art Institute, becoming an Equity Stage Manager, winning the MS Read-a-Thon, a track scholarship, identical twin boys, a job at Children’s Mercy Hospital and finding us the perfect little kitten named Patrick, abandoned on the side of the road, who took up residence at our house six years ago.    

Time enough to have dealt with plenty of kid-shenanigans, whether that be parking tickets, missed curfews or fender benders, yet as exasperated as he might have been, he was always fair, always wanting to find the teachable moment in whatever transgression he was met with.

Time enough to be a true Scouter.  He believed it was not just about camping in the rain and tying square knots, but about boys learning leadership skills in a safe environment.  He was a Den Leader, Cubmaster, and Scoutmaster and worked as a Camp Commissioner at Camp Naish in the summer of 2021. He was Wood Badge trained.  He earned the District Award of Merit. He began his Scouting in 1987 when he attended an informational meeting.  As he left the house he told me not to worry, that he wasn’t going to volunteer for anything. He returned two hours later with a raggedy shoe box full of Cub Scout patches and beads.  Yup, Den Leader.  And eventually, two Eagle Scout sons.

Time enough to hone his baby-swaddling skills, perfect his teddy bear hugs and learning instinctually whether to step in, step back or step aside. 

Time enough to wallpaper a bedroom on a Saturday morning with five kids in the room, watching cartoons, each with a bowl of dry Cheerios in their lap while I slept in.

Time enough to donate his corneas, skin to aid in the recovery and healing of burn victims, his sternum and sclera (sk-lera) to aid glaucoma patients and the pericardium, the fluid surrounding the heart, used for brain surgeries. He will literally and figuratively live on in others.

Time enough to teach eight teenagers to drive.  I think he did a pretty good job of that, except for Kathleen who took off out of our driveway on her first solo ride to Bishop Miege with the two passenger side tires on the sidewalk, instead of the street. Wood watched out the living room window with his head in his hands.

Time enough to see a few Cubs games with Kathleen, Chiefs games with Matthew, Margaret and Claire and lots of Royals games with the kids.

Time enough to say one more, “I love you Patti” before he drew his last breath. 

Yet, somehow, it wasn’t time enough. I love you, Wood Dickinson. Thank you for loving me fiercely.

This shelter-in-place has brought me back to the basics. I ordered a sourdough starter online. I have baked bread, made a huge batch of spaghetti sauce and this house is spic and span. I’ve polished the silver. Organized every single piece of paper into file folders, washed the winter coats and hung them in the guest room closet. I’ve washed the slipcovers on the sunroom furniture. Wood has power-washed the deck. Edged the whole yard. Mr. Handyman has fixed the deck rocking chair and hung a tennis ball from the garage ceiling to tell us (okay, me) when to stop pulling forward. I’ve stopped short of cleaning baseboards with a Q-tip, but I’m close. Idle isn’t in my DNA.

I really like working in the yard. I love the satisfaction of mowing. Straight rows. No fringe. It appeals to my sense of order, the tidiness that I hunger for. Probably a direct result of having eight kids in a house that always fell short of orderly. There were decades of spilled milk, sticky kitchen floor, errant Legos and globs of mint green toothpaste in the bathroom sink.

We always mulch the flower beds to keep the weed population from overtaking things. A stray dandelion puts both of us into A-fib. So, I thought this year would be the perfect time to start a vegetable garden. We took string and pencils outside and staked off different size options. We started off with 2’ x 6’. Too small. Way too small. Finally settled on 3’ x 11’. We pulled up the sod. No small feat in a mostly dense clay soil. Clods of dirt, at a minimum, fist-sized. No loose dirt falling through our fingers. Bought the vegetables at a local nursery that took online appointments. We signed up for a time and we had 45 minutes to get in and out. We bought tomato plants, cucumber, two kinds of lettuce, green beans, jalapenos, strawberries, parsley, chives and red/green peppers . We bought black fencing to keep the rabbits and squirrels out.  We’re ready to plant, right?

Oh no. Wait a minute. Did I mention that my spouse is now in the big middle of this project? After taking up the sod and tilling, we are supposed to let it rest for two to three days. THEN…..we have to do a soil test. A SOIL TEST????? Yup. Four little test tubes. $11.97 at the hardware store. The results will tell us what we need to add to the soil to maximize our harvest. We’re not talking acres here. We’re talking 33 square feet of garden.

Boy oh boy, is this a metaphor for our marriage or what? I’m impulsive. He’s methodical. I jump right in. He stands back and strategizes. I want to get to work right now. He is willing to wait for the information that will give us the best possible harvest. I’m the rookie and willing to learn by doing. He’s the veteran, willing to learn by research.

We’ve been married forty-five years. I approach life like my hair is on fire. He, well, he’s standing by with the fire extinguisher. That’s how we roll.