Gone Away

Some years back, during my radio days, I got to know a retired BBC Radio manager who lived with his wife in a thatched cottage in rural Suffolk.  Frank was in his eighties when we met, and his  Irish wife Maureen was one of those women who could have been almost any age.

They were both strong people, both opinionated, and I liked them both very much for quite different reasons.  Frank died some years ago now, and we were lucky to see him a couple of months before his death on one of his "good" days.  He had not lost any of his wit or sense of irony, and we have always been glad we made the effort.

Not long after Frank died, Maureen went into a "care home," and we lost contact...partly because it was Frank that drove the relationship and partly because it was hard to figure out how to get in touch with her, except by mail.

So every year thereafter, I sent a Christmas card along with a note.  I never heard anything back, but I never had any expectation that I would.

Until this year.

In early March, my Christmas card was returned to me, and on it was a sticker with a variety of explanations next to little boxes, one of which was "ticked," as our British colleagues would say.

It read, "Addressee Has Gone Away."  Not died, not departed, not moved house, not on vacation, not forwarding order expired, just "gone away."  I feared the worst and wondered how to find out what really had happened to Maureen.

In an old address book, I found the name and address of one of Frank and Maureen's closest friends in their village, and via the internet, I found his telephone number, so I rang him up.  He very kindly remembered who I was and explained that Maureen had died last May, that he was seeing to her estate, and that the rumpled old cottage in which she and Frank had lived had not yet been sold - it would require a lot of renovation, but they had loved it just the way it was.

I was saddened by the news and moved to reconsider my obviously quite unsatisfactory attempts to keep in touch with friends and acquaintances who may have, for whatever reasons, meandered into an orbit different from my own.  

Once upon a time, we took pleasure in each other's company, and while circumstances may have changed, whether in proximity, interest, or commonality of purpose or belief, when we reach a certain age, we must make special efforts to keep our networks knitted together for as long as we can.

It's another tactic to keep us here just a bit longer....and the effort requires no large carbon footprint or great expenditure of money.  Just a bit of thought and a sense of kindness.

I'd better get with it and improve my performance in this department of living.

Day Trip

There comes a point in any winter, when one must say, "Enough, already." When this occurs, some go to Florida, Mexico, California, the Caribbean, but I stay here in the belief that a brief holiday in the sun will end, but upon one's return to Minnesota,  your view of the rest of the winter will help you redefine the meaning of the word "eternity."

After attacks of heavier than usual colds, me at the end of one  and K at the beginning of another, she observed the sunrise yesterday morning and said that she wanted to go for a ride. She had had enough of the cold's onset and winter's length. We bundled up and put Islay, the therapy scotty, in the back seat and headed in an easterly direction, toward Wisconsin.

We crossed over the frozen St Croix River between Minnesota and Wisconsin, headed to the top of the bluffs, left the freeway, and headed north, hoping that without too many navigatory tools (compass, map, previous experience) we could have a pleasant day meandering. As the suburbs gave way to more open countryside, beauty surrounded us, interrupted only by the occasional housing development plunked down on open land without a tree in sight. One gathers that largeish houses characterized by the incessant repetition of triangular shapes organized around a lump of three garages is the style of today.  After a while, our eyes began to yearn for good old American four-squares, bungalows, and converted cabins.

Far better were the older residential areas with lots of mature trees and houses which seemed to be designed to nestle into the rolling landscape. As the sun worked its way across the sky, the play of light and shadows on the forests and the snow were a constant delight to the eye.

But the most important element was the sun. The days are lengthening, and although the rough fingers of cold keep their grip firmly on our throats, we know that warmth is just around the corner, and we are reassured by the calls of the cardinals heard each time the front door is opened to let out the dog.

After four hours, we turned on the GPS and requested an interesting route, and the device responded with a recommendation which turned into a smooth road and a novel way home.

The cold remains outside, as do our colds inside, but our spirits were lifted by this little adventure, a kind of moving meditation, and I think the scotty felt exactly as we did.