The Farmer meets me for lunch nearly every weekday. He wants
a simple meal, like you can cook at home, so we usually meet at one of the
local diners. I tell him I can make us soup and a sandwich to take to work and
save him the twenty bucks. He says he likes the break in the middle of the day,
where you get out of the office, and have someone else make your tea. I think
it’s an old habit from his bachelor days but perhaps he is on to something.
Many times we would see the same couple dining at a nearby
table. He was broad-shouldered with a ready grin. She was petite and often had
her eyes turned to the newspaper. They both had white hair.
If the Farmer caught me watching them he would sometimes
give me a little nudge with his foot under the table. I tried not to eavesdrop
but I couldn’t help it. The gentleman had a voice that was soft, but it
carried. He called his wife sweetheart in every second sentence.
Their conversations were mostly him asking questions, her
answering. He would say, “Where are you from, again?” or “Why did we never move
to British Columbia ?
I always wanted to live out West.” She would answer, patiently, in a manner
that revealed she had provided the same responses to the same questions, many
times before.
Sometimes we exchanged smiles and waves as we went our
separate ways after lunch.
Then one day, perhaps a year ago, I saw the woman sitting
alone. I realized I hadn’t seen the pair for a few weeks, and now it was just
her, on her own, reading her paper. I ventured over.
“Hi there. Where’s your sweetheart?” I asked her.
“Oh, he’s in the home,” she responded, soft and sad.
“He’s at home?” I was confused, and a bit daft.
“No, he’s in the home sometimes, and he also has to go to
the hospital sometimes, but now he’s back in the home.”
“Oh.” And then, “You must miss him.”
“I visit him, but he keeps asking me when he can come home,”
she says, and I can tell she is getting upset. I tell her I’m sure they are
taking very good care of him and I’m sure he loves her visits.
I make a point of going over and saying hi every time I see
her sitting there on her own. Sometimes her daughter is with her. We talked
about how difficult it is to make life-changing decisions, about getting rid of
most of the contents of the home you’ve lived in for decades. About leaving
town and simplifying your lifestyle to accommodate your new requirements.
“Well you don’t have to decide to move right now, do you?” I
ask.
“They took away my license,” she reveals. “I sit there in
that house and my daughter has to come from Ottawa to drive me out to see my husband in
the home.”
Plans are made for a garage sale, so that a lifetime of
model airplanes and other unique collectibles will go to appreciative new
owners. I think of how hard it must be for her to part with the things that her
husband made with his own hands. But there is no room for these things in her
new home, and perhaps she is looking forward to her own little space without
them.
She moves into her new home, beside her daughter, in Ottawa . She will have
help for the yard and the driveway. Her living quarters will be small enough
for her to manage on her own. And her family will be close by in case she needs
them for anything. I tell her I think she is making a very good decision for
herself.
And then, like a confirmation, her sweetheart dies. There is
nothing tying her to the home they lived in for so long. She is free to go, to
enjoy her life, in its new shape.
She may be in a completely different environment now, but
I’m sure she often feels the presence of a broad-shouldered man with a ready
grin, sitting across the table from her, his big hands reaching for hers. Rest
in Peace, George.
Email: dianafisher1@gmail.com
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