I’m over it now, I really am. But my husband left me for a week.
He went to New Orleans to visit our kids, while I bathed in dedicated time to patch together some ideas in my latest work.
The week was cold and rainy. I had plenty to do otherwise as well. Prepping for Opening Day. Here in Cincinnati, baseball, whether we win or lose, is a tradition. Spring and summer fevers (and hay fevers) rise and fall with the team’s fortunes. We live on the parade route. It’s hard to NOT host a parade patio party when one can practically reach out and touch the float riders. Easter would follow shortly after. My home would be filled with sisters and nieces, and the lone brother-in-law. And cookies. Beds that hadn’t been cleaned since the last guest needed a little refresh.
Living alone for a week, focusing my work, weather in the doll drums, there was little push to connect with the outside world. I wanted a world unto myself. One I had created. As I wrote during one of my writing workshops I led, I wanted to be “flush with myself.”
The word flush is bursting with meaning. My flush was not related to flushing toilets or flushing a grouse out of a bush. In my junior high days, I turned red when embarrassed in class, especially when Brian Savinski (calling you out here, friend), sat behind me in science or English, and flipped up my cheerleading skirt with his pencil for all to see. All that showed were green panties always worn underneath. But between the green of my uniform and cheeks turning Italian flag red, my face was flush.
Certainly, flush could mean more than that. I had a week to find out what would it take to recapture a feeling of fullness within myself?
What did I learn from such an endeavor?
I can be a slob. As kids, we never left our rooms without making our beds. I kept at this practice for years until I housed teenagers of my own. Still, I made my bed. When a good friend asked me why, I didn’t have an answer. So, I stopped. That week, I hardly picked up after myself. With that came freedom to leave behind whatever part of me I wanted to on the floor. Cleaning this construct of a 150-year-old house can be quite the chore. But I did out of love for history, for the privilege of being its caretaker. That week, I cared not at all. Coats dropped on the floors. Shoes fell lopsided at the doorstep. I was flush in my slovenliness.
Don’t wait up for garbage night. In the city, we have late-night travelers who walk up and down the streets, perusing the contents of trash cans. Usually, my husband puts out the trash late night before bed. I planned to do the same. This doesn’t really limit all those who peruse but the logic minimizes what they refuse to return to the bin off the sidewalks. Our trash cans unwieldy and often smell, whenever someone decides to drop their wrappers or Styrofoam in the bin and we forget to remove it for next time. The can rumbled as I rolled it out to the sidewalk. Sure enough, despite the dark hours, I heard a rumbling in return. Apparently, I had stayed up late for no reason.
Popcorn is a perfectly acceptable dinner option—despite my work on a cookbook. We live only blocks from Findlay Market. My lunch hour can be spent buying groceries by heading north to the market or south to Kroger. I stocked up on popcorn instead.
Productivity reigned. Working in the cellar, with little light and lots of ancestral memory conjured by joists I can see that are 150 years old, as old as my ancestors, I cut and pasted pages together, while considering context, refashioning a subject matter. The room was mine. The air was mine (shared with a few other longtime specters). The thoughts were mine. Alone. For the entire day.
I went to the movies alone. To see Cabrini, about an Italian immigrant nun who arrives in NYC in 1889 to help the poor. Astounded by impoverished children, she sets off to convince the pope, the mayor and anyone else who would listen to create secure housing for those most vulnerable. She went on to build an empire of “hope” around the world. Working on a book about Italian immigrants, I wanted to know my thoughts on the movie, no one else’s. To tap into my senses. I went to the movies alone to immerse myself in a subject matter. I was flush with it.
My husband’s car is more fun to drive. And I could drive his Mini-Cooper like Matt Damon in the Italian Job. I love my Venza with 225K miles on it now. Its sunset bronze color shines in the sun. But those days were cold. His Mini appeared lonely in the garage, with mine chilling in the cold. His car was not only convenient but more comfortable—and faster than mine (Did I mention I was Italian?).
Fish sauce goes with wine. At least the ancient Pompeiians thought so. In the similar vein of Cabrini, I visited the Cincinnati Museum Center Pompeii Exhibit. “On August 24, 79 A.D., the city of Pompeii was frozen in time by the catastrophic eruption of Mount Vesuvius. But what nature destroyed, it also preserved,” so entices the museum website. On display were all sorts of useful trivia that will make me sound like full-fledged Italian archeologist. My favorite is that rich Romans drank wine diluted with honey, spices—and or fish sauce (called garum made from decaying fish), served in vessels called kraters. I did not try this feat at home, feeling it necessary to have someone else witness this awesome display of ridiculousness. Okay, so maybe not so silly if you read about it here. “Marcus loves Julia” was proclaimed in graffiti and preserved. And, the allowances for sexual escapades during those ancient times would cause any good WASP—or GOP congressman—to gasp. And run to find out more. You should run to see it too.
Evening writing light hit different. Spurning offers, I had no one else in the home asking, “what do you want to do tonight?” In a city of infinite options, it’s hard to say “no" and turn down opportunities. Having that space in the evenings brought a softer bent to my writing.
I read and wrote—whenever I wanted. It’s hard to convince those who don’t write, that often, I write in my head during lunch, I write when read the countless books in my stacks or while I trek across the Purple People Bridge. Or stare off into the sky. The other day, while toweling off my hair, I devised an angle for a new blog to be shared later, based on what I did with my hairstyle that morning. Literally nothing!
Knives and spoons forever. Finally, the biggest lesson of all. For those who tired of cleaning dishes. One needs only a knife and spoon in the kitchen when eating alone. A knife to cut the cheese and a spoon to dip in the peanut butter.
In the end, I missed my partner, my best friend and confidante. And welcomed forks back into my life.
The weather has shifted here in Ohio. Spirits are high. Elly De La Cruise is batting .286 with 4 HR, 10 RBIs and an OPS of .962 (as of Monday). It’s early, which makes this the best month for hope.
There’s plenty of other news and published pieces that I’m bursting to share, but can’t at this time. In the interim, join me at a caregiver writing workshop or a Readout at Roebling soon.
Pauletta Hansel and I knew in-person writing experiences were important to many of our participants, so we’re happy to continue them in partnership with Giving Voice Foundation and Jewish Family Services.
Our next in-person is August 9th, 10-noon. Watch this space, email bwilliams@muchmorethanameal.com, or visit givingvoicefdn.org register.
Our FREE, VIRTUAL writing experiences for caregivers will continue. Dates include May 7th and November 14th, 10-noon. Registrations details above. Or email: bwilliams@muchmorethanameal.org.
April 18
The inimitable Rick Bass will be reading and signing at Campbell County Public Library—Newport Branch, on Wednesday, April 17, at 7:00 p.m. Registration is required. Register here:
May 14
Kensington Senior Living of Virginia/Maryland will host a virtual caregiver writing workshop for attendees connected to their care center. If you have interest in hosting a writing experience with my colleague and me, message me here.
Other summer workshops include writing for care partners, art museum workshops, and more. Message me for details as they become available.
June 29, 6 - 8 p.m.
Gugel Alley Writers Readout. Our weekly meetup gathers to share their work with the public at Roebling in Newport. Watch here for more details.
July 30th
Twin Lakes Retirement Community. Same as above.
July 30th from 10:30am-11:30am, Twin Lakes Game Room
9840 Montgomery Rd., Cincinnati, OH 45242
Upcoming Fall Workshops
Lloyd Library – It’s all Backstory: a presentation on memoir and writing, in partnership with Fotofocus 2024, October 9th. Sign up for the Lloyd Library newsletter for information when it’s released. www.lloydlibrary.org.
I am so glad you pointed out how you often write in your head while doing other things. If it wasn’t for that, I’d never get anything written. 😂 I am so happy you enjoyed your week to yourself!
I love your writings. I can relate a lot from this one to making my bed every morning and a spoon 🥄 and knife 🍴 in the sink. Only I do not write. You definitely have that talent. Love your place right where all the action is; a perfect spot. Enjoy your week. 💕