November 2004 The Megaphone Page 6
by Mark Rogers
Part
1 Cleanest House In Elwood
With our anniversary coming up, I've been recalling the early days with Annie.
Like most newly-weds, Annie and I had our share of disagreements. Whenever
we got angry back then, we had the same response: we'd start cleaning the
house. We'd scream & scrub, swear & sweep, damn & dust, and
pout & pick-up. Well, during the first few months of our marriage, we
had the cleanest house in Elwood! Whenever family or friends would enter
our oh-so-clean house, many would laugh and ask, "Did you two have another
argument?" And of course by that time, Annie and I would be so proud
of our oh-so-clean house that we'd hug in celebration of our joint work.
As the years passed, our house was never quite as clean as during those first
few months. Annie and I just didn't argue enough. LOL We
traded a clean house for a comfortable home.
Part 2 The Dolly Touch
During our dating days, I started calling Annie "Dolly." And the
name stuck. Annie liked being called Dolly. Like I thought, she too
thought that she was as cute as a doll. LOL
She signed all of her notes and cards to me with "Love, Dolly."
And some of you may recall that Annie's email address was
marksdolly@hotmail.com (Mark's
Dolly). Indeed, she was my Dolly. (That's why the yellow ribbons on
her funeral spray said "Mom" and "Dolly.")
For many years, Annie was a stay-at-home Mom. Whenever I would come home
from work, the house would look and smell wonderful. I would remark,
"Oh, it's the Dolly touch!" And Annie would giggle at my
comment. But there was truth to my words. There was something
magical that Annie did with our home. I never could figure it out.
Whenever Annie was away--either shopping, visiting, or having a baby, I would
clean the house, and it would look nice, but not as nice as when Annie did it.
I just didn't have the Dolly touch. I still don't. Family and
friends visit these days and say, "Oh, Mark, you're doing a wonderful job
keeping up with the house!" I smile and thank them and am truly glad
that they see that I'm trying to do right by the boys. But at the same
time, when I look around, I don't see the Dolly touch. I miss the Dolly
touch.
Part 3 "The bustle in a house"
For many of my teaching years, I've taught American Literature. After Annie
died, a particular poem (by Emily Dickinson) kept popping into my mind,
"The bustle in a house:"
The bustle in a house
The morning after death
Is solemnest of industries
Enacted upon earth,--
The sweeping up the heart,
And putting love away
We shall not want to use again
Until eternity.
After a person dies, there is work to do. And it indeed "is solemnest
of industries." The night Annie died, after everyone had left her
hospital room, I had the sad job of gathering up her belongings: her clothes,
sandals, and purse--and her flowers, newspaper, word-search book, gum, and more.
Next came the sad job of answering a lot of questions from the hospital staff.
Of course, the next morning, I had the tasks of making arrangements with the
funeral home and with the cemetery. Thank heavens, I was not alone!
My sister was right by my side, step by step.
Meanwhile, my sister's wonderful children looked after my boys. They took
them shopping for clothes, and they treated them to lunch and a Spider-Man
movie. Ten-year-old Cameron commented not long ago, "The day Mommy
died was one of my saddest days. But it was also one of my happiest days.
I got to have so much fun with my cousins."
A few days after the funeral, the boys and I sat down together to talk.
"Please don't get rid of any of Mom's things," requested Jonathan.
"Jonathan, some things have to go. The house is going to change.
But I promise I will go slowly. You guys probably won't notice most
changes." I've kept my promise. Bit by bit, room by room,
I've made changes--slowly.
Almost all of Annie's closet is gone. (I've kept a couple of outfits.)
All of her bathroom articles are gone--except her perfume. (I like to get a
little whiff of her once in a while.) For several weeks, I kept Annie's
bathrobe hanging on the hook on the bathroom door. I told the boys,
"If you're ever really missing Mommy, put on her robe. It'll be like
getting a hug from her." A few weeks ago, I finally gave the
robe to Annie's mom. I told her the same thing I had told the boys.
She was very grateful to get Annie's robe. Her eyes filled with tears, and
she hugged the robe close to her.
I've given a lot of Annie's Boyd's Bears away to family and friends. (I want to
share Annie, not hoard her away.) I have more of Annie's belongings to
give away--but it will happen slowly, as I promised the boys.
Last week, Benjamin told me that his friend Aaron commented to him that our
house had changed a lot in the last few weeks. "I hadn't really
noticed," Benny said, "until Aaron started pointing things out.
Dad, you've done a really good job of not being obvious."
Slowly, Benny, slowly.
Part 4 "She Works Hard for the
Money"
Annie's job at the Elwood Middle School was cleaning. When she would come
home late at night, tired and aching, I would sometimes rub her shoulders and
say, "She Works Hard for the Money!" (title of a favorite Donna
Summer song)
"Yes, I do," Annie would reply. And she was telling the truth!
One teacher said that the women's restroom was never shiny until Annie
arrived on the scene. And after Annie had to go on sick leave, the teacher
sighed, "Well, the restroom is back the way it used to be before
Annie." Besides restrooms and classrooms, Annie was responsible for
the school gym. Both the school's principal and athletic director agreed
that the gym was at its finest during Annie's tenure.
Bless her. She gave 'em the Dolly touch!
Part 5 "A Mother's Work Is Never
Done"
I always considered myself a modern man, one who empathizes with
women and listens to what they are saying. I also always considered myself
a modern husband, one who helps his wife with household duties--even when Annie
was a stay-at-home Mom, I helped with the cooking, cleaning, shopping, and
laundry--always careful not to over-step the boundaries and invade her space,
not always an easy task. I also always considered myself a modern father,
one who is active in caring for the children--after all, I changed dirty
diapers, got up for early feedings, gave baths, wiped away tears, carved
pumpkins, pulled teeth, helped with homework, signed report cards, and was
present at school functions. I always felt that I was an all-round modern
guy, one who understands women and their world.
I was wrong.
My world was always next to Annie's world, but it was never the same world.
Now that Annie is gone, I've inherited her world. I now step between two
worlds. There is comfort in stepping into Annie's shoes and walking her
mile. When I'm cooking supper, or washing the dishes, or folding laundry,
I feel close to her. I feel like I'm taking care of her interests, her
boys and her home. I feel like I am loving her. And a certain amount
of joy comes from that. But something else happens when I'm walking
Annie's mile: I feel what she felt. It's bittersweet. Yes,
there's the satisfaction of taking care of one's family, but there is the
sadness of being alone in the enormity of it all. A mother understands
that her work is never done. And she worries. When I'm taking the
boys' shirts out of the dryer and straightening them onto hangers, I worry about
the boys. Are they safe? Are they happy? Am I doing right by
them? Do I matter? Am I making a difference for them?
Deep within a mother's heart, there is a lonely pain.
I never understood why Annie would quietly pick up after the boys. I would
always bark orders and make the boys clean up their messes. I still bark
orders. But now, I also quietly clean up after my guys. I'm alone in
my worry for them. And I hug their dirty shirts while sorting the laundry
for the washer.
Deep within a mother's heart, there is a lonely pain.
Mark Rogers '70
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