Adventure, Always

No matter if we live apart, or live together, the Wonder Woman and I will seek out daily adventures. Now the adventure is driving 90 miles on weekends to see each other. Later the adventure will be living on one modest income and spending one less dollar than we earn. It will be growing our own … vegetables, that is.

Every day soon after I wake up I go through a “Just for Today” list. I found this recommended in the “Dear Abby” column, and made up my own list. No matter what challenges arise, I can recite my “Just for Today” list and it gives my life a sense of balance. It gives me an anchor point in stormy seas. In other words, I cannot be knocked overboard by a boss, co-worker, IRS agent or medical emergency. Life goes on. “Just for Today” keeps on giving.

One part of my “Just for Todays,” from the beginning, has been reciting a quote from Helen Keller: “Life is either a daring adventure or nothing.” I saw the quote on a poster when I was in junior college 40 years ago, and it has stuck with me ever since.

This doesn’t mean I go bungee jumping every day. What I consider adventure might be tame by most people’s standards. My adventure is just doing something a little different than the conventional. For example, I am willing to commit to a long-distance relationship for as long as it takes until Teri and I can be together in the same house living as a traditional husband and wife. And when we can do that, because of circumstance, the daily adventure of “fun with frugality” will continue. We will seek out cheap dates — for example, a free piano recital or a picnic at Catherine Creek State Park — and ways to balance the budget. If we do suddenly have more wealth, we will still have the adventure of being as healthy as possible, using the skills, not pills method, enjoying after dinner walks, bike rides and romantic games of croquet in the mountain cabin yard.

Consider coming up with “Just for Todays” for yourself. That way, every morning you can remind yourself that somehow, some way, today will be an adventure.

Wishing Upon a Star

Sitting in the hot tub on the south deck of the mountain cabin, contemplating life and times, watching for falling stars, I remember the darkness. My wife of 24 years had died of complications of diabetes, at age 48. I was alone in a world built for couples. The hot tub was installed about halfway through my year of grieving. It was a gift to myself as I worked my way through grief, got my financial house in order, tied up loose ends, spruced up the mountain cabin. For the next six months, I would get ready for possible romance in the future and perhaps my chance would come.

After a year of grieving, I was healed enough to give romance a try. Within a few months of getting on Yahoo.com personals, thanks to some hard work and good luck, thanks to incredible honesty and saying just what I wanted and needed, the light of love came back to my life. I got a second chance and made the most of it.

I remember being there alone, however, watching for that first star to pop out, in the spring of 2008. I was a kid again, at heart. I wished upon that star that I would find my Wonder Woman and that when I did we could find something special together. Visualize. Dream.

Within months, by fall of 2008, that wish was coming true. The star was a pinpoint of hope in the night sky. It was like the woman I would meet — one in a million. 

Teri became that woman. Of course, she was not at all like I had imagined. She was better. Her star shone more brightly than I could have imagined.

Silly Putty

Being a child of Depression parents, I especially value the fourth love language — acts of service. Sure, the other love languages — affirmations, quality time, gifts and physical touch — are important. Affirmations let us know we are doing well, and quality time is about being present in the moment. Gifts, chosen wisely, elevate the relationship, and physical touch yields magic moments.

But there is something about acts of service that makes me feel particularly loved. For example, the other day, Teri and I shared duties sanding the arbor we used for our 9-10-11 wedding. It is now located at the mountain cabin, framing a rose and a hydrangea bush, our wedding flower. The arch serves as a welcoming beacon to visitors, and a reminder of our big day when we made the ordinary extraordinary.

Weather, however, takes its toll. Mother Nature is an exacting taskmaster. The pine arbor is cracking and showing its age. After sanding, Teri begins filling the cracks with putty. It’s a huge job, yet she completes it with a singing heart and a smile.

I find other jobs nearby to keep me occupied but mostly just provide companionship. As the late summer day turned to evening, crickets provide a lively serenade. The first stars pop out in the evening sky.

Filling cracks with putty is hard work. It’s an act of service Teri conquers with a smile on her face. It makes me feel honored and loved.

No Risk, No Reward

One of the last things Tina said to me before she died was, “Never say never.” I had told my wife of 24 years, who lay dying of complications of diabetes, that I would not pursue another relationship. She would be my one and only. I had done enough. Accomplished enough. Wisely, she stopped my heart-felt speech mid-sentence and this long-talker gave one of the shortest speeches of her 48-year-old life.

A year into grieving, at age 51, I was ready to launch myself into a relationship. Dating, though, had never been my strong suit. It was almost by accident that I got married to Tina in 1983. Now it was 2008, a quarter-century later. Now I knew more what I had to offer and what I wanted in a relationship. I had more to say. More to do. I was still as shy as moss on a rock, but I figured I had nothing left to lose but my dignity — and that was a way smaller loss than what I had already experienced watching Tina go from vibrant woman to on her deathbed.

No risk, no reward. Or as a favorite maxim says, “The man who is afraid to risk failure seldom has to face success.” I did something totally out of character, that fall. Not wanting to meet someone through work or church, I tried Yahoo.com personals. I knew there were risks. I knew there was a chance I would meet no one as peculiarly funny as me, that this might be my own personal bridge to nowhere.

No risk, no reward means recognizing your gifts. If you’re a writer, write. I wrote exactly who I was and what I wanted on Yahoo. Take it or leave it. Like it or lump it.

Occasionally, even with heroic efforts on our parts, we are human and we will fail. I knew on Yahoo.com I was more likely to get burned that to find that special someone just crazy enough to take a chance on me. Perhaps I was naive. But I figured I was 51 years old and had 30 years left to live. I did not want to fly solo. I figured if I didn’t risk failure, I would never have to face success. I could bumble, stumble and fumble my way through but without a partner I would never truly thrive.

Sure, going it alone had its allure. I knew I could make it on my own, at least for the moment. I could launch forward without compromise, just caring for myself and the dogs and cats Tina had left behind. Taking this ride with someone else, another person with all her complexities, meant new challenges and new opportunities. It wasn’t up to that person to rescue me or to fix my grief, to take away my pain. It wasn’t up to someone else to bail me out if I got into trouble. I and I alone was responsible for my happiness.

Sure, I could jump into the dating pool and get stripped of my dignity. I could run into lots of sharks. So be it. No risk, no reward.

Running with the Horses

My wife, the Wonder Woman, absolutely loves horses. In our home, the Kentucky Derby is must TV viewing. We love the pageantry. The athleticism. The suspense. Never mind the pre-game shows lasts 2-1/2 hours covering everything from party hats that look like small versions of arboretums to the intricacies of the mint julep to which millionaire owner should be felt sorry for.

No, Teri doesn’t bet on the horses. She doesn’t sit on Millionaire’s Row with the hob-nobbers or wear a silly hat. She doesn’t swill mint juleps until she couldn’t tell a horse from Bob Costas.

This year, as the TV show unfolded with the speed of a calving glacier, we each picked our three favorite horses. Add up placings, and whoever has fewer points wins. The other person gets to do the dishes for a week.

And they’re off …

Even though through pure luck, I picked the winner, Teri dominated the total score. Good thing she doesn’t bet, or I’d be considerably poorer. As I do the dishes all week, I’ll remember the thundering hooves and the excitement on my wife’s face. Even dishpan hands is a small price to pay for witnessing her enthusiasm over a horse running 40 mph rounding the turn for home.

Anger Management

The line outside Cordiner Hall on the Whitman University campus was a snake dance. The line curled an eighth of a mile, and Teri and I found our places and began the baby steps toward the front door. The occasion? Eric Idle of “Monty Python’s Flying Circus” comedy troupe was in town for his daughter Lilly’s graduation. Idle was giving a speech, and as he is one of Teri’s entertainment idols starting in her college years, we had to go.

Because Teri has social graces and I do not, we had left a 60th wedding anniversary celebration in her old hometown, Dayton, Washington, fashionably late to arrive to the speech on time. I was nervous that we wouldn’t get in the door. As we neared the door, the door keepers began encouraging people to go watch the speech on closed-circuit TV. “No more seats,” they said. We were about 10th from the front of line. Then a gatekeeper said, “We have seven more seats.” We were third in line. We waited. Then another gatekeeper said, “We have several more seats.” We got in. We entered the packed hall, and the usher led us farther and farther toward the front. Finally, we were pointed to the third row, toward the center, right behind the seats reserved for the comedy club and the theater club, both of whom would later be given special awards by Idle.

It was absolutely amazing. We could see every laugh line on Idle’s 70-year-old face. He didn’t look a day over 60. In the speech, which was uniformly funny, Idle talked about anger as a launchpad for humor. He talked about tweaking authority figures and fighting off tendencies to repeat what has been done in the past and blazing new trails of comedy.

Once again, I was amazed. Not with Idle. I figured he would be fun and entertaining. I was amazed that I had gone somewhere with my bride of one and one-half years and had a truly outstanding experience. Fun things happen when we point our noses in the direction of adventure. In our first year of dating, on our first big trip, we just happened onto Oregon’s capitol in Salem when it was celebrating 150 years of statehood, Valentine’s Day, 2009. Coming home, we drove five hours from the Oregon Coast only to arrive with a heartbeat to spare for a Heart concert, at which we got terrific seats close enough so that Ann and Nancy Wilson could have thrown us a Frisbee. On our first wedding anniversary trip to Canada, at one of the hippest ski towns in North America, Nelson, we got to attend a preseason hockey game. And on the way home from our latest beach trip, in Eugene, we got to attend a three and one-half hour concert of one of my favorite obscure bands, Umphrey’s McGee, and see their northern lights-esque light show.

Now, with Idle’s inspiration, I know what to do when I get angry. Look for the humor. Write a column for the three-day-a-week newspaper where I work, the La Grande Observer. Or write a blog. Earlier, under the tutelage of outdoor writer Patrick McManus, I had learned about misery as inpsiration for humor, especially misery given to the already miserable. Now I can add anger to my list of inspirations.

Road rage? The long line at the grocery store? Fat and happy government officials? Bring it on. I don’t get angry often. But when I do, I will be a happy writer.

Our Own Personal Art Gallery

Every day, I walk through a gantlet of favorite maxims. Each has its merits. One of my all-time favorites is, “Forget favors given. Remember those received.” On Mother’s Day, a gift flew into my life unexpectedly. A co-worker made a stained glass butterfly and gave it to me to give to my wife, Teri. Cheryl knew Teri’s mom, Helen, was big into butterflies, and Teri and I are too, especially Oregon Swallowtails. After all, it’s the state insect, and became one of the first four butterflies that the U.S. Postal Service put on a postage stamp.

Sometimes the postal service and life falls apart. Sometimes they fall together. Sometimes stamps shoot up in price and the butterflies make themselves scarce. This time, life fell together so I could give the butterfly, which Cheryl had beautifully wrapped, for Mother’s Day. Teri is not my mother. Sometimes men call their wives “Ma” or “Mother.” That is just not my style. I do not need someone to pick up my shorts or blow my nose. I do not give Mother’s Day gifts to my wife. I try to give gifts at other times, not too often, by surprise, just because, when windows of opportunity open. Gifts are one of the five love languages along with affirmations, quality time, acts of service and physical touch. Gifts are important but not the end-all.

The butterfly will become an important piece in our own personal art gallery — our home in Cove, the mountain cabin. Why not? The butterfly will remind us of all the good things Teri’s mom stood for before her untimely death from leukemia in 2003: lifelong learning, courage, family, independence, love.

Too often, we give gifts with strings attached. A man, for example, gives an engagement ring. When the relationship goes south, he wants the ring back. Sure, it might have cost a small fortune. Certainly, there are women who are gold-diggers out there. Consider it an expensive lesson. Give only what you can give. If that is not enough to impress the woman, what other things down the road will be “not enough.” Once you have given, let it go.

Consider these situations. A person gives a gift to a university but wants a building named after himself. A grandmother wonders why grandchildren never acknowledge her gift, much less reciprocate.

We’ll always remember the butterfly that flew into our lives this Mother’s Day. It is just one more step toward surrounding ourselves at the mountain cabin with our own and other people’s art that we find inspiring. We will, over time, step by carefully considered step, make the mountain cabin our own personal art gallery. We will surround ourselves with inspiration, with beauty, with love, produced by ourselves and an ever-widening circle of friends.