Just A Few Notes

A few notes in “Between An Old Memory and Me.” A few clear notes that catch  my ear and draw me further into the song. Notes that resonate with my spirit for reasons that are unknown to me. Notes that often bring tears to accompany the memories that are always there.

The squeak of guitar strings in other songs. A riff that sounds as if there are multiple guitars at work, but I know this is a solo acoustic recording, with only one instrument, one extremely talented musician bringing the music to life. Simple melodies woven through a song, easy to remember and sing. 

Notes in the music I listen to daily. Notes weaving rhythms delicate and complex. Notes of a guitar wound among notes of a violin and steel guitar, interspersed with a drumbeat setting the pace.

Notes connecting everything Greg was and everything we were together to my life today.

A life without Greg and his music. His singing. His guitar playing. His love of concerts. His talk of music. Music interwoven in Greg’s heart so deeply that memories of Greg nearly always contain music.

He sang throughout a day. While running the press. While driving. While playing his guitar. While listening to Travis or Merle or Bocephus or Waylon or Clint.

Perhaps the only times Greg didn’t sing were when he was deer hunting. He noticed God’s music though; he would tell me of a bird singing nearby while he was waiting for that trophy buck.

He played, he sang, he wrote songs. He entertained me. 

He occasionally recorded himself, and a friend transferred the songs from cassette tapes to a CD so I can listen to Greg sing at any time. Yes, I often cry, but I can hear Greg doing what he loved. Something that I loved to hear him do.

Greg and his notes have been missing from my life since 14 August 2019. Sunday I will listen to his CD and visit places we frequented. I will laugh. I will cry. Sometimes I will do both.

And the notes will dwell in my heart . . .

The Stories Are Gone

Greg was a storyteller. He told stories about golfing, fishing, hunting, gun trading, truck trading, concerts, pool games – and pool room brawls, playing poker, family history, work, old girlfriends, drinking, church, motorcycles, bars and nightclubs, travels . . . the list could continue for several pages.

I can’t relate the stories Greg told me. Some of them had so many people involved that I did not know that I had a hard time keeping straight who was who.  Other stories, like the ones about specific gun trades, contained information that I didn’t always understand. And then there were the ones he would tell that would have me laughing so hard all I could remember was the ending.

I miss those stories. Stories told by a man who enjoyed life, who wasn’t afraid to be himself, nor to be in a new situation. Greg might not want to be in a particular situation, but he feared nothing but God.

I miss the sound of his voice, the warmth, the humor, the sadness he unconsciously let mingle with his telling of a tale.

I drove his truck to a friend’s house today (5 December 2021). Thinking of the miles I had ridden with Greg in that truck brought tears and a sadness that has lingered.

I can tell stories of our life together, of two-thirds of my life with a wonderful man whom I will always love and miss, but I am not a storyteller like Greg was. He could entertain anyone with a story, have them listening intently, and smiling when he finished.

Greg’s stories are gone. No more will I hear him recount a day on the Cumberland nor laugh while he is telling of some antic he and a buddy lived through. Greg and his stories cannot be replaced, but my memories of him stay with me, bringing laughter and tears, sometimes together.

Our story had its ups and downs, but through it all our love was always there, creating a unit that sometimes defied reason.

No matter. The stories are gone. Most of the people Greg told stories about are gone. But the memories are there . . . memories I will cherish forever.

My Week Now

Fourteen socks in the wash
Doing dishes on Saturday night
Steam-free morning bathroom
One truck at the shop
Five p.m. bedtime
Weekend drives alone
One lunch to buy
Uninterrupted reading
Onions on a hamburger

And tears
Not always visible
But always there

How Much for Your Truck?

Today was a day I wanted to ramble the roads. I decided to drive Greg’s truck because it was a beautiful day. I headed for Somerset, taking my time, driving under the speed limit, admiring God’s handiwork in the trees donning their fall colors.

The drive was pleasant, the onion rings at Reno’s done nicely, I did some writing, and overall was having a good day.

As I was leaving, a gentleman driving a Ford truck stopped and asked me what year Greg’s truck is. I told him, and he was even more interested in the truck when I told him that, yes, it is a stick. I believe he would’ve taken the truck with him right then as he told me several times that the trailer he was pulling would hold the truck; it would’ve.

Then he asked the question. The question for which I have only one answer: A time machine so that I can spend another forty-two years with Greg. Forty-two years that went past much too quickly.

The past two weeks have been mostly leveled-out for me. I’ve had a few days with tears frequently throughout the day, but the tears were more from an overall sadness than grief. The tears this afternoon are those of the bone-deep grief that will leave me emotionally exhausted.

I know grief isn’t ever going away. I know I will shed more tears in the years to come. I did not expect that anything, good or bad, could so quickly plunge me into the depths of grief at any moment, no matter what is going on nor how good my mood. 

Going from a day running pleasantly, with thoughts of Greg always with me, to feeling grief so strongly is jarring. It keeps my emotions off-balance, making me wonder if anything is worth the effort, if the future worth thinking about.

I don’t know the answer. If there is one. Perhaps someday I will find a semblance of an answer.

I must be strong until then.

Are You Looking for Someone?

An innocuous question from a pastor of a local church; I could not answer him for I would have started crying. The pastor was just in the spirit of the day – annual festival – and I was slowly walking around downtown. I guess he did think I was looking for someone.

The someone I would be looking for is no longer on this earth. I have missed Greg terribly this week, starting last Saturday. I have managed a day or two without tears by the time I got to town in the mornings, but some little thing would bring them at most any time.

Five or six young deer in the neighbor’s cornfield two afternoons ago. A heron flying up from the swamp when I went home at lunch today. One little deer at the corner of our trees by the cemetery road this morning. Cardinals swooping across the road as I drove up the hill from our driveway. A piece of chipboard on which Greg had written “Peggy’s pattern.” Making notepads, which are nowhere as neat as Greg could make them; I hope the customer understands.

And the really hard one this evening . . . sitting in the shop, listening to a band play on the square. Greg would have been out in the crowd, talking to everyone he knew, listening to the music, occasionally coming back to the shop to check on me and tell me who all he had talked to. This is Friday night. I will be here tomorrow night, listening to a different group of musicians and missing Greg with all my being.

I know tomorrow and Sunday will be hard. Tomorrow I will be in the shop from morning until after the evening music is over, remembering all the times Greg and I hung around here when there were events downtown, and how much he enjoyed listening to the music. Sunday I will sleep in and awake without Greg in my life. 

I never expected the grief and the heartache to go away. I know both will always be with me. I did think that I could manage to put some distance between me and the tears, to less frequently be crying, even over memories of happy times; actually those bring the most tears.

Yes, I am looking for someone. Someone I will never find again. My Greg.

The Hardest Day

Recently someone noted that the hardest day for them was the anniversary of the death of their spouse. That made me wonder how they see all the other days of the year.

Yes, the anniversary of Greg’s death is a hard day for me to face. But the rest of the days aren’t any better, knowing when I wake up each morning that I will never see Greg smile again, hear him laugh, be enveloped in one of his strong, warm hugs. Never again attend a concert, go to a movie, fuss and fight at work, or spend a Saturday just doing nothing with Greg. My Greg.

The hardest day . . . How would I ever determine that? Greg’s birthday? Christmas? Our anniversary? They are all hard days, from the day of Greg’s death until today – two years, one month, eleven days and twelve hours later.

Some days tears don’t come but linger nearby. Other days, like today, tears are a near constant through everything I do. From town to town. Down every highway. In sunshine and rain.

No matter which memories come to mind – even the happiest ones – the tears come unbidden for I no longer have my Greg in my life. That makes every day a hard day.

The hardest day? Today, tomorrow, the rest of my life.

Something Stronger

Over the weekend, any time I thought of Greg, I cried. Just his name was all it took to bring me to tears. I didn’t have to think about anything we’d done together, nor the love and warmth in his strong hugs. Just “Greg.”

Yesterday I drove three hours to Sharpsburg to attend a Travis Tritt concert. I was in tears so much of the drive, that by the time I got to Mt. Vernon I was ready to turn around and drive back home. But I didn’t. I stayed the course.

Then it got to the point that if I thought about Travis’ music I cried, for Greg loved Travis’ music. 

The gentleman at Holiday Inn asked whose concert I was attending, and the tears came when I said, “Travis Tritt.” The little waitress at Waffle House said, “Oh! Travis Tritt!” when I told her I was going to a concert last night. Again, tears. I told her why I was tearful, and she replied, “It never gets any easier, does it?” She must know someone who has grieved over the loss of a spouse; she might be twenty-five, if that old.

I drove to The Barnyard after lunch, just to get the lay of the land before time for the concert. Tears accompanied me there and back, and were with me most of the afternoon. If I concentrated really hard, I could stop the tears, but the merest thought of Greg brought them back.

Last Saturday was also an extremely tearful day for me, and playing Travis’ “Something Stronger Than Me” over and over for two hours slowed the tears some. I didn’t have that song with me on a CD yesterday, or I would have played it constantly while driving. And this morning on the return trip.

While the tears the past few days have not progressed into uncontrollable sobbing, they are still tiring. They leave me feeling lost in an abyss of weakness that I cannot remedy.

Even though sometimes I feel I lack the strength to battle grief and tears for the rest of my life, I do know one thing for certain – God is the something stronger I need every day of my life. I know He is all that has gotten me through the past two years, one month and six days since Greg’s death. He’s with me, no matter how a day is going, and He is the something stronger I will rely on forever.

God – always stronger than me.