Today I visited the Museum of Tolerance in Los Angeles, named after the famed Nazi hunter and a Nazi death camp survivor, Simon Wiesenthal.
In a previous life, I chaperoned teenagers on educational tours of Europe. On two different occasions, the trip included a stop at Dachau, a Nazi concentration camp. It was impacting to have a full hour to walk the somber grounds and envision what went on in these barracks, this crematorium.
Hubby’s favorite music was from his high school and college days. Think “North to Alaska” by Johnny Horton. And Marvin Gaye in “How Sweet it is to be Loved by You.”
There was no sleeping in on Saturday mornings for Daughter Summer in her teen years. Hubby would slip in an Everly Brothers CD, quietly open Summer’s bedroom door, slide the CD player into her room and hit the play button. “Wake Up, Little Susie.” On full volume.
Summer usually jumped out of bed.
I’ve been writing from my apartment in the mornings (notice how it’s not only my bike, by also my apartment now). As after-lunch drowsiness creeps in, I pack up my laptop and head to my second living room – the neighborhood Starbucks. Because no one at Starbucks will let me get away with falling asleep and drooling on the table.
I recently had a conversation with my two favorite baristas and learned that we have a couple things in common. Holding large dreams, for one – large dreams shaped by cancer.
You’ve probably heard that the swallows return to Mission San Juan Capistrano from their wintering grounds 2,000 miles away every year on March 19, right?
And so you may be wondering why I visited the mission today. (You just glanced up at the date, didn’t you?)
The answer is at the end of this blog. (You’re thinking about scrolling down to the end of the blog, aren’t you?)
There was quite a bit of excitement at my neighborhood Starbux Café this afternoon when this hard white stuff started falling from the sky.
The locals weren’t quite sure what to make of it. I actually heard someone say something about the Apocalypse. Seriously?
A man named J. Paul Getty assembled an impressive collection of art and artifacts. In 1954, he opened his Malibu home three afternoons a week as a museum. Because he wanted to share the beauty. And then in 1968, Getty recreated a first-century Roman villa on his property to display his growing collection of art. And now the Getty Museum has expanded to two locations with the Villa housing Getty’s Greek and Roman antiquities.
One of the things I appreciated about the Getty Villa was how the exhibits flowed between indoor and outdoor spaces. In some cases, instead of moving from room to room, one must exit one room into the inner courtyard before entering the next room. How lovely is that, says the outdoor girl.
When he died, it surprised even me how quickly I sorted through Hubby’s clothing. I’d read where widows put this sort of thing off for months. Years. But we were heading into winter in central Oregon and there were men at Shepherd’s House—the men’s shelter and rehab program where Hubby volunteered three mornings a week—who could use warm outerwear and thick wool socks and gloves and backpacks.
But I saved a few shirts and a red-and-black silk tie for a memorial quilt.
Usually sometime around Tuesday or Wednesday, he’d ask, “What are we doing for date night?” I loved it when Hubby talked that way. Even after he didn’t feel like leaving the house, I’d make a dinner run—anything that sounded good to him, anything that would entice him to eat—and we’d watch something on Netflix, which he usually dozed through after not eating his dinner. But I loved that he still wanted to keep date night alive.
And so last evening being Friday, with Hubby in my heart, I rode my bike to the beach for those fabulous fish tacos on the boardwalk.
Author Mark Batterson writes:
Don’t accumulate possessions; accumulate experiences.
This was one of the lessons of cancer for us. Even though Hubby and I were both still working full-time, we decided to make more adventures and take road trips and create more memories. While there was still time. While Hubby felt like it.
Found the perfect Valentine for Hubby. I love the story of us. The inside reads: “I love our details – our music, our code words and all the memories we’ve made together. I love our friends, our friendship, and everything else that connects us heart and soul.”
Hubby and I didn’t have any code words, but we had our own private signals. Like when we squeezed the other’s hand three times, it meant, “I love you.” And Hubby rattling his keys in his pocket meant, “Are you ready to go?”
Copyright © 2024 Marlys Johnson
