Greetings from Memory Lane

At the intersection of Existential Crisis

Hey hun, 

Here’s something that’s been on my mind recently: Widowhood excluded, I’ve never been on my own. Well, that’s mostly true – there were those few years between school and marrying your Granddad, but even then I was living with my parents. 

It never struck me as odd because it was the most normal thing to do at the time. It was what girls (good girls, at least) did. If you were lucky, you went to school to learn all the basics. Then, if you weren’t already engaged, that was the next thing on your to-do list. From your parent’s house to your husband’s house to your grave.

In some way, the simplicity and predictability is comforting. But when I really stop to think about it, it starts to feel like a grand scheme. It’s not like I had anything against being a wife and a mother, but I suppose I didn’t have much of an option.

Given the chance, would I have taken all the same turns? You know, I see now why they pushed us girls to get hitched and knocked up before we had a chance to think too hard about it. I suppose it’s a deal that works out for some people, though certainly not all. 

Anyway, what I’m getting at is that I, for decades, have been primarily known as a wife, mother, homemaker, and widow. Any role I’ve had required the existence of someone else. You know, it was decades into our marriage when I got my first job. It was out of necessity, of course, although your Granddad never admitted it. 

I’m saying this to you because I think you’ll understand what I’m getting at. I don’t harbor any regret for the life I’ve lived because, well, it’s pretty pointless at this point. But, as I’m watching Eve come to terms with an uncertain future now, I’m just walking back through all the prescribed points of my life, which ended when your Granddad passed. 

After the funeral, as the trash bins overflowed with paper plates and the house slowly emptied, I watched my guests play the most painful game of tetris with the cars in the driveway from my empire of casserole dishes. 

Long ago, I watched a PBS documentary about how they found an Egyptian pharaoh buried with a bunch of servants. That’s what I felt like, as if I was being buried in a mountain of food and sympathy cards to assist my dead husband in the afterlife; as if my life was over, too. 

I’m not ungrateful for all the love and support. It’s the nature of things; when someone dies, you bring over a baked pasta. It’s unfortunate because it never reheats the same. The pasta gets all gummy and the sauce gets all dried up. After eating about an acre of it, I got so fed up that I threw it out. Yadda, yadda, yadda! Look at me, prattling on when the real question is about what’s going to happen with the whole Eve and Julian situation. 

Well, at breakfast the other day, I asked her to think of some things she wants to do because since we can’t exactly resolve this dilemma on our own, we might as well have fun to help her get her mind off things. 

So, Eve’s decided that she wants to go into the city and do cosmopolitan things, starting with visiting a museum and getting overpriced lunch in their cafe. I’m looking forward to the change in scenery but I’ll be honest, I never understood the prestige of museums. 

First of all, there are frankly too many boobs hanging out. I hardly think that’s how women walked around back in the day, with loose breasts flapping in the breeze. Talk about uneven tan lines!

Secondly, call me ignorant, but I don’t really understand what I’m supposed to be getting out of staring at these paintings and sculptures. As beautiful as they are, they seem to be too involved in their own drama to be of much help to you. 

All of it says things like:

“Look at me!”

“What’s the point of all of this?”

“Can you see me?”

“Do you understand me? My opinion? My side of history?”

“Help, I’m stuck in this bit of stone!”

“Life is pain.”

“Life is beauty.”

“I’m having a really bad day.”

“I was here.” 

“Why me?”

“Who am I?”, “Who am I?”, “Who am I?”

Who knows, maybe this time they’ll get my answers and I’ll get mine. Or, maybe we’ll be stuck in this loop of humanity forever! Either way, we can drink about it afterwards because Eve wants to go to a hotel bar. I don’t understand why the bar has to be in a hotel, especially since we’re just there for the day, but this is her fantasy and I’m just living in it. 

I’ve also been thinking about reaching out to Trevor to see what’s new (and potentially get some intel on how Julian is doing). I don’t know. I’m really going through unknown territory here. 

I should go and figure out what to wear on our big trip to town. Eve pointedly told me that city women dress up more than us slovenly rural folk, so I need to take down the whole ironing board and everything. 

Honestly, I don’t know where she gets this information from. 

Just last month I had to go to the city for an appointment and the receptionist had a giant neck tattoo and a ripped shirt on. I asked if she found it buried in the woods or what. Would you believe that she laughed and said it was designer and that she paid a lot of money for it?

Who would have thought? These girls look so different than I did at that age. Either way, I hope the city lives up to Eve’s expectations. It’s certainly different from her hometown in Maine, and maybe that’s all that matters. 

Judging from the state of my closet, I’ll show up representing the very highest of formal wear from about 1995. Is that stylish enough? Let me know if you have any recommendations for two old biddies in the big city, and I hope you’re doing well. Let’s catch up on the phone sometime. Other than becoming a high-flying, cigarette-flicking, martini-drinking broad, my schedule’s wide open. 

Love, 

Grams