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11/24/2004: "After Eight"

I had a long chat with Betsey Trotwood last night. A couple of our friends from rummage had been by: Mrs. Grayper, of course, and one who will be Mrs. Passnidge. I was reminded of her, that this would be her first holiday season since her husband's death, and that this is why I have a phone, to contact those not quite close enough to see very often. Her daughter answered my call, took a message, and the return call came in the evening. She apologised for calling so late, and we talked about her kids, her neighbors, her trips to the junkyard, the things she has had to buy, and her plans for the holidays. I told her how old I would be next week, and she told me how old she is. The figures are not too far apart. And there she is, a widow-woman, mother of adults and teenagers, energetically plunging into the changed life that death brought upon her. And here am I, a bachelor-man, adrift without anchor or harbor, on a sea that looks much the same day after day. but that's what I think now, in repose; last night I only thought what a pleasure it was to speak to her and what a delight to have her among my friends.