Odes to Diane

By Larrywomack.com

Love Songs

We stopped listening to love songs.  It was when we knew that she’d be leaving.  Though we attempted to maintain most of our routine, listening to music, mostly love songs, was difficult because it was something that we particularly enjoyed doing together.  Songs like As Time Goes By and I’ll Be Seeing You.

In the mornings, we drank coffee and feasted on the dawn.  At midday, we would share a sandwich and bask in the fragrant colors of the garden.  In the afternoons, the sunsets and the wine warmed our hearts and sanctified our souls.  At night, we consumed one another in quiet comfort and bottomless peace until morning came again.

But we stopped listening to love songs.

It wasn’t why she was leaving that stopped the music; it was the knowing that her departure was imminent. We laughed, cried, talked, argued, planned and dined. We took long quiets rides and went to movies.

But we stopped listening to love songs.

Neither of us ever openly made mention of the fact.  It was a silent decision that we shared for the benefit of one another.

After she died I began listening to love songs again; but in a different way than before.  With her, love songs pointed to the present and future.  Without her, love songs bring reminiscences, longings, and tears.  But I listen to them because I like them and because it is something I can do to feel her near.

 

As Time Goes By

You must remember this.  A kiss is still a kiss.  On that you can rely.  The fundamental things apply . . . as time goes by.

When she died, many acquaintances told me that she was in a better place.  Personally, I don’t think there is a better place for her than with me.  Others told me someday she and I would again be together, but I don’t want to see her again.  It would be anticlimactic.

Though she was always beautiful, she was most beautiful when she was dying.  Those last few weeks are among my most treasured memories.  Her eyes sparkled more radiantly, even through the tears.  Her patented walk was even more rhythmic; her voice more lilting; and her physical presence a joy to behold. Closeness became closer; her laughter more infectious; and moments with her more precious.  She was enchanting.

We liked the same things.  It was because she liked whatever I liked and I liked whatever she liked. We had disagreements over feelings but never over likes and dislikes. One Valentine we gave each other meat.

On work days, we’d talked sparingly.  Most of our work routines, however, were aimed at being together before sundown. We were highly entertained by the pleasure of the other’s company. We were sometimes raucous; sometimes romantic; and sometimes talkative. Sometimes we were quiet, but we were always together.

We went to bed at the same time whenever possible.  The only time either of us ever went to bed alone was when the other was out-of-town or out late for a reason; or because one of us had hurt the other’s feelings.  Sleeping together was the consummate elixir for all ills, even as we neared the end.

I do not remember either of us ever questioning the wisdom of a purchase that the other made; even when it proved later to have been unwise.  If I bought a new electronic toy, she’d watch me assemble it and be there when it first performed its function.  If she came home from shopping with new clothes, I insisted that she model them for me.

Her color was fuchsia.  When I bought her something to wear, chances were, it would be fuchsia. I only recently learned – fuchsia.  Then, it was just called my favorite color.  She loved to garden and grew many beautiful and varied flowers that graced our home inside and out.  She planted only one rose bush.  I see it each day when I leave and when I return.  It has a single blooming rose – my favorite color.

The night sky sparkled with distant stars. The night air was indifferent.  It was without movement, temperature or fragrance.  The other guests of the Key Largo Motel were in bed.  Silence surrounded us. The water was a mirror image of the sky. We sat on a rock wall – shoulders touching – looking at the sea/sky and just being in love . . . as usual.

We were staying in a casino hotel in the Bahamas.  I went downstairs to watch the players while she dressed for dinner.  I was observing a game of roulette; when I looked up and saw her at the top of the steps that led down onto the casino floor.  She looked exquisite in a tan silk suit.  Her beauty beset me.

When they wheeled her out of the delivery room.  She was still unconscious. They left her with me in the dark hallway to go prepare her room.  I had never seen her more beautiful – serene and smiling with an air of accomplishment.  She was proud to be a mother and remained so until the day she died.

As I presented our daughter to the groom, I turned to see her waiting for me to join her in the pew. I was overcome by her radiance, our joy and our recollections.

The ice storm knocked out the electricity.  So we lit candles and I cooked dinner, outside on the gas grill.  After dinner, we stood on the front porch for a while, wrapped in a blanket, listening to the limbs breaking off the trees and then we went to bed.

On our wedding night, a gigantic October moon lit the way from the church to our apartment.  We stood briefly at the doorway admiring the moon before I picked her up and carried her across the threshold.

When performing her beloved yard work, she wore baggy pants, a long-sleeved tee shirt, and a straw hat as protection from the Sun.  I brought her water in a plastic glass and kiss her grimy cheek.  She gave me the most winning smile I had ever seen.

The first time I saw her, she was walking towards my car carrying her tennis racquet.  She was wearing a white blouse and white shorts that accented her becoming summer tan.  I didn’t know her name.  Three months later we were married.

The world has always welcomed lovers.  As time goes by.

 

I’ll Be Seeing You

During 1956, my senior year in high school, I sang and played drums in a local professional dance band.  We played American Legions and country clubs.  One of my favorite songs was I’ll Be Seeing You.

The poignant song was written in 1944 and was a big hit during the war years.  It begins . . . I’ll be seeing you in all the old familiar places; that this heart of mine embraces . . . all day through.

When I’d sing that song, couples would move lovingly across the dance floor.  Some would look into one another’s eyes; others snuggled close; and some would hum or sing softly along with me.

I continued to perform with a band through college and, after graduating, toured with my own group.  I’ll Be Seeing You was always a crowd favorite . . . In that small café, the park across the way.  The children’s carousel, the chestnut tree, the wishing well.

When Diane and I married in 1963, I was then performing with my band at area clubs while pursuing a business career.  With maturity and marriage, I’ll Be Seeing You, took on a new deeper meaning for me.  Each time I sang the song, I thought of her and the joyous routine of our life together.  I’ll be seeing you in every lovely summer’s day, in everything that’s light and gay; I’ll always think of you that way.

Years later, long after I had stopped performing, that song remained a favorite during our darkened room listening sessions.  Etta James did a recording in the 2001 that we especially enjoyed.  Diane died in 2004.  I’ll Be Seeing You became, for me, the anthem to our life together.  It still unexpectedly plays in my head at quiet times.

I’ll find you in the morning sun and when the night is new.  I’ll be looking at the moon, but I’ll be seeing you.

 

Funny Girl

Tit for Tat

Diane and I were in New Orleans the week after Mardi Gras for food and frolicking.  The first evening we were walking down Bourbon Street looking at all the revelers on the balconies.  They were throwing down Mardi Gras beads to us partyers in the street.

One guy hollers down at Diane, “Show us your tits.”

Diane hollered back, “ I would but you won’t be able to see them from up there.

He tossed her a handful.  And we went on our way.

 

Double Punch Line

I was producing a television documentary with the Olympic swimmer, Donna Devarona.  Donna came to Nashville to discuss the project.  Diane and I took her to dinner.

Donna was telling Diane how she got into competitive swimming and said that after several months of training she had grown an inch.

I couldn’t leave a straight line like that dangling, so I said “Maybe I should take up Olympic swimming so I could grow another inch.”

Diane said, “With your luck, you’d probably grow another foot.”

 

Offer On The Table

On one of our several trips to New York, I had a crosstown dinner meeting that might require me to stay in the suite of my client for the evening.

After a day of shopping, I left Diane at the Waldorf and headed across town.  She took a leisurely bath, dressed and went to the lobby to Peacock Alley for a cocktail.

In the bar, she decided to go to Maxwell’s Plum for dinner.  She arrived at the fern bar and was told it would be about a half hour before a table would be ready.  She went to the bar which had been commandeered by a group of bankers in town for a convention.

One gentleman offered to buy her a drink, which she accepted.  Diane then engaged in social banter with several members of the group.  When her name was called for her table, one kind gentleman offered to sit with her while she dined.  At some point during the meal, he excused himself to go to the rest room.  One of the boisterous fellows in the group rushed over and took his chair and said, “If you’ll go with me to my room, I f**k your brains out.

Diane said, “No thank you, I already have someone back in my room waiting to do that.”

He was taken back by her retort and returned to the bar.  When the other guy returned from the restroom, Diane did not mention the episode.  She finished her meal and took a taxi back to the hotel.

She was right.  I had returned from my dinner engagement.

 

It Takes a Woman

My client and I were finishing our business in New York on a Friday morning.  I called Diane and asked if she could make to Washington DC for dinner that night and for a weekend of fun.  She worked things out and said she’d arrive around 7:00 PM.

When my client discovered that Diane and I were meeting in DC, he said he’d like to join us for dinner.  I objected.  He insisted.  His expense account won out.  But he promised he would leave us alone on Saturday.

He and I arrived in the afternoon and checked into the Mayflower.  We then took a cab to the airport to meet Diane.  She, as she always did with people, made him feel welcomed.

We dropped her bags at the hotel and headed for a cocktail before going to dine at the Market Inn.

My client said that he knew a delightful place to go for a drink – Archibald’s

He and I had been there before.  Archibald’s is a high class strip club with a conservative oak décor.  When we arrived, the place was quiet.  There was a table adjacent to the small two foot stage on which the girls performed.

Diane was totally unaware of the circumstance, not even noticing the little stage.  Just after our drinks arrive so did the first performer.

Diane said, “You guys knew what kind of place this is.”

The girl dancing was very attractive and excellent in her performance.

When she finished, totally in the nude, Diane said to her, “That was great!  Would you like to join us for a drink.”

The nude girl sat down at the table and said, “I don’t want a drink, but I’ll join you for a few minutes.”

In the course of conversation, she said she was an English major at George Washington University; working on her masters.  She said that Archibald’s was a great place to work with respectful clientele.  After about 15 minutes, she excused herself to go back and get ready for her next performance.

Diane said, “I’ll bet you guys have never been able to make that happen and it wouldn’t have happened tonight, if you hadn’t brought me.  You both owe me a debt of gratitude.”

We did.

 

For Better

“One thing; don’t kiss me on the top of my head.  The first time you kiss me on the top of my head, I’ll know you’re thinking about sending me to a home.  A couple of years ago, Gus wasn’t feeling well, so we let him sleep in the kitchen instead of his doghouse.   Sometime during the night, he crapped on the floor.  That morning, as I was cleaning it up I thought, first time I do this she’ll send me to a home.

“I don’t know why you are so worried that I will send you to a home.  That thought never crosses my mind.  Anyway, I think you’d enjoy living in a home, as you call it. For one thing, there would be a bigger audience for your routines, including some with Alzheimer’s for whom the old stories would be new material every day.  You’d like that!”

“I wouldn’t like the smell.  It reminds me of the week-old underwear I often wore in college.  When I visited my mother in Imperial Manor, I was always reminded of the old college fight song, Smash Bang to Victory.  At first I couldn’t figure out why, then one day it hit me.  The nursing home smelled like old underwear.”

“That’s gross! Tell me you didn’t wear underwear for a week at a time when you were in college.  No wonder you didn’t date much.”

“You know I didn’t date much because my band was busy every weekend.  It had little or nothing to do with the state of my underwear.  But enough about my underwear.  Back to the top of my head.  Some men might think it a sign of affection.  To me, a head kiss is an acknowledgement of old age.  The only thing worse is a pat on the head.  When they start doing that to you, your days are numbered.”

“Your days are going to be numbered around here, if you don’t clean up that mess in the bedroom.  Why don’t you hang up your clothes?”

“That’s what I got you for.  It’s the main reason I got married.”

“Don’t start with those diversionary tactics.  Please get in there and clean up your mess.  Boy, if I die before you, this house will be a mess.”

“No it wouldn’t.  I’d keep it very nice and spotless.”

“Why don’t we sometimes pretend I’m dead?”

“Oh! I do that all the time now.”

“Enough of this banter!”

“Yes mother.”

“I’m not your mother.  I’m the woman that you promised to love, honor, and obey.”

“Hey!  I thought that’s what you promised.”

“Go clean up your mess.”

“Yes, mam.”

 

She Just Disappeared

Though I saw her there in her deathbed, my last poignant memory is following the ambulance that carried her to Hospice House.  It was then the reality hit me that we had done all those things for the last time – for the last time.

There was no ceremony or burial; no final rights. She just vanished.  We had already said goodbye so many times and in so many ways during the nine months since her diagnosis. Another goodbye would have been redundant.

When I first saw pictures of her as a skinny little girl, my bias against providence was shaken.  Had I known her, I would have loved her then as I love her now.  Meant to be in that context seemed somehow logical. Having loved her for 40 years, it is difficult to discern if attraction grew because of my love for her or if love grew because of my attraction to her.   Before I met her, when I paint pictures in my mind of the girl of my dreams, they were of her; only with slightly larger breasts.  The same fresh, feisty appearance; the same brilliant literal mind; the same innocent confidence; the same loving heart; that same exuberant sense of responsibility and dedication to task whether at frivolous play or serious work.

She loved every living thing – people, flowers, animals, but she loved me most.  Can you imagine how that made me feel?  Knowing how much she loved everything and that she loved me most of all. When she just disappeared, I was bewildered.  I was sad because she was no longer with me and, at the same time, relieved that she would no longer suffer.  Though she did have some physical pain, it was relief from the emotional suffering that brought me solace. She worried about me; how I would get along without her. Only she knew that I drew much my confidence, humor, and wisdom from our relationship.  She, however, did not know just how dependent I actually was.  Nether did I . . . until she disappeared.

When she died, many acquaintances said she was in a better place.  I accepted their sympathy, but knew in my heart there is no better place for her than with me.   There are days when her image is fleeting.  Other days when I touch my  hand and it feels like her hand.   There are times when I can’t recall her face and times when I can see every feature as clear, as if she were standing before me. She laughed at my silliness; she tolerated my rants; and made me feel like Prince Charming and Albert Einstein rolled into one. She cared how I felt; she worried about my health; she encouraged my work; and forgave my stupidity over and over again.   Others said someday she and I would again be together. I graciously accepted their compassion, but I don’t want to see Diane again.  It would be anticlimactic.

In the 3rd Century BC, after the esteemed philosopher, Zhuangzi’s wife died, a friend came to him to offer condolences.  The friend found Zhuangzi singing merrily and beating on a drum.  The friend, another philosopher, chastised Zhuangzi for not being more solemn. Zhuangzi said:

“When she died, do you think I did not grieve like anyone else?  But I looked back to the beginning and the time before she was born.  Not only the time before she was born, but also the time before she had a body.  Not only the time before she had a body, but the time before she had a spirit.  In the midst of the jumble of wonder and mystery, a change took place and she had a spirit.  Another change and she had a body.  Another change and she was born.  Now there has been another change and she’s dead.  It’s just like the four seasons: spring, summer, fall and winter.  Now she is lying peacefully in a vast room.  If I were to follow her bawling and sobbing, it would show that I don’t understand anything about fate.  So I stopped.”    

 

Two Years Since

It had been over two years since Diane died. Though the daily pain from her absence has diminished, there are still times when I long for her as much as during those first few months after her death.

Last Sunday, a friend and I went for a drive and ended up in an area where Diane and I used to regularly ride our mountain bikes. We passed a place where Diane and I once stop on a hot summer Sunday in the shade by the side on the road, to rest and drink from our water bottles.

The image of Diane sitting there with sweat running from under her helmet, her face grimy with road dust, played like a movie in my mind. I remembered looking at her and her just smiling back at me. No words, just love ebbing quietly back and forth. We sat there for a couple of minutes, regaining our breath from the long ride and arose with out a word. She wiped her face with the handkerchief tied to her wrist. I kissed her cheek; she smiled again; and we rode on.