Taking on new tasks

In the thirteen years we'd lived together, Sandy and I had found some natural divisions of labor. As soon as she saw how I did laundry (i.e., that I didn't even bother to sort the clothes), she took over that job. When I noticed her bills sitting unopened for weeks, I took charge of our finances. Likewise, I handled simple electrical and plumbing tasks; she built things and baked bread. I made biscuits and cornbread; she made stew and pizza. It all worked very well. We appreciated each other and felt ownership of our own roles.

And then she died without leaving me a manual, or even a list of all that she'd been doing all that time. My first challenge was laundry. I'd used the front-load washer maybe twice since we bought it eight or nine years ago, and those times I'd been given specific instructions. So it was with trepidation that I did my first simple load of dark clothes. (In deference to Sandy, I sorted.) That went okay, but I held my breath when I washed a load of bike shorts. Somehow, Sandy made those expensive necessities last, but how? I'm a bright kid; I was able to make some good guesses, but I really wanted to know her method.

Yesterday, I was wandering through the pathetically neglected garden, now soggy from the returning rains. I've always been the vegetable gardener, and I knew I had a lot of work to do on those beds. But the flowers were Sandy's domain. Suddenly it occurred to me that Sandy wouldn't be taking care of her cutting garden anymore. I'd barely ever done anything in that bed except, well, cut flowers. I started ripping out tired brown crocosmia leaves and bunches of other dead foliage. It felt good. This is something I can do for Sandy; I can take care of her flowers, even if it means I need to broaden my areas of gardening expertise.

Luckily, Sandy compulsively took photos of all areas of both the front yard and the back yard each season, so that she could plan for the next year. I don't know how much she ever referred back to those photos, but I know that I will now. Knowing what's been there before, I can make more intelligent decisions about what stays, what goes, and what small changes might be appropriate.

She did leave me the recipe for my sandwich bread, along with the books she treasured in her baking adventures. The bread she made me was delicious, nourishing, and gave me the sense that I was taken care of. Once I get the garden figured out, maybe I'll be able to muster up the courage to try to re-create that goodness, too.