Good bye, Sofa King. . . xxoo

I have carried this blog on for far longer than is likely healthy. For me, for you for all of us . . . it served its purpose far beyond what I set out to do, which was to keep friends and family connected to Bob when he was so violently ripped from the world for too long. . . . I was and continue to be astounded at how far-reaching this blog has been, and for that, I am eternally grateful. And I know Bob was, too. I rarely posted an entry without reading it to him first, to get his approval (unless it was during a very critical situation, where he was incapacitated . . . which, now that I think about it, was a helluva lot of his ordeal . . .) anyhow, I always asked him if he was okay with the entries, and if there were any that he wanted me to remove/edit. I never, ever wanted to speak for him, to say anything that would insult or offend embarrass him, never, ever wished it to be too "out there" for his comfort. . . I am so honored that he approved every entry, and often thanked me for keeping him connected to the friends, family and colleagues he loved so dearly but couldn't personally communicate with . . .

But, to continue writing here, now, feels like I'm living with one foot in a past that will never become present. No matter how much I cry, how I barter, beg, pray or toss fistfuls of pixie dust, scream, threaten or whimper, Bob is physically gone from this earth, as we knew him. As much as I hate to acknowledge this, I am slowly coming to accept this truth, in my head and in my heart. I can't say I have fully embraced this truth, can't say I'm "a-okay" with his dying, can't say that there aren't days that I'm hit with sucker punches that literally, physically drop me . . . I still am so lost without my very best friend, trying so hard to come to grips with his horrific ordeal, but slowly, ever so slowly, I feel I have at least a few glimmers of hope, of understanding . . .

Because of these glimmers of hope, I have decided this format, this Sofa King blog, no longer serves Bob and no longer serves me. Bob is now in the most beautiful place that we could never begin to imagine; that place that one day, we all will be. I am blessed with continuing signs that Bob is alive and well in a place we call Heaven. Nirvana. Happy Hunting Grounds. Paradise. The Great Beyond. The Other World. Pure Love. Call it what you want, semantics no longer matter where Bob now is. Words are those horribly inept things that we earthly creatures have created to feebly try to define, to cling to, corral, control the things over which we really have no control. . . where Bob is, words are no longer necessary.

At some point, I know I will find complete peace knowing that Bob is free, but it's gonna take a little more time and a helluva lotta work on my behalf to reach that place. The cliches don't fit, don't work for me, a blind acceptance of "what is" doesn't help me, but I am finding other ways to help me make sense of the horrors of the 19 months of Bob's ordeal . . . working toward the true comfort of knowing that he is beautiful, healthy, whole, and in a place where we all will be one day, surrounded with pure love, emanating pure love. . . the bitch is, this stuff just doesn't happen overnight, much to my impatient dismay. (I know, I know . . . for all the ethereal talk, I still have the mouth of a trucker . . .small comfort, knowing some things never change, huh?)

Bob is with us, this I know is true, and he continues to guide us from a place of pure love. Life doesn't end with death; rather, it is a new beginning. This, right now, is my job: learning to let go. To so many things that I once thought were true. To things that are keeping me in a place of pain and stagnancy. To open myself to new possibilities. Let go. Surrender. . . It's a new way of life for me, this letting go shit, being in "fight mode" for the past two years. . . my first big step in letting go is letting go of this blog.

I have decided to start another blog, called Widow (w)rites . . . and I invite you to follow me on this next journey in life, if you wish. Right now, I'm not really sure what it will be, other than a new "home" in which to write about life without the best person I have ever had the honor to know . . . I might write frequently, I might never write. Every day is an adventure in Widowland . . . I do know that death and dying are not a "normal" topic of conversation in our everyday life, but the reality is, we will all die one day. We work so hard to try to avoid this fact of life, and the tragic, unfortunate side effect of this affliction is that we are so often denied a truly respectable, dignified death, and it is a subject that so many avoid, literally run from, and when it's too late, the wrong people end up making the decisions. . . Bob was denied this right, this option—a dignified, respectable choice in how he would die—by the very people we put so much trust and power in, to care for him. . . maybe that is what my new blog will address—that's a loaded issue with endless layers, and it's far too early to know . . .maybe it'll be just a bunch of inane drivel, which we all know I'm really good at . . . whatever the direction I take, if you chose not to continue this journey with me, I'm super-okay with that. Huge part of me doesn't blame you one bit, for not wanting to buy a ticket on this Krazy Train . . .

Endless love to all of you, who loved my beloved Bob so very dearly, who love me immensely, who held us so close to your hearts, who cried with us, fought with us, prayed for us, did so much for us, who continue to do all of that, and more, holding me up, as I walk alone. . .

xxoo Jen

Losing my mind so I can find it again . . .

Continuing this blog is so very hard, for endless reasons and I often wonder why I do it, plod on, without the main reason I started it in the first place, the main reason everyone checked in—my beloved, our beloved, Bob . . . more often, seems rather pointless, for endless reasons. But I will, till something/someone tells me to shut my f'n piehole and get a real job . . .

Seven months . . . it still seems like Bob just died. In my world. Have I said this before . . .every day, still, I miss everything about him. I miss his smile. I miss his wicked sense of humor. I miss his silky black hair. I miss his cute little butt (which was waaaaay smaller than mine—seriously something wrong with that picture???), I miss arguing with him—I always told he should have been an attorney because even when he was wrong, he could convince anyone he was right. . . I miss kissing him, period. I miss that cute little cowlick in the middle of his hairline that drove him nuts, but drove me wild—made his hair kind of swirl up and over to the left, kind of like Elvis, if his hair got too long, and he didn't "tame" it before it dried . . . I miss cooking with him, miss coming home from work and having dinner ready for me . . .

I miss his beautiful, expressive hands—he had the most beautiful hands, strong and perfect, cradled a camera so gently . . .I miss giving him foot rubs and his cute "pillow toes" (his big toes were so cute and "puffy," looked like his toenails were pressed into marshmallows . . . I miss his back rubs—he would set a timer, but always gave me bonus minutes for good behavior . . .I miss his take-charge attitude . . . I miss simply sitting in the living room with him, as we both "did work" on our laptops, or watched a bit of TV . . . I miss snow-shoing at William O'Brien and stopping at the little tavern in Marine on St. Croix for a beer and onion rings . . . I miss our road trips, and I'd buy Cosmo and the Enquirer, and read all the trashy tidbits to Bob on the way to our destination . . . I miss grocery shopping with him. I miss cooking dinner with him. I miss crawling into bed and curling up next to his warm body. I miss doing his laundry. . .I miss getting mad at him when he'd try to be a "helper" and do my laundry with his, and turn all my bras pink, and shrink my jeans in the dryer . . . I miss him washing my car, getting the oil changed as a "surprise" forme . . .I miss roadtrips to the north shore, I miss camping with him, I miss sharing a bottle of wine as we sat around a campfire . . . II miss being his "Vanna White" at wine tastings . . . how do I end this list . . .

There is nothing that makes sense along the grief journey, yet at the same time, I do know, in my heart and my head, I am heading toward a better place. Because of my time on earth with Bob. I still can't quite describe or define it . . . it's still more of a feeling than a true knowing, and the unfortunate thing is, it ain't happening as fast as I want it, and I won't know if or when I'll arrive . . . When I do, I'll let you know . . . in the meantime, I'll continue to ramble on . . .

Six months. . .

Nearly a month has gone by since I last wrote and I debate, every day, whether or not to keep this thing dragging on. . . It's been six months since Bob left this earthly world, but it still just happened, in my world. How do I possibly put into words this journey of immense loss and subsequent rebuilding my life without my best friend, the person I loved most, by my side . . . every day is an adventure in widowhood, and I can hardly keep up simply living in the minute-to-minute fluctuations of emotions, memories, thoughts and feelings that yank me in every direction, simultaneously, much less write about it, do it justice, make sense of it, convey all there is to this journey. Impossible.

I think back, often, to a guest at Bob's Celebration of Life service, who told me in the receiving line—much too giddily—that I should look at this time as an opportunity to reinvent myself! How exciting, she gushed, we all wish we could do what you get to do! Two and a half days after Bob died, after a 19-month journey through hell. I was too deep in shock to say what I should have said: Oh, really? You want your husband to die a horrific death so you can have a do-over? Instead, all I said was, "No, it'd be exciting if I'd had a choice in the matter . . ." Timing, people, timing . . . but as time passes, I am finally, grudgingly having to admit that that is, indeed, what I get to do. Reinvent. All the while reinventing, I am reminded why it is I get to do this in the first place. Because my beautiful husband died.

I find it an astounding phenomenon, that when one suffers an immense loss of someone so close, one can still get out of bed every day (but at the same time, I completely understand if one simply cannot), go through empty motions of living, when those on the outside say, "You look so good! You seem to be doing so well!" Fake it till you make it . . . When every second of every minute of every hour of every day is intricately laced with thoughts of Bob, I am astounded that I can still carry on conversations, pay bills, shop for groceries, drive a damn car and keep it on the road, go through the act of living, while feeling dead inside. To be able to do all this, when no one else knows that the all day, every day, Bob is in my thoughts. How can there be room in one's brain for all of this thinking, all these images, so many memories are tangled up with all the day-to-day stuff we have to process. Astounding. . .

Since moving, I have been reaching out more, to friends, to a grief therapist, to other widows (that label still does not fit me well, I cringe at the sight and sound of that word . . . I'm going to have to work on that one, perhaps try to embrace it, own it, maybe come up with a better word. Or, perhaps I could market widowhood, make it trendy, like pregnant women now are . . . I am now visualizing a whole line of clothing and accessories, emblazoned with the silhouette of a black widow spider, maybe encrusted in rhinestones, sequins, a chain of stores across the country, reality show to follow . . . yes, you can say it—I'm temporarily, maybe forever, insane), trying to piece together some sort of meaning for this journey. . .

Gotta admit, it's been much easier, being in the city, closer to "civilization," to make myself get out and about, make myself more accessible to family and friends, baby steps back into the land of the living. But being "out of it" for so long, it can get overwhelming at times. And damn scary. The neighborhood where I now live has had a rash of burglaries and break-ins all fall. Both next door neighbors and a neighbor behind me have been burglarized. It's enough to make me want to pack up and head back to the safe, sad loneliness of my "old" home. I now have a security system and told my landlord I was getting another dog; amazingly, he agreed to it, but I have yet to do it. . . on the plus side, the string of events have spurred my neighbors to band together and form a block club—we exchanged phone #'s and e-mail addresses and even have a facebook page, where police reports and other helpful info are posted. From an unfortunate string of events, we're rebuilding a stronger sense of community. . .

I met two amazing women with eerily similar stories to Bob's and mine, at an event sponsored by Fairview Hospice several weeks ago. Of all the people to connect with at the event, I was inexplicably drawn to these two 40-something women, who had also lost their beloved husbands to gruesome battles with cancer. We now try to regularly meet for dinner and drinks, to cry, laugh, curse, vent, share our stories in the dim corner of a restaurant in a northern suburb, our own little support group. . . I have connected with another group for widowed, called The Grief Project (in a crazy, round-about-way, I met the founder of this organization who is an acquaintance of an acquaintance of my sister, Jill), and have again, found a hidden tribe of people who speak my crazy language, who know the customs of this fucked up world to which, against my will, I now belong. It's both sobering and comforting, to know there are so many people walking around wearing heavy, nearly debilitating cloaks of sadness, but also to know that these are the ones who truly understand. . . and that there are those among the mourning who have been on this path longer, who offer hope, peace and even love and happiness to those of us new to this world of grief . . .

I find it equally astounding that, even beneath this crushing shroud of grief, wondrous and beautiful things continue to happen, to me, around me, to others, around others. . . I don't believe in miracles the way most people believe in miracles. I believe it's a miracle that when we suffer immense loss, we are able to inexplicably pick ourselves up and continue living, hard as it may be. The resilience of the human spirit and its ability to heal is a miracle. I find it miraculous that no matter what happens in the world, the leaves still change colors, the sun still rises, the day slides into night, that babies are born and love is found, that friends and family are still by my side, still willingly hold me up and love me as I stumble along through this strange land, most of the time, not knowing what I'm doing, but doing it anyway, in spite, despite, who knows why . . . I find it wondrous, if not a miracle, that so many people have told me that they now immediately think of Bob when they see or hear an owl. . .

I was recently accepted into Hamline University's Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing program, to start in February. I am still in shock, still half-expecting someone from the department to call me and tell me they've made a huge mistake in accepting me, that they meant to accept Jenna Hildebrandt, not Jennifer. . . I haven't been a real college student in over 20 years and I'm scared to death, but also deeply honored and excited about the whole deal. Bob would be so proud of me; he had encouraged me, for so long, to go back and pursue my advanced degree in writing. At the time, I wanted to, but couldn't fathom it. I had my business, the timing wasn't right, I was too scared, endless other excuses . . . And now, at the heart of the deal is the glaring reminder of why I finally applied for the program this summer. Because Bob died. Because life as I knew it is no longer. Because I get to reinvent myself.

Walks in the neighborhood . . .

Walking Rocco the other day, I encounter a neighbor, a man I've met several times already, lives around the corner from me. We often pass each other as we walk our dogs through the park near the house I am now living in (I initially typed "my house," there, but immediately, it looked and felt all wrong. This is not my house, or my life. I don't think I will ever get used to any of this. . .). Sometimes we stop to chit-chat a bit, other times we simply wave from across the park.

Today, he's standing outside with his grown son, I stop to exchange a few words, and eventually, he asks, "So, what's your sweetie's name?" Sweetie? I thought he was asking about Rocco, and then it suddenly hit me. My sweetie. He's asking about a significant other. Shit . . . no way around these scenarios. His name is Bob, he died in May. I tell him with a voice that's not my own, with words that shouldn't belong to me, but do, fiercely. "Oh," he says, his voice changes abruptly, clearly not expecting this answer. "Well, he went through the same thing," jerking a thumb toward his son. "His woman left him, and stole his dog, too. . ." shaking his head. I stare at him. Are you fucking kidding me? You honestly think "his woman left him" and adding a stolen dog for effect, is even remotely similar to my husband dying? No, no, no, I scream all of this at him, in my head. . . "Left him" means someone had a choice in the matter, "left him" means he probably will still see his woman, that they might have a chance at getting back together, slim as it may be. It's very possible he'll get his dog back, at the very least. What part of "died" don't you get?!? "Died" means neither of us had a choice in this matter, "died" means there isn't even a slim chance I will ever see my sweetie again, much less, a chance to be with him again . . . .

I don't remember exchanging good-byes, maybe used Rocco as my excuse to continue my walk, but I do remember feeling that it's often easier to not talk to strangers. The widow thing freaks people out, myself included, makes them, us, say strange things. What I just said (or didn't say) to my neighbor was such a dishonor to Bob, to all he was, and all we had, the good, the bad and the ugly, and suddenly I am thinking, I have to tell everyone I meet that not only am I a widow, but my husband was only 44 when he died, and had the most beautiful brown eyes and the silkiest Superman-black hair that I loved to run my fingers through . . he possessed the sharpest wit, a most wicked sense of humor and could infuriate me like nobody could . . . but was the best person I have ever had the honor to know in this life on earth, that he died an awful death that is the stuff of nightmares, but fought his incurable disease like nothing I will ever witness again on this Earth, right till the end, I loved him, still love him, would have taken care of him and his broken body forever, if I had been given the choice. . .

On the rest of my walk I think of how horribly inept the English language is. We say died, and love, and widow, but mean nothing when we say them. To have one word that would sum it all up for me, tell our story, who Bob was, what he meant and still means to me, how he died, would be o-so helpful, for me, for everyone I encounter. But I can't tell his story, our story, to everyone I meet. I will just have to learn to be okay with the fact that most people will never have the honor to learn who my sweetie was. . . and somehow be okay with how very tragic that is.

Fake it till you make it. . .

This is how I get to spend the better part of my Tuesdays and Thursdays, with my dear little nephew, Otto. He is the coolest baby ever, and I can say that with pretty accurate certainty, being the (favorite! ;) auntie of 13 nieces and nephews. NOT that the others aren't cool, awesome, amazing—all of the above, x 100!—because they are, but there is something undefinable about this newest kidlet . . . as a baby, Otto is so full of Zen, so loving, so peaceful, so awe-inspiring, beyond what a beautiful yet simple baby should be able to convey (and let's be real—not many babies are like this, ever,

I have never been in the company of a baby who gazes dreamily into my eyes, for minutes on end. . . an old soul in the heart of an adorable little boy, so evident in his eyes, his spirit. I have a hard time taking my eyes off him, my green-blue eyes gazing deeply back into his own baby green-blues (though I do recall thinking this about each of my nieces and nephews as I held their tiny bodies in my arms). Still, Otto is different. Can't explain it, just different. Not a bad thing, to be different.

And one of the sweetest things he does, is babble, "Bob bob, bob, bob, bo-bo-bo-bob," over and over. Jill swears he never does this anywhere else but at my house, or when I'm around. He often does this while gazing off, beyond my shoulder, or above my head, with the sweetest smile on his face, as though he's talking to someone . . . I like to imagine he sees Bob, is talking to him in a way babies only can, letting me know all is right where Uncle Bob is . . . I truly believe babies see angels, speak to angels, because their little baby spirits are so pure, so untainted by all the shit of life that gets in the way of that which is pure. . . either, that, or Otto thinks my name is "Bob." I'll take the former . . .

I am still "settling" into my new digs in St. Paul. It doesn't feel like home, nothing will feel like home, for a long time, maybe ever. A stranger in a strange land. But, I am inundated with visits/calls/e-mails from friends, near and dear, near and far, old and new, and it definitely has increased in frequency, since I moved closer to the masses, and I embrace it, feel very connected, very loved, if not at times, overwhelmed. Went to the Selby Avenue Jazz Festival with a dear friend a few weeks or so, have had numerous lunches/dinners out with family, friends, even strangers whom I've just met (that isn't as weird as it looks in writing . . .). Walk the dogs endlessly, weaving in and out throughout the blocks that tie the neighborhoods together. . .

Bob's cameras have sat unused for months, and a few days ago, I hopped onto National Camera Exchange's website, to see if they offered any novice photographer's classes. . . saw one that was being held that very night; called my sis, Jill, and after a flurry of conversations/phone calls/craziness, her husband, Jade (who works at NCE), I was signed up for the class. I lugged Bob's beloved backpack, full of camera and lenses, and got my first "real" photography lesson. Elementary as it was, I felt fully enveloped with Bob's spirit, hearing the "technical" insights to all the things that Bob knew, inherently. . .as the instructor explained various techniques, I could picture endless photographs Bob had taken, using the same technique . . .

Next day, I proceeded to snap endless photos of beloved Otto . . . it's going to take me a while to get a "handle" on these intimidating, impressive pieces of photographic equipment, but when I pick them up, I feel Bob reverberating through the metal frame of the camera; I am slowly learning why he chose nature over churches, as religion. And love him even more than ever. And am more sad than ever, with his loss.

(the picture to the right was Bob's last stay at the U, when he had the GI bleed right after Christmas. He was never prone to kissing babies, despite the many nieces and nephews we have. . . love the way Otto leans into Uncle Bob as he kisses. . . )

A journey that won't end till I take my own last breath

For every sweet memory I want to share about my time on earth with Bob, I'm flooded with countless images that I will never be able to share with anyone, that will forever be imbedded in my head, in my heart, a 1:1,000,000 ration of good to bad, at any given moment, and the astounding thing for me is that people live like this all the time, very minute of every day of every year, and we have no idea how many and to what extent. . . an inexplicable world to be living in, going through the motions with everyone else while your mind is anywhere but . . . I'm continually amazed that I move right along with life, as though I'm a part of it, but feel anything but. Over four months since Bob's passing, I am continually, daily, by the minute, bombarded with thoughts, memories, images, flash-backs of the past year and a half (October will mark the two-year "anniversary" of the onset of his cancer, though we weren't given the diagnosis until nearly three months later), that refuse to vacate, and yet I "function" damn near as good as most others walking the face of the earth. Fucking astounding. . . no two ways about it . . .

The season changes are especially hard, maybe that's why I've had some rough days of late. This time of year, we'd be camping, hiking, traipsing the trails of the north shore, camping with Penny and Jim, dogs in tow. The smells, the sounds, the sights of each season tear through me like a bullet, and every day, I'm astounded that I get out of bed and do something. Last year at this time, Bob was still at the U, in the very beginning stages of "recovering" from that cursed, god-awful, torturous 13 hour surgery he'd endured a few weeks prior, endless complications ensuing. . . But, a year ago, he was still with me.

Went to a bbq at my cousin, Erin's last weekend. Was talking to a couple, somehow Bob got brought into the conversation (how can he not? He was my husband and everything I am doing now is because he is no longer with me. How do I explain just up and moving from Stillwater to St. Paul and not explain why my husband is not with me . . . just an example of how, in multitude of layers, this loss never leaves my side, continuing to define every action, every word. . .)

The wife of the couple stood in wide-eyed disbelief as I fed her the condensed version of Bob's story. "My god. . . " she slowly whispered. "For all you've been through, you are so, ummm, well, I don't know the right word—so put together?" I stared back at her in equal wide-eyed disbelief. Is that how people see me? I think. Put together? Maybe I need to break down in public a little more frequently. . . Who really goes around sobbing in public, at bbq's, in Target, at the grocery store, ? (well, there have been times . . .Tootsie pops always do it for me. And Dr Pepper. And Trader Joe's frozen fruit bars. . . and . . .) How do I tell someone I've never met that every waking minute of my day, at this point in my life, is immersed in memories of my husband, of our lost lives together, of all he went through for a year and a half, and I have no fucking clue how I get through every day? I simply don't.

A few days ago, I ran into neighbors of ours from Stillwater. More than once in the conversation, the husband of the pair said, "I don't think I could ever do what you did for Bob, for as long as you did, Jen . . ." Again, I am the one in wide-eyed disbelief. How do I tell the neighbor that I hope he will never have to find out if he has "what it takes" to do what I did for Bob, for as long as I did? All I can say to that is, you'd be surprised at what you're capable of, given the circumstances, I tell him. And that's all I can say with any certainty.

That, and that I truly believe that the sole purpose we are here on earth is to care for one another. Doesn't matter how we do it, whether one by one, or in droves and throngs. Just take care of one another. However you can.

A slow motion dance with my new life . . .

I took a walk in my new neighborhood with my sister, Jill and her kids last weekend, a long stroll down Summit Avenue, oooh-ing and aaaaahhh-ing over the gargantuan mansions we passed along the historic boulevard. No sooner would we decide on the one we liked best when we'd come upon another, even more opulent and dramatic, if that's possible. The architecture of the homes on Summit is the real-life definition of breathtaking. Truly, I could waste an entire day, gazing at a single edifice and still not see all there is to admire. . . kalidescope stained glass . . . intricately detailed Victorian "painted ladies". . . ornate yet stately carved stone. . . even chimneys are spared no elaborate attention—one home (even calling it a "home" sounds insulting) has towering chimneys with wrought-iron calla lilies imbedded in the masonry. . . and that doesn't even begin to touch the grounds and gardens . . . this alone could become a full-time job, admiring historic buildings . . .

Our meandering brought us to a party gathered on the lawn outside yet another grand residence, a wedding in full-swing. I immediately recognized the location—Bob and I had attended a wedding here ourselves, and suddenly, I was whisked away with the memories of a good ten years prior, sharing them aloud with Jill and the kids, though I was talking more to myself than anyone. . .

That beautiful fall night, Bob and I dazzled the wedding party with newly acquired ballroom

dance skills, waltzing, two-stepping, jitter-bugging and polka-ing, sometimes cheek-to-cheek, sometimes whirling around like tasmanian devils, like a scene from a movie movie—the crowd parted, including the bride and her father, and circled around Bob and me, as we danced the night away, in perfect time to the music swirling along with us . . .

Jill interrupts my story. "Wait a minute— Your Bob? Danced? Really?" More an accusation than a question.

A few seconds pass, and finally, Not willingly, I confess.

Bob and I had been married maybe four years the summer of the wedding of conversation. Shortly before the wedding, we'd embarked on a camping trip to northern Minnesota. Camping, as in, in a tent. Trip, as in, a whole week. Northern Minnesota, as in, no hotels this time, Little Miss Flat Iron Dependent. This wasn't our first camping trip together, but it was the longest, with no "buffer" night in a cabin or hotel at the half-way point, to ease the pain of "roughing it." Buffer, as in, appeasing Jen. Hardcore, in my book.

Bob decided we should explore north central state parks this time, and painstakingly planned our trip to include Itasca, Lake Bemidji and Hayes Lake, damn near to Lake of the Woods, mapping out our trip based on seasonal wildflowers in bloom. The morning we departed, it had started to rain and increased in intensity as the day went on. It not only rained all day but continued the entire week. And not just little sprinkles or soft drizzles. No, we were subjected to full-blown soakings, downpours—torrential deluges—as in, Each. And. Evey. Day. We had a "two-man" tent, as in, if you're lucky and happen to be African pygmies, and a smelly, sopping wet Alaskan malamute sharing our sleeping quarters. Smelly, as in, a vat of sweaty football players' post-practice laundry. The tent leaked, our sleeping bags were soaked, we couldn't cook a thing because it was too wet to make a fire. Bob, the eternal Ranger Rick at heart, said, "It's not that bad, Jen! We have Power Bars and Dr. Pepper! The rain'll quit soon!"

After three days of huddling in soggy, smelly quarters, gnawing on granola bars, I snapped—I tore open the tent, screaming, "I hate this—I'm going to go sleep in the van!" and stomped through ankle-deep mud puddles, yanked the passenger door open and slid into the blissfully dry interior of our van and slammed the door. And flipped the switch to lock. Bob sloshed through puddles after me, dragging Gaia behind him, but was too late. Doors were locked and I sat in the front passenger seat, crying. He pounded on windows, "Let me in, Jen! It's pouring out here! Let's talk!"

"No! NOt until you tell me we will do something with our time together, other than camping! I am done camping!It's not fair! It's all we do on our vacations—we never do anything I want to do, and I'm finally done with it!"

Rain streamed down his face as he continued to pound on the window. "Let me in, Jen—I meanit! I want to talk to to you, but I can't out here in this goddamned rain! Let me in, and we can talk! Please!" The genuine desperation in the emphatic please got me. Reluctantly, I flicked the switch on my door handle to unlock the doors and continued my sob fest as Bob quickly ledGaia into the back of the van before hopping in behind her. He slid his rain jacket off and slipped into the driver's seat and faced me.

"What the hell was that all about?" he sputtered as soon as he got into the van, grabbing an old dog towel to dry off. "What—are you five years old or what—we can't just talk, can we? You had to resort to dramatics to make your point?"

I was in no mood for logic. "We always do what you want to do for our vacations!" I interrupted. "For five straight years, all it's been is camping, camping, camping and I'm sick of it! I hate it, in fact, and as of this vacation, I've decided no more camping until you do something I want to do! Period!"

"Fine, fair enough! All you have to do is say the word—just tell me what you want to do."

Ballroom dancing.

"What did you say?" He stopped rubbing his head.

You heard me just fine. Ball room dancing. I want to take balllroom dance lessons. And I want you to take them with me.

"Oh god, Jen, please. Anything but that—and I mean anything. I can't dance! I don't have rhythm—"

You're a liar! You do too have rhythm—I know you'd be a total Deney Terrio! You'd love it, if you just gave it a chance. I gave camping a chance. . .

"Is there anything else you'd want to do?" his voice was weak and thin. He knew he was done.

No.

Anything at all? A cooking class? A language class?

Nope.

Heavy sigh. Defeat. "Okay. Fine." Another heavy sight. Dramatics have taken a turn. "Fair enough. Dance lessons it is."

I signed us up for dance lessons through Community Ed in Roseville, from a man whose hair was a little too greasy and seemed to pay a little too much attention to the little redhead in the class, according to Bob. I didn't care. I was happy, he was Fred Astaire, in my eyes, and a month later, we were able to show off our newly-acquired skills at a wedding on Summit Avenue. . .

Hours after I shared this story with Jill and her kids, I got the following e-mail from Jill:

Tonight, while walking with my you and my kids, it was moving as we passed gorgeous homes on Summit, to hear you talk of lovely times you and Bob had at a wine tasting benefit here, or how you two showed off your newly honed ballroom dance skills at a wedding reception there. Later, when we stopped into one of Bob's former wine clients, Solo Vino, the wonderful memories continued. Since his illness and his passing, this was, for me, the first time in a long time where I felt so connected to that healthy, energetic, hilarious, hard-working, uber-intelligent man who loved you with all his soul, and whom you loved and will continue to love with all your soul. He's so greatly missed, but hearing these stories, stopping by SV touched me so very much. Thank you, Jennifer and Bob.