Joy and Sadness: Ordinary World

by Doris Martin

I must have been 5 or 6 years old and thrilled to be invited to visit my Aunt Gertie and Cousin Norma. Considered to be the most successful on Dad’s side of the family, Aunt Gertie’s husband Glenn worked for the railroad and had his own private car for living quarters. Aunt Gertie drove us to Keokuk, Iowa to visit Uncle Glenn. Keokuk! – the rush of exciting new adventures was absolutely eye-popping to this little farm girl! The peak experience was the evening we went to the Moose Lodge, when Uncle Glenn asked me to dance! Imagine that – he politely asked me to dance, led me to the dance floor and treated me like I was really somebody, even thanking me for the dance when it was over. Wow, pretty heady stuff for a six-year-old – absolute delight and pure joy. I was on cloud nine, for I can assure you that nothing like that would ever have happened at our house. Later that evening when we had all gone to bed, Aunt Gertie called out," Girls, look outside – look at the beautiful moonlight shining on the water.” The moonset was magic: a long, shimmering silver ribbon laid gently across the water, a sight that still thrills me today. It made me feel that I was somehow special for them to have shared such wonderful experiences with little nobody me.

I find this hard to believe, yet I could not recall early memories of sadness. Apparently I blew past sadness and went straight to disappointment and anger, and probably everything in between.

It was 1976, I was 34 years old, (almost) happily married and living in Fish Camp, CA, in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Bill Fisher was my husband’s college friend, tall, blonde-hair with a red beard. He followed us to Fish Camp and became a mountain man, even dressed like one with flannel lined jeans, black t-shirt and red suspenders. We were the three Musketeers and did almost everything together, from cutting firewood in the summer to traveling during the off-season, and my personal favorite, Sunday morning breakfast with the newspaper. Bill was a writer and a poet, and fancied himself a grey-beard, one who had a thorough knowledge and love of the mountains. And then the phone call came. It was mid-winter, and we had traveled south to visit both sets of parents. The devastated look on my husband’s face told the story. An icy road combined with a late night at the local bar was all it took to rob us of our friend. The long ride home seemed like days instead of hours. Even though we had “lost” my father a few years ago, this was different and more impactful somehow. Bill was the first of our own age group, our friends, to die. And I didn’t know what to do with the weight of that grief and sorrow. I have never felt so lonely.

Looking back from today’s vantage point:

The excitement of the trip to Keokuk, plus the joy of dancing with Uncle Glenn, was probably my first glimpse into a larger world, opening my eyes to the possibility that there was more to be had in life, and it just might be available to me. I invite joy into my life often; it’s pure, it bubbles up and reassures me that all is right with the world (“It’s all good, Grandma”). Joy is another platform to express gratitude.

Sadness seems like a grown up emotion to me. Despite being 34 years old, I was not emotionally equipped to handle both Bill’s death and the aftermath. The next two weeks were profoundly lonely for me. I now know that I was attempting to “hold Robert’s duality” of honoring my own grief and overwhelming sadness, while going about making the necessary preparations to welcome Bill’s family and plan for a memorial. The aftermath started with the dawning awareness that Bill was the communications link between my husband and me. Without Bill, we didn’t know how to talk. Today when I am faced with loss, I just wrap myself up in a comforting thick layer of sadness and hold that loved one close for a while. It is personal, it is private, and it is far from lonely.

Personally, I choose Joy.