I Cried For a Mile 

By John R. Greenwood 

 

It’s June 15, 2026. Today would have been our 52nd wedding anniversary. We came up a couple of months short. It’s 8am and a perfect spring morning, just like it was 52 years ago. 

I’ll visit the cemetery later; at the moment, I need to clear my head. The best way I know to do that is to lace up my ASICS and go for a walk. 

I’m most comfortable walking the one-mile pathway that runs the perimeter of the Wilton Town Park. It’s quiet and a stone’s throw from my back door. I could walk to the park, but the traffic at 8am on a weekday is chaotic at best. Too many cell phone addicts late for work make it more like Russian Roulette. 

When I pulled into the parking lot, the first thing I noticed was the four 53’ trailers filled with amusement rides for Wilton’s upcoming Parkfest. Normally, that would bring a smile to my face, but I wasn’t in a “Parkfestive” mood today. 

I popped my earbuds in and pulled up the music library on my phone. At some point, and I’m not sure how or when, Patricia’s music migrated to my phone. This morning, I decided to simply shuffle all of our songs and start walking. From the first steps, I began to feel someone's presence. The only living thing in sight was a flitting mockingbird. For anyone else, that wouldn’t be story material, but for me, it’s worth sharing. Ever since my mother passed away, any sighting or sound of a mockingbird is followed by a sense that everything will be okay and that I need to pay attention. Something good always shows up in the hours or days ahead, so I have to keep my senses tuned so I don’t miss it. Not twenty yards later, a song I’ve never heard begins to play. It’s Natalie Merchant singing “Maggie and Milly and Molly and May.” Natalie’s voice and the lyrics catch me off guard. I am immediately overcome with emotion, and my eyes fill with tears. I start sobbing uncontrollably. The words, the melody, the sweetness of it all fill me with sorrow and a sense of loss. At the same time, I have the sensation that my wife is there, watching over me and assuring me that those I love are always with me. I replay the song, and I continue bawling like a child. I have to stop and sit on a bench to gather myself. I put my head in my hands, and the music keeps flowing along with the tears. 

The handkerchief in my left rear pocket, a sure sign that I receive a Social Security deposit every month, is about to earn its keep. I wipe my eyes, blow my nose, and restart my walk. Next song, again one of Pat’s, Loreena McKennitt’s soulful sound oozes out and fills me with something unexplainable. It’s like I’m being escorted around the walking path by angels. More sobbing, I can’t control it. The days and weeks of the past two months have caught up to me, and the floodgates have been opened. I keep walking, wiping, sniffling, gulping for air. Every time I catch my breath, another song hits me like a freight train. I’m almost back to my truck and still trying to pull myself together. There are people around, but none of them see the old man blubbering like a frightened toddler. Finally, I’m back in the driver’s seat, and I begin to focus on what has just happened. All those years together, taking care of each other, caught up to me. The sick kids, the past due bills, the broken cars, the laughs, the projects, the good and the bad, all ganged up on me when that one song played. Now what? 

Familiarity is what I need. I go through the drive-thru and order her go-to order. Large hot hazelnut, just cream. A turkey sausage, egg, and cheese on an English muffin, and 6 nickel-sized hash browns . Even at 89lbs, the poor thing still chose the turkey sausage. I took it home and sat in the backyard. That’s what I’ll do today: I’ll visit our regular spots from the last few years. Later, I’d stop at the Awesome Dogs food wagon on Excelsior Ave. and have Pat’s favorites. A plain hot dog, chips, and a Diet Pepsi. Oh, don’t forget to grab a homemade brownie for later. 

On to the cemetery to water and check the flowers. Mr. Zito and I always seem to visit our wives at the same time. He waters any dry flowers in the nearby rows. We arrive simultaneously again today. It’ll be one year in August for him, month three for me. 

I head back home. I feel better. My sons touch base to wish me a happy anniversary. It’s hard for them. They don’t know what to say. Being there is enough. They will bitch about work and the kids, then make me laugh. They’re good fathers, good providers, and comedians too. Their mother did a good job raising all three of us. We didn’t see it at the time, but we all know she kept us in check, kept us alive, and wasn’t afraid to be the bad guy to make that happen. 

I cried for a mile today, and I’ll probably cry a few more in the weeks and months ahead. More than tears of sorrow, they were tears of gratitude and love. 

*Postscript

When I finally landed at the end of the day, I grabbed my phone and began to look deeper into Natalie Merchant’s rendition of “Maggie and Milly and Molly and May.” I was surprised to learn that the lyrics were from an E. E. Cummings poem of the same name. I was not surprised at the effect the combination of Natalie’s voice and the touching lyrics had on me. It was the last line that will linger in my head forever.

     “For whatever we lose (like a you or a me) 

it’s always ourselves 

that we find in the sea”  

 -e.e. cummings

Tissue Issue

Tissue Issue 

By John R. Greenwood

I have a tissue issue. 

My advanced age has me questioning everything these days. It's four o'clock in the afternoon. Do I want regular or decaf? It's a bit cool outside; do I need a hat? Should I get the two-year extended warranty on that $40 toaster? The examples are endless. Here's the one that broke the camel's back and sent me to the laptop to vent my frustration. 

It was the dead of winter, and the thermometer had displayed a negative attitude for several days. We were due to make our bi-monthly pilgrimage to BJ's for our survival basics; cases of water with tiny bubbles for Mrs. G., a 5-gallon pail of Metamucil for me, and a refrigerator-size package of toilet tissue with the squeezable bear on the front. With the mercury well below the freezing mark and fifty years of marriage behind us, Mrs. G. thought it might be a good time to send me out into the world alone. How could I mess up if I had her list in my hand? A list beautifully penned in cursive taught by the lovely Sisters of Notre Dame. I was excited to prove I could handle a solo mission.  

After checking to be sure I had my BJ's Card, off I went. With my chest puffed out and a little swagger in my step, I grabbed one of those pickup-size shopping carts and headed for the toilet tissue. Mrs. G. made it clear there was a $4.00 coupon if you bought two packages. She had so much confidence in my abilities she didn't even write that on the note. I spotted the tissue aisle and made a beeline. I'd no sooner parked my cart in front of the pallets when my head began to hurt. The list clearly read "Two Charmin," but nothing more. There was no additional information telling me whether to get the 32=128 or 30=180 size? The photograph at the top of the page shows the wrapping of two packages.

Do we use the Mega or the Mega XL? I remember seeing Ultra Soft, but I'm confused now. I started to sweat. I paced back and forth like a caged lion. I swear a woman snickered as she passed behind me. No way would she allow her man loose in BJ's by himself. It was time to be a man and make a life-altering decision. I pulled down two packages of the Mega XL's. I wore XL shirts, so it just made sense. Little did I know my solo trips to any big box store might have begun and ended on the same day. 

What I would discover later that month when we broke into the new supply was I'd made a horrific mistake. The Mega XLs would not fit in the in-wall tissue holder. If we were to continue as a Mega XL couple, I'd have to blow out the sheetrock and install a special Mega XL toilet tissue holder. I pouted for weeks at my lack of professionalism. Why didn't I know there was a Mega and a Mega XL. I'd always believed Mega was king of the mountain. I was going to have to re-learn everything.

There is a semi-happy ending to this story. Fortunately, we have a second bathroom. That one is considered mine. Rest assured that any marriage that lasts five decades has two bathrooms. As (good) luck would have it, my bathroom has zero wall space, so I have one of those free-standing toilet tissue holders that can hold a Mega XL. In fact, I'll bet when they add a Mega XXL and Mega XXXL size, and I grab one by mistake, we'll still be ok—as long as I buy two and one is a plain old Mega 32=128. 

Oh no, I see they added new, wavy/easy tear rolls to the lineup. I better grab a 1500-count Tylenol 2-pak. 

Happy Shopping.

Cutting The Cord

Cutting The Cord 

By John R. Greenwood 

Dad, I apologize, but I had to do it; it was time. I sure hope you’re looking down right now and nodding your head in agreement. I finally retired your favorite heavy-duty lead cord that you used for work. My first recollection of it as a kid was seeing it coiled up and lying on top of your toolbox in the back of our old International Scout. That yellow lead logged many miles and showed up ready for work at hundreds of job sites all over the Capital District and beyond. I’ll bet it even rode with you to the top of Gore Mountain when installing those giant windows in the ski lodge. That lead and your electric drill helped put food on the table and a roof over our heads long before battery-powered tools were invented. 

I remember the day you passed it on to me. We cleaned out your workshop just before you and Mom moved into the senior apartments. While mom was whittling down her collection of Farberware, you were thinning down your lifetime collection of hand tools and hardware. I went on to use that lead for years. One day, I decided to add a four-foot fluorescent shop light above a dark corner in the basement. The only outlet was several feet away, so I enlisted your fifty-foot lead as a temporary fix, hung it on the floor joists, and then wrapped the excess around a couple of 16-penny nails. That part-time assignment lasted twenty years until the other day when I finally installed a junction box and ran fifteen feet of wire to a new LED shop light. 

Your old work partner was tired and brittle. He served us both well. I never took that fifty feet of yellow for granted. Whenever I looked at that thing hanging there, I thought of the care you took with your tools. That lead represented your thirty years as a union glazier split between Arrow Glass in Schenectady and Spa Glass in Saratoga Springs. How proud you were that in all those years working with storefront-size glass, no one working with you was ever hurt. With that thought in mind, I knew the right thing to do was retire that old lead before something terrible happened. 

I pulled the lead from the scrap bin the next day and cut off the two ends. I plugged them together and stapled them to a post in my workshop. They are a constant reminder of your work ethic and the pride you put into every job you ever did. Your calloused and scarred hands were a testament to the wear and tear it takes to make a blue-collar living. I’m forever grateful that you passed those traits on to me. I do my best anyway. 

Dad, I’ll end this piece with something that makes me smile and think of you several times a week. Whenever you and I were doing something together, and a jackknife was the tool of choice, you would look at me with that raised eyebrow, tilted head look a father gives his son when he’s sure he already knows the answer. 

“Do you have a jackknife on you?” 

“Is it sharp?” 

The answer was seldom yes and yes. 

I sure do miss those days…

Like I Don't Have Enough To Worry About

Like I Don't Have Enough To Worry About

By John R. Greenwood

Just when you thought it was safe to go outside, another warning appears. Low coolant in your radiator, low air in your tires, and low-flying planes in your backyard all add up to a life filled with warning signs. The problem is no one pays attention. I should say no one cares. Every day is like a game of roulette. I even started to write Russian roulette, but any word that surfaces a vision of crazy Vladimir makes the hairs on my neck stand on end. 

How do we navigate a world filled with landmines of warnings and fear while maintaining some semblance of normalcy? You have to walk a tightrope of common sense without falling prey to agoraphobia. It's real, and it's spreading like a Canadian wildfire.  

Personally, I take a lot of deep breaths and steps back, always searching for a "happy" medium to keep me informed, safe, and mentally prepared for the next snare. 

This morning's walk was the perfect testing ground for my observations. I enjoy the solitude of an early morning walk. You get to enjoy the sounds and sightings of songbirds and munching rabbits versus the squealing tires of Ricky Bobby or the rumbling exhaust of Whistling Diesel. The sign triggering this piece was the Low Flying Planes warning up the road. Honestly, the sign is a comfort. Fortunately, we have a large tract of farmland visible from my house. It has a seldom-used runway for small planes, a large pond, a hayfield, and a horse pasture. The multigenerational property is well-maintained and a gift to the neighborhood. The sign was itself a sign to open my eyes to more signs. It didn't take more than a stone's throw to be overwhelmed with warnings on metal posts. 

Stop signs are a given, yet they are the most ignored signs. They should replace the word with a pair of dice. 

Unless you want a shotgun in your face, they can take down "No Soliciting" signs. Nobody in their right mind knocks on a stranger's door these days. The only dog in our house goes in a bun; no clean up required.

 "One Way" signs are the most accurate and timely. In 2023 we all believe there is only one way: "Our Way." 

The "Weight Limit 4 Tons" signs at both ends of my road are nagging reminders to skip the pastry and grab an apple. 

Speed Bumps Ahead
Front Page News…

Do teenagers even do that anymore? 

LOL!
The last time anyone went around
this corner at 15 M.P.H. they were on a horse.

.

The sign may be a bit tired, but the message is not.

As I came through the gate of my own backyard 

I was greeted by the best signs of all. 

Thanks Mrs. G. 

When Is It Time?

When Is It Time? 

By John R. Greenwood

When is it time to part ways with things that have served us well? This pair of sketchy Sketchers is a perfect example. I have a closet full of shoes, boots, and sneakers to choose from every morning when I head out the backdoor, but one pair of shoes always seems to end up on my feet. Like a favorite hoodie or pair of Levi's, we sometimes develop a relationship with items that give us comfort. I've been slipping my feet into these tired old shoes since I retired a few years ago. I've said my goodbyes more than once, only to retrieve them from the abyss with an apology and another day's worth of yard work. It's a split between wearability and respect for something that has never let me down. This premise includes everything from pickup trucks and lawnmowers to slippers and work gloves. For me, it's more than being frugal and squeezing the last bang out of a buck; it's about giving inanimate objects their due. It's hard to turn your back on something that has held up their end of the bargain. Many can relate to this simple story of a beaten-up pair of leather shoes. It extends to our interpretation of the world and how we live our lives. Taking the time to appreciate the little things around us doesn't cost a thing. In fact, it's a habit that pays big dividends in the Bank of Karma. 

My sketchy Sketchers are safe for now. 

We both have work to do.