Well, November sailed by with no input from me - not that any of my input would have had an effect on things.

I've been keeping one eye on the winter baseball meetings - I see that the Cardinals have indicated they hope to keep Matt Holliday, Garrett Atkins will not receive an offer from the Rockies, and reliever Rafael Betancourt will accept arbitration from the Rockies.

I have also been able to maintain a decent reading pace, and have been able to get to both of my library discussion groups for the last couple of months. I'm not always able to stay to the end of the evening, since Mr Woodstock should not attempt to shower and get ready for bed when he is by himself in the house. But it's intellectual stimulation to get there for part of the discussion, and one of the librarians has taken to emailing me every week or so, with suggestions for reading and just a general "checking in" type of message. This is a very pleasant proffer of casual, yet thoughtful, friendship from a completely unexpected quarter. And, yes, it perks me up quite a bit.

I hope to post my reading log sometimes in the next few days. Perhaps this afternoon, but we have some errands to run, and I'd like to put up our Christmas tree. Stay tuned.

The title of this entry refers to an experience I had quite a few years ago, and describes succintly (I hope) the challenges I face now. I was widowed in my middle thirties with a daughter just beginning second grade. I presented a very unpleasant reality to most people in my life. Very few wanted to be reminded that young men in the prime of life can sicken and die and leave their wives and children bereft.

I noticed a newspaper insert describing a social group for widows and widowers, who had an auxiliary group consisting of those who had been widowed and left with the daily care of young children. I thought this might be just the thing and began to attend. I was right - it was a wonderful source of everyday, ordinary social contacts. Most outings were designed to include the children. We went for pizza, took picnics to the mountains, met at a small amusement park to ride the carousel, and also just got together for an afternoon to visit and hang out. Through some unspoken agreement, we almost never discussed the circumstances which brought us together.

I found it an immense relief to spend fun time with others where I did not need to offer explanations on what had happened to me. On the picnic type days the kids inevitably bunched up together. On the way home one weekend afternoon, my daughter remarked "every kid there has one parent who is dead." I agreed, and asked her why she mentioned it. She replied "I thought I was the only kid whose parent had died." I realized then that the contact was good for her too.

One afternoon, we were at a member's house for a potluck picnic. The kids were outside, the adults were visiting. One woman was there for the first time, with two teenaged children who had refused to join the other kids outside. The hostess was a widow. Her husband had gone to the hospital for some truly innocuous procedure which needed to be done under general anesthesia. He died on the table. The new woman was a Vietnam war widow. Somewhat out of the pattern of our usual conversation, the new woman insisted on polling all of us, asking for details on what brought us to our respective positions. Without discussing it, we collectively agreed to humor her, and when our hostess told her story, the new woman exploded. "That's a crime!!! You should sue!!! What a crock!!!" so on - a fountain of vitriol dumped on our pleasant afternoon together.

What was even more instructive was the attitude of the two women's children. The hostess had two daughters, one about 10, the other 14 or 15. It was clear from their home, their clothing, the furnishings, that the three of them lived pretty close to the bone financially. Her daughters had bright open faces, with pleasant smiles. They were in the backyard, organizing non threatening group type games for all the other children who ranged from toddlers to older teens. We could tell by the giggles, shouts, and activity level that everyone was enjoying himself/herself.

The Vietnam widow had a boy and a girl, each teenaged. They were each wrapped tightly in hooded sweatshirts (on a hot Colorado day) slumped in corner seats, staring defiantly at the floor, answering with mumbled monosyllables when spoken to, refusing to eat, go outside, sit up straight, talk to anyone.

On the way home, I was filled with thanks for that lesson. The hostess had steadfastly turned her face toward a more pleasant tomorrow. She made do with very little in the way of financial resources, but her kids were pleasant, cooperative, and "nice." I've lost touch, but where ever they are today, I'm confident they're fine. The other woman had allowed a understandable anger to rule her life. The price showed in her children and in her total inability to relax and have a pleasant time with the rest of us.

I could be, and in fact much of the time, I am quite angry at what I face now. And I keep finding my memories of that long past afternoon surfacing in my mind. It seems that some part of my ego (superego?) has devoted itself to keep bitter corrosion in the gutter where it belongs.

I usually don't open up quite this much in my blog. I have, in the past, checked a couple of blogs in which the authors detailed every ache, every pain, every twinge, every descent into depression, every ascent into contentment. I eventually unsubscribed, realizing that I found such detail boring in the end.

So I think I'll close with a brief, but rather unrepentant apology for writing in this vein. But it helps to see it all in print, even if virtual print!

Thanks for listening.