Strawberry Jam in Springtime

I was 46 years old when my homemade strawberry preserves jelled properly. Probably what broke the barrier was overcoming a longstanding aversion to putting sufficient sugar in the mix. Alternatively, I could have solved the problem by adding tapioca starch or pectin, but I’m a a bit of a food snob. I wanted my preserves made of just fruit and sugar.

The day the preserves came out perfectly was the day my first husband finally died. He had been dying for a long time. It was a Friday, a rare brilliant spring day in New England. Jeff had been sick for almost a year, in what we politely called a coma, but which was actually a vegetative state. Now gone. I had not come to terms with it though I’d certainly had plenty of time. Probably no amount of time would have been enough.

Other than Jeff’s dying, it was a good time. Garry and I were happy. We were good together, busy with career and friends. Yet there was that underlying sadness we could not avoid, the knowledge that a death was near at hand.  Happiness and sadness don’t cancel one another. The good things are not a balance against pain. Feelings aren’t an equation. You can’t add columns of positive and negatives in your life and come up with a number in the middle. In the real world, joy and misery cohabit. We live with both together. Emotions are messy.

My head was a wheel of memories, a slide show carousel. Faces, places, good years, bad. Bittersweet, sad, joyous, funny. Strawberry jam that never jelled.

I married Jeffrey at 18 and thought myself very mature. He was almost 30, but he thought me very mature too. Both of us were wrong.  Yet we muddled through. We were hard triers. When we had no idea what to do, we faked it.  Eventually, we became the people we had long pretended to be and it turned out, not the people we needed to be for each other.

Though we went in different directions, we stayed friends. No matter where on Earth I was, I knew Jeffrey was there for me. We had a better divorce than most marriages. Decades passed. Jeff’s health deteriorated. He survived things that should have killed him, so what a shock he should die of the thing that was to extend his life. The heart surgery should have given him years, decades.  When Sue called late on an August evening reality upended and everything screeched to a halt.  No, his body wasn’t dead, but his brain was. The future world would be without Jeff. I would never call to tell him something funny that happened, hear his  sarcastic, drawling response.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Someone rewrote the script when our backs were turned.

Fall passed and winter too. Jeff remained in a vegetative state. Someone who looked just like him was wearing his body and that shell remained alive through the seasons. We visited. I stayed for weeks to help care for him. Finally, as spring was nearly summer, the piper played. And now, the ashes were scattered.

Just the other day, Garry glimpsed a someone in a crowd who looked just like Jeff.

 

Author: Marilyn Armstrong

Writer, photography, blogger. Previously, technical writer. I am retired and delighted to be so. May I live long and write frequently.

2 thoughts on “Strawberry Jam in Springtime”

  1. Wonderful and very timely post. I think of Jeff often because he was part of a magical time for me. He was my best friend (I would like to think it was mutual) at a time I was discovering what would become my passion and profession for the rest of my adult working life. Jeff was clearly the mentor who put me on the road to a career in TV and radio news. I’ll always be grateful. We also shared an odd couple friendship that I’ve never again found. Someone worked it out so that Jeff’s son Owen, now my Stepson & Godson (Figure that one out) and his family are living with us. Owen now looks very much like Jeff and has a lot of his Dad’s gestures and manners. Before I lose my train of thought on Jeff and friendship — Marilyn and I are planning to attend a tribute to an old TV/Radio colleague and friend today. He passed away a few months ago but I’ve been thinking of him a lot. We knew each other for more than 40 years. We put our high profile Professional lives aside and shared personal things we couldn’t share with others — because of our friendship. In this age of social network relationships, personal friendships are rare and treasured. And, when one of those friends passes away, life is just a little emptier.

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    1. Yes and yes. And it is eerie how my son now looks so very much like his father. I saw a picture of him on Facebook the other day and I asked why O was posting pictures of Jeff on Facebook — until I realized it was not Jeff.

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