John Yuhas
If only we'd known it was our last summer.
Last Summer
Mary Thurman Yuhas
Instead of the soggy Saturday the weatherman had promised, bright sunshine awakened me. It was going to be a beautiful summer day in Minneapolis.
Minutes later I was relaxing in my favorite living room chair, reading the paper and sipping on a cup of coffee. “Not a cloud in sight,” I said absentmindedly while peering over my reading glasses to get a better look at the flawless sky.
“Good. I’m going for a long run,” my husband, John, piped in.
Translated that meant he would diddle around all day and finally leave around three or four that afternoon. He would not return until a couple of hours later leaving no time left to mow or repair the broken trellis or clean out the garage. My face grew hot. It took all my willpower not to spit out, “Well what a surprise.”
Glaring at him I snarled, “Can you go running this morning? I need some help around here. The yard has to be mowed today. It's starting to look like a jungle out there.”
After my angry words, I buried my face in the paper until he left the room.
Our large yard was pure joy for me. John probably would have preferred living in a condo. To keep peace, we compromised. "I'll mow the front if you'll mow the back," I proposed.
"Alright," he reluctantly agreed, but we didn’t specify a time. My mistake.
That summer we bickered over everything, like two opposing lawyers going at it in court. If only we had known it would be our last one.
Outside, the day was perfect so instead of getting right to work, I talked to my next-door neighbor, took our Welsh Corgi, Fred, for a leisurely walk and drove to the dry cleaners to pick up my favorite, blue dress. By the time I hauled the lawn mower out of the garage, the sun was directly overhead. An hour later when I finished, I was beat. "If you make lunch, I'll mow the backyard,” I shouted through the front screen door hoping even if John were still angry, he’d take pity and make a sandwich for me.
"You sure you want to do that?" he shouted.
“I’m sure,” I said and slowly trudged to the back dragging the lawnmower behind me.
The huge maple tree hanging over our patio made it an oasis. Once I plopped into a lawn chair away from the heat, I wasn’t certain I could get up again I should have taken a shower instead of volunteering to mow. The sweat, dripping into my eyes reinforced what a lousy deal I’d made. When John stepped outside with two Diet cokes in hand, he looked cool and clean. Clearly, he had not gone on his run yet.
“Is this lunch?” I asked, too tired to argue, as I guzzled the cool, dark drink.
“Just wait. I’ll be right back.”
He loved surprises. Big ones. Little ones. It didn’t matter, and shortly he returned with a plate of nachos that he had cooked in the microwave. As we ate, I gradually cooled off inside and out. "You’re hired,” I said, unable to hold back a smile.
Truce underway, he chuckled. “You look hot. Want me to hose you down?”
“After I mow, if I’m not dead.”
He laughed.
Our three children were gone for the day. Twenty-year-old Debbie was at the mall where she worked during the summer. Jon, 17, and Josh, 16, were at a friend’s cabin. So, it was just the two of us. A rarity at our house. Surprising me again John said, “The front looks nice.”
“You looked?"
He smiled and nodded.
As if on autopilot I talked non-stop about my precious plants and how much they had grown. I hoped if someone was having a bad day, our yard might cheer them up a little. John listened attentively.
“Hey,” I said when I finally grew tired of talking. “What do you think about when you run?”
“A lot of things.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, things like what we’ll do when we retire.”
Retirement was the last thing on my mind. The only time we ever talked about retiring was when he lamented we weren’t saving enough money. It didn’t seem that pressing to me. We were only in our forties, but his face brightened as he talked about his dreams. “I’d like to buy a little trailer and drive on all the back roads all over the country. In the morning, I’d go running. You could read the paper.”
“That sounds perfect, but it’s a long time from now,” I replied, while thinking to myself that sixty-five was so far away, it could be on another planet.
“I know. Doesn’t hurt to think about it though.”
“You’re right. Doesn’t hurt to think about it.”
Conversation came easy that day. The way it had before we were married, before we had children, before we had real jobs and a mortgage and college funds to fill. We continued talking, like two old friends who hadn’t seen each other for a long time. One hour passed and then another. As we lingered, I looked down and when I looked up, sitting across from me was the twenty-year-old I had fallen in love with so many years earlier. His brown hair had grayed and thinned a little and his face had some lines in it, but he was still that same gentle and loving soul who had captured my heart almost as soon as I met him. I fell in love with him all over again. I could see he felt the magic of the day too although neither one of us said a word. I wondered why we had allowed life’s busyness and problems to take over. I promised myself I would not let that happen again. A promise I kept.
Looking at my watch, I stood up. “Let’s talk some more later. I have to mow.”
“I’ll do it,” he said, and he did.
One morning the following June I awoke to find John dying in our bed. Fit and trim as he was, he was having a heart attack. Within minutes, he was gone. As difficult as it was to say “good-bye” to him at his funeral, that was nothing in comparison to saying “hello” to life without him. Food lost its appeal. Sleeping became something I used to do. I was always cold. At night, I wrapped myself in his favorite, blue sport coat. It still smelled like him. Too soon, his scent disappeared.
Family and friends spent the day with me on the first awful anniversary of his death, but once they left, I was alone again with my grief. It gnawed away at me relentlessly. On the second anniversary I was alone except for one friend who was also a widow. She brought a candle that burned for twenty four hours. It’s a Jewish custom, and I’m Catholic but I loved it. It warmed my heart every time I looked at the flame.
Later that afternoon, I knew what I needed to do or I no longer had a purpose. I went to the mausoleum and looked around to assure myself I was alone before placing my hand on the cold marble slab that housed his ashes. “John, I’ve come here every Sunday for the last two years. You know how much I miss you. You know how many deals I’ve tried to broker with God to bring you back. You know how hard this has been.”
Brushing tears from my eyes I continued, “I know you’re not coming back so today I’m really saying good-bye. I’ll miss you forever, but I’m not going to visit you every week anymore. I need you to help me let go.” I kissed my fingers and rubbed them across his name. “I don’t want you here all alone so I’m leaving this.”
Before I left, I taped this note next to his name. It was the last paragraph from a love letter I’d written him on our 25th anniversary. “When we both are gone, our children, our children’s children and so on will remain as a loving confirmation that once upon a time, there really was an ‘us’ who lived happily ever after.”
***
The Ultimate Anniversary Gift
by Mary Thurman Yuhas
During the early sixties on a hot July day in a smallish town in western Illinois, Sandi, a then seventeen-year old bride and Les, her twenty-four year old husband-to-be, spoke their wedding vows. Family and friends quietly speculated whether or not the young couple would make it over the long haul. Had their guests voted, there probably would have been more nays than yeas. You see, back then and even now they are polar opposites.
She is outgoing, quick-to-speak and spunky. Les is exactly the opposite. Some say her mother pushed her into an early marriage but he, on the other hand, was always smitten by his beautiful bride.
Their differences grew as time passed, insurmountably some speculated. Throughout their working years, she was tireless and become a high-powered banking exec. She was well known in Kansas City where they lived and was asked to run for political office, an offer she declined. But when she was asked to appear on local TV ads advertising different products, she felt it was too good to pass up and became a local celebrity. Les, on the other hand, spent his entire career working on the line in a factory.
Everyone waited for the big announcement. Undoubtedly it would be irreconcilable differences. But the announcement never came and to everyone’s amazement, the pair grew closer.
Two children, six grandchildren and forty-nine years later, they’ve worked out the kinks that every marriage has and are a devoted couple. “I can’t be away from Les for more than a week,” she says without hesitation.
Recently the pair went on a cruise. She wore a low cut dress─something Sandi says she never does. Before they left their room, she asked Les one of those questions that sends a chill down most married man’s spine. “How do I look?”
Les was quick to answer. “I think you’re a knock out.”
On their anniversary last July─a particularly hot and humid day even by Missouri standards─Sandi was chatting with friends at the communal pool in the campground where they keep their RV. It was around four in the afternoon that day when Les, unannounced, showed up with a cherry Popsicle. As he handed the icy gift to his wife-of-many-years he said in his deep voice, that is rich with a Missouri twang, “I was afraid you might be too hot.” Typical of Les' style, he was oblivious that following his simple act of love, there wasn’t a dry eye at the pool.
But don’t think this is one-sided relationship. Never say anything negative about Les in front of Sandi, unless you are fond of walking into a hornet’s nest.
Both Sandi and Les are quick to say their marriage is not perfect, but both say they are blessed and wouldn’t even want to imagine having gone through life without one another.
What is their secret for a love that despite all odds has grown stronger and stronger over the years?
“I’m still raising her,” he claims.
“He’s the only one who’d put up with me,” she jokingly answers.
Well, maybe. But I’m betting it’s something else.
***