Widows don't always wear black

 

 

                In the years of my childhood, we had many aunts and uncles, of multiple generations. We called them all Aunt or Uncle but some were great-aunts and uncles and a few qualified for a great-great label. We also used the titles as one of respect – my dad’s godfather was always Uncle Jerry Ryan although he was not a blood relative. Like my dad, who was named for him, he was Jeremiah but always called Jerry.

                Aunt Mamie was my grandfather’s aunt so I think that would make her a great-great aunt. She liked to eat at the local hospital for her Sunday dinner and she still drove at an advanced age although she once got a ticket not for speeding but for driving too slow on the interstate highway. I was fond of Aunt Mamie but one thing that I remember very well is that she wore a diamond solitaire engagement ring on her left hand although she had never married.  Her finance had died during the Great War in 1918. A neighbor of my grandparents, Miss Ella, also wore a ring and lost a finance in the same era.

                As a little girl, it seemed romantic that these ladies had never wed, that they had given their hearts to men who died a long time ago.  Until my Pop died and my Granny became a widow for the second time in her life, my idea of widows came from “Gone With The Wind”.  Although I’d seen the movie once back when it came to theaters when movies showed up every few years and no capability to own or watch movies at home existed, I read the book at an early age.  I read it while still in grade school and for my 10^th birthday, my dad gave me my own copy because I’d worn out the Book-of-the-Month club edition belonging to my mother.

                I thought widows wore only black with long, trailing veils thanks to Gone With The Wind. When my Pop died, however, my Granny wore a purple dress to his funeral and I began to learn that reality and fiction were not always equal. Over the decades, my other grandmother became a widow, some of my aunts, and my mother.  And then in January 2019 it was me.

                This month (January) marks five years of my own widowhood. 

                 Widows don't always wear black.

                By the time my husband of almost 25 years died, it wasn’t unexpected although I don’t believe anyone is ever prepared for widowhood.  He died after a year and a half of increased health issues, several surgeries, multiple hospitalizations, and residence in a long-term facility.  The facility had placed him on hospice in early November although when questioned by me, I was assured it didn’t necessarily mean he was on his deathbed but apparently, he was.

                I did wear black to his funeral where I talked about our life together after the Scripture and Gospel readings.  And in the past five years, I’ve mourned, I’ve had days that were hard and days that were not, times I’ve wept, and times I’ve raged.  Until those last months, I envisioned that we would grow older together but that wasn’t in the cards I was dealt.

                If I had realized what the realities of widowhood were like I would have prepared better, financially if not emotionally.  I’ve learned the hard way that it’s not as easy to make ends meet on a lesser income with one bread winner. I’ve learned that some credit cards won’t extend credit to widows. I’ve struggled to get his name off our bills but with little success,

                I’ve adapted to solitary life in many ways but I’m still adjusting. It’s taken years, literally, to rebuild a solitary life. I write. I volunteer at church and teach 7/8 graders for Confirmation. I fill the hours and I read an endless stream of books when I’m not writing.

                There are still gaps and probably always will be milestones which remind me of my husband’s absence.

                It is reality, however, and I continue, one day at a time by the grace of God.

This little piggy went to market....but, wait, what does that really mean?

 

‘

 

                This little piggy went to market….so begins one of the most familiar nursery rhymes in the English language. Most of us had a beloved adult play the game with us, using toes or fingers to count off each pig as they recited or sang the ditty. It’s still played today. I did it with my children and will one day do it with the grand kids I hope to have.

                Here’s the basic rhyme:

 

                Innocent or not? I say it’s innocent. No one really knows how old it is but the first complete version appeared in The Famous Tommy Thumb’s Little Story Book, which appeared in London in 1760. That’s 254 years ago and it was likely known before that time.

                In 2018, a 22-year-old individual posted on what was then Twitter, stating she’d just realized it wasn’t about market. That first little pig didn’t make a trip to shop but was slaughter house bound. That so-called revelation sparked a round of controversary with responses from much older folks who were aghast. “I didn’t know” became the outcry but once they did, many threatened to retire the rhyme.

                My response is “Oh, really?” with a quirked eyebrow. As a student of history (yes, I earned a BA degree in history a very long time ago) when an animal went to be slaughtered, no one called it going to market. Market or Market Day was reserved for buying, selling, and trading. Those 18^th century folks didn’t mince words. They didn’t describe reality in cutesy terms. If a pig was headed to be butchered, they called it what it was, butchered, slaughtered, or killed.

                I’m sure the young woman who revealed the deep and secret truth behind the nursery rhyme might have been aware of ag markets. We hear the markets on the radio or see the results on television. The savvy can look up the current markets or market price. Many a fine dining establishment offers entrees, often steak, at “market price.”

                Animals earmarked to become food, which was and is a very real necessity in the world unless someone wants to become vegan or vegetarian, were slaughtered right there on ye old farm. Still are, in some cases. I’ve been present when chickens were killed and dressed for frying. After my marriage to a man raised on a farm, I was there when the family chose a beef, killed it, and dressed it out on the farm. We then cut up the meat, packaged it for the freezer, and had beef for the future. I also cooked steaks from the animal. Nothing is more delicious than fresh killed beef!

                In villages, towns, and cities, animals didn’t go to market. They were killed by a knacker or butcher or at a slaughterhouse. Their flesh was SOLD in the market but it’s not where they were dispatched.

                Fast forward a bit. I grew up with a dad who, before and after his Army service, worked at Swift’s, one of the major packers in my hometown of St. Joseph, MO. Sometimes on payday, he brought home fresh beef as well as bucks, which is how I first learned fresh beef is tasty. No one ever said he worked at the market but at the packing house or at Swift’s. When Swift’s closed in 1971, it wasn’t announced the local market was closed.

                The end of Swift’s became a beginning of a new career for my dad and chapter for our family. After spending some time as an over-the-road route driver, selling candy and cigarettes all over northeastern Kansas, he became a USDA poultry inspector. Chickens, in case some aren’t aware, are killed to become food. It’s the way it works at the poultry plant, chicken plant, or processing plant. Nothing was ever said about a market.

                The market is where I go to buy my groceries. Yes, it’s also the grocery store or supermarket but I grew up hearing it called the market by Granny.

                In 21^st century efforts to be “woke”, imagination and history is being destroyed in so many ways. History is being rewritten, monuments are coming down as if that can erase what happened in the past, and nursery rhymes are under attack. No one seems to keep in mind when these were first written or how they reflect the world around them. It doesn’t stop with ancient poems, either. Songs, newer poetry, movies, books, and television programs are examined with modern, often liberal eyes. Then they are attacked, dissected, and diminished. This little piggy is but one of many rhymes under fire these days.

                Yet the same who do this cry out about banning books.

                As for me, I’ll play the little piggies game and hand it down. But then I know well where my meat comes from to reach my table, whether it’s commercially slaughtered or ended life in a less formal environment. I’m known to enjoy fish fresh from the creek, river, or lake and animals taken by a hunter using skill.  Oh, wait, that might lead to a discussion about guns…. not happening here.

                If my theories offend or you disagree, so be it. It’s your right and prerogative but let’s learn the actual history before we condemn traditional nursery rhymes from the past.

                That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.