View From a Prairie Home

by Hege Hernfindahl, Columnist

Today, February 12, is our anniversary. It’s not our wedding anniversary; that’s in June. It’s also not the anniversary of when we met, that’s in August. It’s the anniversary of our engagement. Since we lived in Oslo at the time, it all happened like it did in Norway in those days. We had mutually decided we were to get married. We had gone to a jewelry store and gotten a ring for each of us with each other’s names inscribed on the inside plus the date of our engagement, which was February 12, 1974. On that date, we had invited my parents to an elegant French restaurant, La Bagatelle, on Bygdøy allé in Oslo. We had a fancy meal served with a bottle of good French wine and the four of us toasted the future. Then, came the time for the bill to be presented. It was the days before credit cards and I knew Grant didn’t have the money. We were both college students. Nevertheless, my father and Grant argued about who should pay the bill, my mother and I holding our tongues in that time’s appropriate fashion. We all knew my father would win the argument. Which he did, of course. Otherwise we would have had to wash dishes for months.

Now, 51 years later, always of February 12th, my sweet husband often makes me a homemade card (my favorite). This year, he cut out a heart and in the middle pasted a picture of himself holding baby Hanna, our granddaughter. To Grant’s shock, I started crying, big hiccups with plenty of tears running down my wrinkled, old face. It was, he soon understood, tears of love. I know that I can lose people I love. To love is to take that risk. But it wasn’t only tears of love; it was also that I was so touched. By this man. And also by the fact that our relationship over the years had resulted in children and with them, also grandchildren. Then, as happens when I cry, my heart shattered when I thought of my young son, who will never live to see his children become adults and have children.

After crying, I always feel better. I know letting myself cry helps me. The losses. Of Erland. Of Patrick. Still hard, so very hard to bear. But I know I must move on. I have chosen to continue. For my husband. For my family. But also for myself. I have tried anti-depressants. Therapy. Grief support groups. Reading books about loss and grief. It all helps, although I quit anti-depressants. But what helps the most are the little pleasures of daily living. Reading a good book. Sitting in the sun with a cup of coffee or tea. Maybe, most of all, being in nature. In the woods. By the sea or in the mountains, especially in Norway. But maybe, most of all, being in our familiar little corner of the world; the wild, open prairie where the sunsets and sunrises can be clearly seen. Where there is no light pollution, so we can see all the stars at night and the moon, full now during these clear, cold nights. Being able to see it all, makes me feel small, that’s true but it also makes me feel part of the universe.

On the evening of Erland’s funeral, my eldest son, Reuben, took me outside for a walk. It was August, warm but without mosquitoes. Reuben covered my cold and shivering small hand with his own, and told me to look up into the sky. He pointed out the names of the planets for me. I still can’t remember what he said. But I somehow felt the presence then, of Erland, my youngest son, who will always be my baby. Even though I felt a sadness so deep, I had a hard time breathing, I also felt comfort as I clung to Reuben’s hand. And it came to me, then, gratefulness and wonder for being part of the big universe so expansive that nobody can ever imagine it.