HHave you been contacted by someone who crossed the border, someone on the other side? I have it and I think each of us does. Some people simply recognize the contact, some choose to rationalize the contact, and some don't even notice it. Read my story; It's not uncomplicated to rationalize or ignore it! Indeed, for me it is impossible.
On January 4, 2003, my husband and I were returning from a few days of fun; it was overdue and dim, and as always, we talked non-stop – even if we had nothing to say – as we drove home. The topic of crossing and death came up; I've lost five relatives in the last thirteen months and we've been talking about where they might be. What could they be? How can they be? In our country, conversations about death have never been macabre; they always seemed natural, open and inquisitive. The exchange that night seemed a little more sedate, but not “terribly” sedate, just “interestingly” sedate. Ron and I had been married forty years, less than three weeks, and at one point in the discussion we made a pact: “Whoever gets to the other side first will try to contact the one left” – a tiny, concrete sign that life did indeed go on.
This brief exchange of ideas and promises between two vigorous adults who plan to live many, many more years resurfaced within two weeks and with surprising clarity. Listen to my story.
We traveled a lot and wherever we went we collected spoons. Over the last few years we have been doing thirty to ninety day trips, and for the last year we have been driving an Alfa Gold Fifth Wheel. We worked as camp hosts, bird-watched, hiked, built trails, explored, visited casinos, and collected spoons. Ronnie died nine days before we left for a thirty-day trip to Australia and New Zealand to celebrate our fortieth anniversary. Anticipating the spoons we would collect made the planning more intriguing. Our spoon collection began in 1974 in Denver, Colorado, during the first of many vacations we took with my mother-in-law, Bets. She bought me a spoon rack so I could display spoons commemorating the places we saw. Spoons from every ghost town, national monument, national park, restored fort, every place we visited graced that first rack, and I think collecting spoons shed our blood, Ronnie's more than mine. Over the years, he selected and purchased eight more spoon racks ranging from twelve to forty-eight capacity and placed them on our living room walls. Everywhere we went, we looked for the perfect spoon to remember that particular place.
One rule was: never show any spoon unless we visited the place; the rule was waived when Jessie, our granddaughter, brought us three back from her European trip. Yet these spoons hung separately in a row, separate from those that salute our amazing moments together.
In the summer of 2002, Ron and I talked a lot about our spoons as we wandered from place to place in the Midwest, from the Mall of the Americas to Glacier National Park, and at each stop we bought another one, twenty-one in all – the most we had ever collected in one year. In our conversations, we recalled the past times, which were already commemorated with spoons standing on the shelves at home. In November, we returned home to place our fresh spoons on racks and imagine the ones that would come “next year.” Reservations were made in two Australian national parks, spoons would be from there; the Melbourne casino where we would spend our anniversary night offered a special spoon; Jessie told the innkeeper at the Tasmania guesthouse about our hobby and he promised he would have one ready; and even convinced the horse farm where she worked to have something to add to our collection.
At about five thirty in the afternoon on January 6, 2003, Ron and I walked the dog. We had a busy day, I was packing for Australia and Ron was running errands in the office. Ron was more tired than usual, but we both laughed when he said, “Those girls in the office don't know I'm retired, or they just don't care!” About halfway through our mile-and-a-half loop, he became dizzy and sat down to rest for a while. I told him I'd pick him up when I finished my walk, and Niki and I continued down the trail. From about two hundred and fifty meters away, I saw him crossing the stream and heading towards the closed car. “Why?” I thought. “I had the keys. Why didn't he wait for me?” When I looked back, he was lying on the ground. I ran towards him, thinking he had tripped, or maybe he had become dizzy, lost his balance, and might have hurt his knee or ankle. The pair reached him first. He was conscious, not in any pain – I asked him and he said “no, just very weak and dazed…” I reversed the car and the couple helped him into the car; he thanked them and less than a minute later he was dead. He never struggled, gasped for breath, or showed any signs of pain. He just stopped breathing. Upon arrival at the hospital, he was pronounced dead; based on what happened, doctors speculated that it was an electrical imbalance, cardiovascular disease, stroke, and ultimately the death certificate listed “heart attack.” No one asked for an autopsy; it didn't seem necessary. It certainly didn't impress me. He wasn't there and the question of why and how didn't matter. I signed a consent form to donate his organs, as we had agreed long ago, and I knew he would be pleased to know that someone would look at his corneas, perhaps the only donation that would be useful.
I was lost in a fog of disbelief, as were our children, grandchildren and all the people who loved him. Ronnie and I were enjoying “being together” as a married couple, and I couldn't facilitate but think that I didn't have Ronnie by my side. Once, just a few months earlier, in Deadwood, South Dakota, Ron and I got separated in one of the casinos. Thinking I had left the building, he walked down the street, and when I realized he was gone, I panicked, consumed by the unfounded fear of losing him. As I ran from building to building looking for him, he was looking for me. When we saw any of them, I burst into tears, and even though I felt stupid, I couldn't hold back the tears of relief; he understood and held me for a minute. Perhaps this was a harbinger of what was to come. That same horror and terror multiplied a thousandfold, consumed my soul a million times over that Monday afternoon and grew into a huge hole in my heart five days later, on Saturday morning, the day of the memorial service.
Our children, my brother John, who was to deliver the eulogy, my niece Peggy, my sister-in-law Becky, and several friends arrived early in the morning for coffee and to prepare for our official goodbyes. While the others sat in the living room, John and I sat at the kitchen table, talking and remembering how Ronnie had brought so much to our lives; As John prepared his farewell tribute, he took notes. The sound of something hitting the living room floor pierced the weighty air that surrounded us.
A spoon fell from the top shelf.
For over twenty-five years these racks have been on the wall and never once did a spoon fall off. Most of them could only be removed by turning them at a certain angle. Peg called out, “Aunt Olevia, the spoon fell…” A chill ran through my arms as I reached for the fallen spoon – from Tombstone, Arizona, a place we had visited so long ago. Silently, Ronnie spoke to me and I heard him as clearly as if he were sitting across the room. “Ann, I've made it through; the tombstone of my life has been set. You'll go on and we'll still travel together…” Becky said, “Look. The spoon next to the one that fell is moving…” It was actually rocking back and forth, and I was given a chair to climb up to look at – Australia? How is this possible? We've never been to Australia. Australia was simply a place we planned to visit together.
I don't know the source of this Australian spoon, and it doesn't matter how it ended up in our spoon collection. Ronnie talked to me – us – this morning. He let me know that I was not alone, that he would be there for me even as I stood at his gravestone, and that he would continue to journey with me. This week I experienced an unknown peace and that peace remains with me. Thanks to this, I survived that day and every day that followed. There were dozens of other reminders of Ronnie's continued presence in my life, but none were clearer or more appropriate than the fall of the spoon.
