Opinion

I’ve been thinking lately about how we, as a society, show up for the grieving. I just lost another beloved family member, so I am on the road of fresh grief again, this time also serving as a “Widow Sherpa” to my mom as we mourn my stepdad. It’s not a job I ever wanted, giving gentle guidance and protection to the recently widowed. I especially wish I didn’t have to do it for my mom—but, here we are. While I’m at it, I wanted to offer you two perspectives and one “hard no” thing to never ever say.

By the time this column comes out, we will be waving goodbye to the last week in July, a time that means two things to me: RAGBRAI (though I have never ridden it…yet), and my birthday. This July 28th, according to the calendar on my phone and the fact that my feet now get numb if I sit in my beloved “criss-cross applesauce” pose for too long, makes 49 returns of the day I was born.

Prior to marriage, I always considered myself an independent person. Never handy around the house, per se, but, in general, good at research, resource gathering, and reverse engineering. As a single person, I knew, in general, how to get things done on my own.

As I write this, it is Fair Week in my home county, and it’s one of my favorite times of year.

There are loads of local food stands that offer classic meals made by volunteers to raise money for their nonprofit organizations (the local Catholic Church food stand’s Chicken & Noodles are an example everyone seems to know about around here). I love to see people working together to support a common cause, serving lines of famished fair-goers who have waited all year for their nosh of nostalgia. It’s why small towns are so special. We still show up for each other.