Quick Take
Lookout columnist Claudia Sternbach can no longer pump gas. Her arthritis gets in the way. She also can’t sweep her yard or fix the stuff that breaks in her house. These are all chores her late husband did. Here, she thinks about – and thanks – all the men who have stepped in to help her since her husband’s death.
Have something to say? Lookout welcomes letters to the editor, within our policies, from readers. Guidelines here.
How many men does it take to replace a lightbulb? None, I can do it myself.
But how many men does it take to replace Michael?
My women friends have stepped up whenever I have needed and often before I ask. They offer food, sympathy, beach walks, wine and deep conversation if that is what is called for.
And then there are the men. Men who have stepped into this new existence of mine and whom I have grown to count on.
I am bad at pumping gas. Arthritis in my hands tends to make gripping the handle a challenge. On occasion, my fingers have locked and it is painfully funny to try to unclench. So, now when I stop into my favorite Aptos station I pop into the little quickie mart and Trey or Jose or Steven come out and help me. They are each kind and understanding and they not only provide me with assistance, but friendly conversation.
One of them is a recent widower so he gets me and I believe it makes him feel a little better to help me out. I hope so anyway. Maybe his wife is watching and thinking, yeah, that’s my guy.
Michael used to gas up my car every Saturday morning. These three men have taken on that chore.
My yard is more than I can handle. Noticing my neighbors’ gardening crew and how efficient they seem to be, I asked if they could put one more household (am I still considered a household?) on their calendar. They were up for it, so now once a month, three hardworking men led by the crew boss, Jose, show up at my door and greet me with wide grins ready to cut back ivy and mow down dried crabgrass.
Once finished, they stuff the trimmings into my yard waste receptacle, sweep my walkway and driveway clean and all that is left for me to do is a bit of watering and to sit back and enjoy the benefits of their labor.
Once again I see that it takes three men to do what Michael did single-handed.
Then there is my friend Thomas who offers to tackle handyman jobs around my house. Every morning, I am grateful to use the shower bar for balance while I shave my legs.
PREVIOUSLY FROM CLAUDIA STERNBACH
OK, who are we kidding? I haven’t shaved my legs since blue suede hot pants were part of my wardrobe options. But, the bar comes in handy for steadiness and who cares about the light fuzz on my gams?
There is my friend Larry across the street who, on his birthday last week, gave me a decadent cheesecake from The Farm Bakery. His birthday and I got cake. Go figure.
If I am in need of a great, solid hug filled with affection and understanding, I can drop in to Manuel’s restaurant in Seacliff and any number of the waitstaff will welcome me with open arms and warm me in an embrace. Eduardo even offers to go for long walks anytime I feel like it. The comfort food, the affection, the margaritas are a balm to my open wound.
My brothers-in-law, Bobby and Larry, call and check up on me. I know anything I would ask they would do. Bobby keeps offering to come and help me clean out the garage, but if he thinks that is top of my list he would be wrong. The garage has 40 years’ worth of stuff and Michael was just beginning to sort through it when he died, and I may just leave it until I die and let someone else clean it out.
I could go on. There is Mark and Jon and Sid and John and Rob and more. There is Wallace who checks in with me and offers to meet up for a glass of wine. And Kevin who encourages my writing and tells me what I am publishing is needed by many. All of these gentle men are also excellent huggers. Although theirs will never, as deep and solid as their embraces are, match Michael’s.
There is the financial adviser at the bank who is helping me understand the numbers and advises me when I am confused. Banking was one more thing that Michael, dear, wonderful Michael took care of. We don’t hug, but after a meeting with him I sleep better at night.
The feminist in me feels a bit of embarrassment at confessing my need for these men. The realist in me says I am so friggin’ grateful for them I don’t care. I am trying to build a new life which I never asked for. Never imagined. Never wanted. I walk around every day trying not to appear as though my heart has been ripped from my body. And yet that is how I feel.
Like I have just done 10 rounds in the ring and have been pummeled.
There are more rounds to go. My knees are weak. My head is pounding. My fists are clenched. I am exhausted.
But then I look over to my corner and there, along with all of my women, are the men waiting with towels and bandaids and water and encouragement. These are my guys and I am so grateful.
And Michael, laughing at how many men it takes to even attempt to do all that he did for me, would be too.