I had dinner and drinks last night with a friend of mine. We had not seen each other since a few weeks before Christmas so of course we were catching up with one another about our holiday visits with our families and all the other details of everyday life.
Eventually I told her that my other friend who had held onto Kenny’s pool table for me for the last seven years, had recently called me and said he plans to convert his pool room into a TV room so he could no longer keep the table. To most people, it probably doesn’t sound like such a big deal. Just sell it if you don’t have room for it. But of course, for me it’s not that easy.
This pool table has history.
It’s the one that Kenny’s father bought when Kenny was about ten years old. He and his brothers learned to shoot pool on that table. Kenny told me the stories of how he and his two brothers and their friends would gather round it every weekend and spend hours in competition and laughter. Kenny loved that vintage avocado green pool table with its chrome trim. It's a sturdy regulation size table, with a full piece of ½ inch slate, and it’s heavy as a mug.
So early in our marriage when Kenny’s dad offered it to us, Kenny jumped at the chance to bring that table home. And although I had plenty of other ideas for our basement family room, of course knowing how much it meant to him, I agreed that we would dedicate a significant portion of our basement to that pool table.
I still remember Kenny and his two brothers slogging that heavy thing up and out of his parent’s cellar, then moving it by truck to our garage where it remained unassembled for a year or so, until we could get our basement finished. Once the basement was ready, I even surprised Kenny for Christmas and hired a pool table company to come over while he was at work. They carefully moved it down our basement stairs and assembled and leveled it for me. I even tied it up with a big red bow. Kenny was so happy. For him, it was a welcome surprise.
And so, the tradition continued. Our three sons, Kyle, Danny, and Randy learned to shoot pool on that table. Kenny spent plenty of time on it too and so did all of our boys’ friends.
Over the years, we moved that cumbersome thing from house to house. I even had the slate bed re-felted with matching avocado green felt.
Wherever we went, that table went with us. I can count a total of nine times since claiming it from his father, that I have seen that big old vintage pool table moved. And that was never an easy feat.
Years ago, when I bought my current house, I did not have room for it here, but to my luck, my friend wanted to create a pool room in his home. So, I suggested rather than buying a new table he could hang onto Kenny’s table for me until one of my three sons had room for it. At that time it seemed like such a good solution, but unfortunately I have learned that even the best of plans do not always pan out. I had just put off the inevitable. Here we are, seven years later and my boys still do not have room for it in their homes.
So, Kenny’s pool table is once again my problem to solve.
After thirteen years of being widowed, I realize that my biggest burden in life is being so sentimental. These things are just not easy for me. No easier than it was getting rid of Kenny’s shoes, his clothing, giving away his beloved Bass Tracker fishing boat and trailer, or selling his Dodge Magnum Hemi Station Wagon. Every single step of this grieving process has been hard. Every significant memory still tugs at my heart and can bring me to tears.
Such is the burden of being widowed. If we could only shut off our mind and our heart, we would simply be fine. But of course, it is not as easy as all that.
Last night, when telling my friend of my dilemma, I choked up of course and again the tears began to fall. To which her response was the standard one for someone who has never been widowed. In fact, it is almost cliché now. Predictable. I have heard it so many times.
“Lucy, you are still having a hard time handling Kenny’s death. How long has it been? Perhaps, you need to consider counseling.”
My response was the standard one too. “My widowed friends are the only ones who really understand. I have learned that this is all a common reaction for us. And no, I do not need counseling.”
The only counseling I need is to learn to keep my feelings to myself.
How do you explain to someone that you never just “get over” the loss of a spouse? Even after thirteen years you cannot just turn off the memories of a lifetime lived with someone you love. Someone who loved you too. Why is that so hard for people to understand? And of course, in her defense she could not possibly have known the significance of a simple old pool table.
But once again, I am reminded that even when surrounded by a million friends, being widowed can still be a very lonely existence.
