Delicious visions during dreamy memories of VST visited me this morning, long before normal people recall anything. Working on a book to be released later this year, I’ve been playing with the pages in my head. Moving words. Choosing phrases. Grouping thoughts. Selecting the best parts of VST and me to include. Those that I want Great-Great-Great Granddaughters to read and grow to understand how VST loved EJ. Slowly the sweetest mental image to formed.
An unusual man lived in the heart of VST. A guy that would make movie goers swoon. VST had the heart of a cowboy, although he had no use for horses. A private detective, always looking out for the bad guy. A Rambo, in the swamps of life, ready to defend his heart, family, and life, itself. A “Charlie” (2 1/2 Men), always charming the gals. A Tom Selleck, being irresistible and down to earth with his deep voice and southern drawl. A MacGyver, always knowing how to fix anything. And VST, best of all, because he was a man not written about yet.
In my memories, VST isn’t one age, because, he never grew old or stale. Whether captain-ing our house boat, or redesigning our little cabin in the woods. Whether laughing on the porch with his mom and dad, or that boy standing at the end of the aisle I walked down so long ago. One after the other, the memories flash through, and I smile at how lucky I am to have shared them with him.
During life, VST was a husband, a father, a diesel mechanic, a manager, an executive, a business owner, a farmer, a designer, a builder, a landscaper, a mason, a roofer, a tax man, a government executive, a doctor of psychology, an investor, a house flipper, a retiree, an RV-er, and more things not remembered at this moment. He changed hats many times during his day, but wore no hat when he was just my VST. I could set the clock by his arrival home, with his voice calling my name to find out my location and activity. Through 33 years, there was never a doubt I was his girl. The one. His true person. And he mine.
Those were all things he did, but his essence was that which was rich, endearing, and unique. That which captured and captivated my heart. Beneath all the things that made him a manly man, (which I prefer), there was this unique individual with whom I shared life. If I used my senses to describe him, it would be as follows.
Visually, VST was stunningly handsome from birth to death. 6’1. Brown Hair. Hazel eyes. The biggest head ever, yet in balance with his body. Muscular arms and legs, with a long torso in between. A cowboy boot fan throughout his life, he later turned to Sketchers with jeans and tee-shirts, unless, he needed to put on the tuxedo that still hangs in my closet. He was a clothes horse, always dressing correctly for any situation. He turned heads, this not lost on me. He turned mine, too, and I never tired of admiring him.
VST sounded like bass drums and tubas. The kind of sound that rumbles in your gut. His presence was known, as he was not light on his feet. When he entered a room, heads turned to find him by sound. Dry humor and wit always followed his laughter, as he delighted in catching me in my blonde moments. Sometimes he was thoughtful when reminiscing, like Willie Nelson, and other times, playful like Bob Wills. When VST was silent, his thoughts marched on, reflected in a variety of expressions. VST was always heard. He made sure of that.
VST’s hands felt like strength, warmth, and hard work. Paralysis had rendered one almost useless, but it could still hold mine. Those hands never lost the calluses caused by hammers, pry bars, wrenches, and lumber. Psoriasis chiseled away at his vanity, covering every part of him except his face. His arms were strong enough to hold huge timbers at the cabin, but also, tender enough to hold the newest grand babes, just hours old. VST hugged just tight enough and long enough. I felt safety as we went through life. I felt improved in our union of two very smart people possessing double the ammunition to take on the world. I miss feeling his presence next to me as I fall off to sleep.
VST smelled like home to my heart. When we met, he exuded young, handsome guy scent wearing Polo cologne. But as the years past, there were times he smelled like drying raisins, other times like powdery cement. He smelled like Irish Spring and M&M’s. He smelled like Run and Coke and Coal Tar Ointment. Like fine Chardonnay. Like hard work before a long shower. Like dress up night at a ball. Like hot stage lights in rickety old theater.
Thinking back to the morning he left, there are so many things I wish I’d have planned better. The truth is, the unthinkable was happening before me eyes. As he lay, withered to skin and bones, I knew heaven was his reality. Widowhood mine. Stunned, as I watched, he slipped away so easily. But then, he would have, quickly figuring out a path and exiting. There was no time to plan a romantic Good Bye that would have played well at the end of a beautiful movie. He went and I was left.
Quietly, in the minutes before I rise to blog, I’m blessed to have memories of such a man. His loss has not gone quietly into the night. It wakes me at odd hours. It makes me cry on occasion, for the silliest things. It brings out the irrational side of me at times. It scares me and always will. All these memories also make me strong as nails. I had someone that was a brilliant and perfect match to me. My person. The one I am lucky to have known the best. And that is a dreamy memory.