A retired newspaper columnist and widower walks into a bar with his new Kenyan wife on the edge of the Minnesota plains near the Canadian border. The music does not stop, like in Western movies when a stranger enters the scene, but let’s say customers take note. Feeling unusually festive in the first days of this new life thousands of miles from her birthplace in a remote African village, and hundreds of miles from his home in Minneapolis, they order a margarita.
The bartender stares, just briefly, then says, “Sorry. We don’t do specialty drinks.”
The bar is named The Rusty Nail, which is –I guess coincidentally-- the name of a specialty drink.
His familiarity with cocktails had been substantial, until he lost his wife of 35 years, Ellen, then met Irene ten months later. He considers sarcastically asking the bartender if he has Drambuie, the signature ingredient of the drink that is the namesake of the bar, but they are newcomers here and have promised to behave, to fit in as much as possible for a liberal and a black immigrant in a land that voted overwhelmingly for President Trump. The goal was to avoid politics and become model citizens in this company town of 9,000 just shy of the northernmost point of the United States.
They order wine.
--
We are a few months now into this quixotic adventure, this Not-On-The-Bingo-Card life we chose, which has delighted, confounded and dismayed our family and friends. And to be honest, ourselves. Whether we really chose this life and marriage or it chose us is up for debate. Irene credits God. I lean toward Karma. We agree it’s kind of the same, so you decide.
A little more than three years ago, I was caregiving for Ellen, after a 35-year marriage that was mostly magical, but also fraught with escalating health problems. On her death bed, Ellen made me promise to carry on, to live life as fully, courageously and joyfully as she had. Fall in love again, she demanded, don’t wait. You are no good alone.
She was correct, of course.
She died, I careened into darkness and self-pity. No one wanted to be near me, and I couldn’t’ blame them, even though I did. I was a lousy widower.
The hard turn came after a very loud, profane phone argument with a health insurance company. Police were called. A nurse asked if I owned a gun. I wound up in the psychiatric ER in Minneapolis, with furniture filled with sand --so I couldn’t throw them, I guess. A man down the hall was singing at the top of his lungs Sly and the Family Stone’s “We Are Fam-i-ly!”
Fam-i-ly, indeed. At that moment, he was the closest I had.
“Why in the hell am I here?” I asked the psychiatrist and a social worker, both alleged fans of my newspaper column.
“We were just asking ourselves the same thing,” the shrink said.
They agreed I was at a sudden existential crisis, a months-long depression from loss, grief and loneliness, exacerbated by accumulating life tasks and bills once handled by Ellen. The callous responses from faceless cogs whenever I tried to explain that “my wife is DEAD,” and then the insurance zombies telling me my copay for a specialty medication had increased from five dollars to…twenty grand…had set me off: What should I do, blow my brains out on the CEO’s lawn? I had explained. Heartfelt, but not a great idea. (“I don’t blame you,” said one cop. “But next time, don’t mention where the CEO lives.”)
The doctor made me promise I wouldn’t harm myself or others, then let me go after a few hours, back to an empty, soulless home. I needed to do something, but what?
“You’ve got unique skills and a platform,” said the shrink as I was about to leave. “You might consider writing about all of this. It could do some good for you, and for others.”
--
After connecting online, I met Irene at a Perkins in Blaine, a northern suburb of the Twin Cities. She revealed skeletal glimpses of her life slowly, in the soft musical cadence of her clipped African accent: Born in a small village seven hours from Nairobi in a house without running water.
I asked if my age, 11 years older, bothered her. No, she said, “I have six kids, does that worry you?”
No, I lied.
Irene Moved to Minnesota with three kids and Kenyan husband, then had three more kids. Got divorced 11 years prior, then raised the kids by herself. Three girls had master’s degrees. Irene was a mental health nurse (God! Karma!) studying for her own master’s degree in her mid-fifties. She worked a second job at a nursing home.
I had a successful run as a journalist, enough to be recognized around town, financially secure enough to retire modestly at 59. Her accomplishments and determination, however, disarmed and quite frankly, shamed me. What in the hell was SHE doing here?
I wanted to know more. She said she’d decide in a couple of days whether we would meet again. Then, she took me by the hand and walked me through below-zero temperatures to my car. It was the first time I romantically held a woman’s hand, besides my wife’s, in 36 years. It was incredibly soft.
“We’ll talk,” she said with a smile bigger than the giant American flag rigid in the wind over the Perkins. Jesus, she was beautiful.
A couple of coffee dates later, we took a two-hour drive to a condo she’d bought on a lake, a place to escape the chaos of her kids and job. She was thinking of selling it. The drive up had been pleasant, though overcast and a little brisk. She had already charmed me with her slightly-off pronunciations and Americanisms (like calling me hirarious instead of hilarious; her idiom, “curiosity killed the rat!”) and her poetic African proverbs. When I mentioned delaying a dental appointment because I feared pain, for example, she quipped, “Avoid the elephant only to encounter the rhinoceros.” I was becoming smitten
As we looked out at the lake, the clouds broke and the water glimmered like diamonds or the promise of a new future.
“Jontev,” she said, grabbing my arm. “Let’s go swallow the sun.””
I was intrigued by your photos over the last year and wondered how your story with Ellen had ended. I know you’ve had a ton of adventures and I can’t wait to hear about them all.
Hurrah for getting started. Or restarted. Great name for your Stack/memoir.