We’d just begun a new chapter of being just the two of us again, children grown, new challenges and opportunities… after 34 years together, like young newlyweds, the world would be our oyster again hiding the pearl we knew would glimmer and shine its lustrous colors upon us. I’d rushed back from an overseas trip only to find myself now in charge of your healthcare.
And then you were gone.
So abrupt, from diagnosis to death in less than three months.
Crushed, angry, resentful for you having left me right when the adventures were getting even more interesting than the 30+ years before!
I restarted my studies, knowing that if I just immersed myself in the work I could hide away from my grief, ignore the wound in my heart. But by Christmas, I sat crying on the side of the bed…
I just. want. a hug.
I’d tried a dance class, a restorative process where I could lose myself in the movements, and connect to my grandmother, a dancer in her own day. You never wanted to dance with me… though there was that one last time. But still, the movements and the music began to heal me.
I don’t bite except on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
The dreams were so vivid that I looked forward to your visits. But the loneliness wouldn’t go away. Perhaps, if only there was someone, not one of our children, or friends, or anyone who knew you. Someone I could talk to who didn’t have your ghost to guide the conversations.
And then he reached out and I ignored him. Each week he’d check in. “I don’t bite except on Tuesdays and Thursdays,” he wrote. And I finally couldn’t stifle the laugh. The nerve, I thought. So we wrote to each other, first just a couple of times a week, then every day, and then we’d talk all night.
“I wish I could dance with you, ya know,” he wrote offering to join me in a dance class when he visited. It became our connection. He was awful at it, and I loved him for it anyway.
As we shared our stories with each other I realized it wasn’t just my tears that were falling for the one I’d lost. He cried for it, too, a life of wonder and adventure that he hoped to build with me.
And then… we did.
The above prose was written as part of a 13-minute writing exercise during a six-week workshop offered by @LauraLentzWriter and her Literati Academy. The writers participating in this series are exploring their way through grief and the hero’s journey.
Happy times. Me and Steven were wandering the wineries of the Mission Peninsula in Traverse City. June 2019
Before grief, I spoke the language of we. What were we doing today? Even if we were working separately our days rotated around each other like two stars in synchronous orbits, each shining our light upon the other with love and kindness.
Before grief, I still grieved for my first love. But you stepped into my life, two roses in hand, with a smile so bright it still makes me laugh when I think of it… Memories can be both healing and hurtful in their teasing. But I’d rather the smile, than the tears.
It was always like that with us, my sesame chicken to your homey meatloaf. The doctor and the hillbilly, the designer and the maker. We were in sync in this third chapter of our lives and I was looking forward to a long one together. But it wasn’t meant to be, I guess. The dogs sleeping on your side of the bed has a way of reminding me of that.
So now I speak of possibilities, though I am charting a new path without a roadmap to guide me. No late night nudges to ask you “Is this possible?” And for you to answer me “of course it is!” I miss that. But grief can’t take away my dreams, not completely anyway. They have shifted, adapted, and are still remolding themselves.
[A]fter grief, I’m learning to believe in myself again.
I’ve been through this before. And I know that it can only lead to something bigger than myself. That my life is not just a big empty house in a forest filled with darkness.
After grief, I’m learning anew. You always knew that I was a lifelong learner. Back to school again and again and again. But now it’s not what I know or who I love that matters. It’s what I believe. And after grief, I’m learning to believe in myself again. To apply the lessons of the before-times to a party of one with room to invite fellow believers.
That’s harder than it sounds. But I’m working on it.
The above prose was written as part of a 13-minute writing exercise during a six-week workshop offered by @LauraLentzWriter and her Literati Academy. The writers participating in this series are exploring their way through grief and the hero’s journey.
This continues my effort at catching up on reminiscences and memories from over the summer 2025.
8/19/2025, Tuesday, 8:50 pm
It was a big day in the print shop. I worked with wood. Does that make me a woodworker? Dunno.
But… I faced my fears and actually used the full-sized table saw, not just my smaller type saw that I like to use. More power tools and experiments with a Vicks bit to countersink some screws and nuts into a board.
The day’s results – I turned an old crappy bench into a rolling table to put beside my presses. AND even made a carry board for another letterpress tool. And better yet, I still have all ten fingers! I’d call the day a success!
Figured it might help to add context on that “overcoming my fear” thing regarding the table saw.
At around 7 yrs old, I remember my dad – a concert pianist – was working in his wood shop which was in the lower level of the house. He came upstairs and had blood around his lips and his hand wrapped in a bloody rag. He grabbed the car keys with his good hand and told me to stay with my friend and tell mom (who was out with her friend) that he went to the hospital. Turns out he’d nearly cut off his left index finger with the radial arm saw. The entire episode pretty much traumatized me for life, and ironically probably helped steer me towards marrying men who could actually WORK around these tools without losing pieces of themselves.
Although radial arm saws are rarely used these days, the closest I have feared as a result of this is the table saw with its blade that sneaks up above the surface, out of sight for a brief moment just before it can cut your hand in half… if you do something stupid like my dad tried to do. So ever since that time as a child, I feel this irrational fear that immediately takes me back to that time.
So… I have to thank my husband Steve for encouraging me with the purchase of Hamilton Glider type saw that is basically a very small table saw (with a guard). I love that little saw and have used it for far more than type. It gave me a bit more confidence for being around such blades.
I know this is all entirely ironic since with the passing of each husband, I have become the sole owner of a huge woodworking shop, and have always been around large and dangerous power tools. When Keith or later Steve would be using those tools, I’d wait just outside of their view until they hit the red “stop” button for fear of distracting them and possibly suffering the fate my father did.
BTW, dad’s hand DID heal… though he never fully regained feeling in that finger, he still managed to play a mean piano.
So today, well, I marked up the board but could not fit it on the little type saw. I finally decided the time had come. I could do this… and I did! After nearly six decades.
Dear reader: I know it’s been more than a year since I’ve published anything. Let’s just say my attentions have been elsewhere. But I’m hopeful that with this post, the ice jam has been broken and I’ll be writing more again in the future. In the meantime, I hope you appreciate this brief entry below. _____________________________________________
Fog rolls in on Lake Superior sunset.
Ten years today you left this earthly plane, you left your cancer pain, and you left us heart-broken.
But time hasn’t faded my memory of you – and of us – because still, I can see your smile, still hear your voice, still feel your kisses, and still know the warmth of your caress.
And I know that you’ve been watching over us, too, in spirit. I can feel your presence, and occasionally hear your commentary, as if you were walking beside me. We talk that way, too, you know.
We have so much to be proud of since you’ve passed over in spirit. Two grandsons to start with! They are the light of my life and they talk to you, too, grandpa! Especially T.
Family preparing for sunset photos as the fog rolls in on Lake Superior.
And I know you were there in June up in the upper peninsula when our youngest daughter, now in her early 30s, was married to her own love of her life. We all felt your presence there… the fog rolling into the harbor as we started to gather for pre-wedding photos at sunset. Then there was the bald eagle flying near the window as we enjoyed families together for the rehearsal dinner. It was an interesting choice, Keith, since previously I’d seen your animus in the form of a Great Blue Heron. But the Eagle is a bird of the north and so it was right.
At the ceremony, we knew you were there smiling when your name was mentioned in honor, as Stassia wore the necklace with the cremation diamond you and she helped plan, as the sunshine and blue skies blessed the day on the shores of Lake Superior, and as our grandsons played in the pebbles picking out the pretty ones they wanted to keep as treasures.
But today, this morning, on the tenth anniversary of your departure from this physical plane, you had to have been so proud of Sarah, our first born, who was honored with the college’s President’s Award of Excellence. Five years ago she joined the college (where I work) as a temp and then as an independent contractor taking on special design projects. She has comported herself with humor, professionalism, and patience even while dealing with the challenges that were thrown her way.
When they called her name, Keith, I nearly jumped out of my seat! Our baby girl (now in her mid 30s, of course) was being recognized on this very day, the tenth anniversary of a very painful dark day. But on this day, today, she was given a bright light to shine on the legacy you helped create.
I miss you dearly, Keith, and I feel your love every day. I have discovered that a heart can grow to love more, to make a new life with another partner, even when my heart had been badly broken. The scars are there, still. But they are worn lines now, serving as symbols of strength and resilience. Today, on this tenth anniversary of a dark day, Sarah accepted this special honor in your memory. Today was a day of light.
I’m lost in my thoughts, sorting tiny pieces of metal type, cleaning the typecases, as sunlight brightens the room from the three walls of windows that filter it into it as I work.
Blessed. That’s how I’m feeling. Surrounded by antique type, printing presses and cabinets, I’m in my happy place, dreaming of the poetry, creative typography, and other items I’d print in this room. Imagining artist friends, old and new, also working in the space, as our creative spirits feed each other.
My mind drifts to conversations, recent events. Mercury and Jupiter in retrograde and I seem immune. But others in the family haven’t been so lucky. Challenges posed by one thing after another keep coming, some more serious than other. They weigh on my mind as each new issue flows through my thoughts like heavy clouds.
From one side of the family, Steve was managing an upset with one of his grown children who seemed to be having a bit of an emotional breakdown on a sad journey. An offer to come help with a project the following day led to an angry response that his help was needed “now” and a meltdown of personal attacks that were more of a cry of someone feeling like their world was out of control and the lashing out was a sign of despair.
Like the virus that has been plaguing the globe, the anger spread, inflicted on siblings. And then it continued to spread. Swirling from one family member to another, feeding on insecurities and bottled up pain.
But it didn’t end there. Like the virus that has been plaguing the globe, the anger spread, inflicted on siblings. And then it continued to spread. Swirling from one family member to another, feeding on insecurities and bottled up pain. Another who had not yet been vaccinated, flatly refusing to be, siting some Q-Anon type conspiracy misinformation, texted another to “mind his own damn business.”
The storm
All of these things were swirling through my head as I quietly sorted type and cleaned the cases in the studio. A dangerous thunderstorm had hit just last Tuesday afternoon… It came up so fast and I had an impending sense of urgency so I went out and told Steve he needed to send our teenage helper home, having just gotten his license. The helper had left barely 5 minutes and the storm came up too fast. Rain blew horizontally, swirling around corners, winds whipping the trees large and small like a forest of rag dolls. The world looked like layers of grey, accented by the whips of rain-soaked brushes between the fields and forests.
I took a short video as the rains and winds came across the fields and slammed the world around me. But I took cover when it came across the upper covered deck sideways. The time stamp on the video was 1:49 pm. And then it was over.
A video of the storm just as it started, trees whipped around violently as the rain slashed across sideways. It was over in ten minutes.
At 1:59 pm, the time stamp on the first photos I took, we saw the destruction. A huge box elder tree with a gaping yawning mouth lined in red where the smaller trunk split from the main one, had fallen across our fence on the east side, and much of it also landed alongside the house, missing a newly installed exterior lamp post by inches – and the house – by only a few feet.
Views after the storm. Close calls. But no damage to the house or the workshop.
On the west side, a huge maple on the neighbor’s side of the fence had lost a major limb hit by lightning with many extending branches landed across that fence. It also missed the shop windows by only inches. I’d seen the lightning flash and had immediately begun to count. But I didn’t get to “1” before the thunderous crash. Now we knew what it was based on the blackened trunk where the large limb had been severed and veins of burnt bark ran up the tree trunk.
In the backyard, several trees, already weakened from the water that formed a pond whenever it rained, had been blown over, propped up by neighboring trees. Branches and debris were all over, leaves plastered to the house, cottonwood leaves and branches from a tree in the far backyard were found in the front yard.
And yet, as I looked at it all, and as Steve and I walked through the mess, figuring out what we needed to do to keep the dogs safe until the fence could be repaired, once the trees were removed… I felt blessed.
And yet, as I looked at it all, and as Steve and I walked through the mess, figuring out what we needed to do to keep the dogs safe until the fence could be repaired, once the trees were removed… I felt blessed.
It could have been so much worse. The one tree could have hit the house, it certainly could have reached it if blown in a slightly more northerly direction. The maple could have hit the shop more directly, smashing windows and poking holes into the letterpress studio holding our precious type and printing presses. But none of that had happened. I felt like we were in a protected bubble that had kept us and our home safe.
Now we wait for the tree guys to come in the next week or two to cut and clear the downed trees. Another blessing. I told Steve that he should not have to deal with this giant mess. That we had the funds to cover it. I’d spoken to our insurance advisor who told me what the break-even point was for filing a claim, or not. Based on that information we decided to cover it ourselves. Now we wait. And it doesn’t bother me at all. The broken limbs and leaves all around my view are a real reminder of how well we’d faired. We didn’t lose power – at least not long enough for the generator to even kick on.
Meditating on anger
As I rearranged some of the funny advertising cuts, illustrations, and halftones in the cases – ones I’d like to play with in my own art vs. ones I’d likely never use – other thoughts went rolling through my hive mind. Anger and stress, depression and flaring tempers have been fed by more than divorce and is fed as much by the pain of pandemic politics and fear for the health of those we love. Yet, how could someone send a text to their grown offspring saying “your stuff is on the porch, taco dinners at 6, don’t bother showing up.” There is so much to dissect from this statement, especially within the already divisive pain caused by misinformation about the veracity and threat of COVID19.
My mind went to how one handles anger, revenge and spite. Maybe it’s because I’ve matured. Or maybe I’ve found that responding in anger or spite is a no-win game. There is nothing to be gained by it. Have I gotten angry, lost my temper? Yes. And it wasn’t something that served me. I didn’t feel better about it. Just the opposite. I felt awful. It didn’t bring me peace. It took a lot of painful work to try and heal the rifts it caused.
I’ve been wronged terribly and in very painful and even expensive ways. Yet I see no point in being spiteful, or seeking revenge. …Each person’s spirit will face their own path, their own hard lessons.
And it’s been awhile. I’ve been wronged terribly and in very painful and even expensive ways. Yet I see no point in being spiteful, or seeking revenge. I believe that each person’s spirit will face their own path, their own hard lessons. All I can do is attempt to do my part to support growth, not harm. And to separate myself from those who only offer selfish toxicity rather than love.
As I gathered the metal type borders to move to their new location in another typecase, I tried to also gather my thoughts on how someone could so intentionally hurt a person they loved. I couldn’t do that. As angry as I might be with someone who I thought had hurt me through their actions or words, if we had love between us, I couldn’t hurt them back.
I’ve since learned to try and listen – and think – about what and why they were saying and doing what they were. Was I missing something? Were they also hurt? Were they trying to help me with something? Perhaps I needed to understand more from their perspective and not just be caught up with my own hurt feelings and ego. This is how my brain works these days. I live by the Four Agreements (Don Miguel Ruiz) and it has been instrumental in how I’ve addressed conflicts for many years.
A story from before times
It wasn’t always that way. I remember a time not long after we were first married that my dear first husband Keith had done something to upset me. I don’t even remember what it was. But I was really upset as I washed a glass Pyrex lasagna pan in the sink. He kept at it, picking at the wound that I felt was being inflicted. I held the pan up as if I was going to smash it against the edge of the sink and stopped. I didn’t want the glass to hit him. I didn’t want to hurt him. I just wanted him to know how upset I was. I looked down and saw the rag rug I was standing on and, with both hands, I threw the pan down flat onto it hard.
The glass flew off in all directions and I stood there dumbfounded. I’d forgotten it was a concrete floor underneath the rug at my feet. Keith was shocked as well. But he quick regained his composure, taking me by the elbow and walking me into the living room to sit on the sofa. “I’ll clean this up,” I remember him saying. And he did, as I sat there with tears streaming down my cheeks. I’d ruined a perfectly good lasagna pan, and now there was glass everywhere, even three feet up in the pots of the hanging houseplants in front of the far window of the kitchen.
Keith knew how to push my buttons. There was a bit of a cruel streak in him. But I soon learned that I could push back. That he loved me. I just needed to not push with cruelty but with love. And sometimes he just needed space. It took many years for us to find balance. And it seemed like we were just starting to really find our groove after nearly 30 years of marriage.
He’d learned that bravado and machismo can have consequences for the one you love and I paid the price.
He cared for me when I broke my back and wrist. Guilt played a role. He’d learned that bravado and machismo can have consequences for the one you love and I paid the price.
He was so proud of me when I was accepted into the doctoral program. “My wife’s gonna be Doctor Fulmer,” he’d tell everyone.
We danced at our oldest daughter’s wedding, and I knew dancing was not something he liked to do. Yet he did it. For me. And for our daughter. I will forever treasure that moment, captured in a photo, where we were looking into each other’s eyes and saying “How did we get here?” How did we get old enough to have a married daughter? We did well!
All the heartaches of the past had been just bumps in the road on the way to our next chapter in life as true empty nesters. Just one more year to get the youngest graduated from college and we were on our own again. Blessings were upon us, for sure. And then… and then…
Worry when life’s good
Is it no wonder that I now look at Steve with worry and occasional bouts of melancholy, worried that our time together will be unexpectedly brief? I worry for his health. I worry for his strength. I hear him say such and such an activity “takes the life out of ya” and I think – “not too soon, I hope.” Sometimes I think we’re on borrowed time. Perhaps it’s the blessings I feel, their abundance and good fortune. I worry that, like those days over ten years ago, that within a year or two it’ll all be crushed and my heart will be broken once again.
And in a most prescient way, I feel it, that doom. And I try and chase it away. Thankful of the sounds of the antique riding lawnmower he drives by my studio as I continue my sorting. He smiles in a cheerful shy way as if to say “I’m just having fun with my old toys.” And I smile back at him, not wanting to ruin his fun by mentioning the exhaust that pulls into my studio from the fans I have running. So I go and open a few extra windows to help air it out.
It is also the silence that brings me a feeling of dread. A feeling that I have imagined my life with him, and that I am actually living alone in this giant house. It’s a feeling that I must be out of my mind for having imagined this whole life with this sweet man who brought me love when I needed it most. Together we healed each other and I wonder sometimes if my sanity is undermined and that I have dreamed it all up.
Sometimes I think we’re on borrowed time. … I worry that, like those days over ten years ago, that within a year or two it’ll all be crushed and my heart will be broken once again.
And then he smiles and gives me a hug. And I wonder… if this is my reality, who am I to question it. I just cannot wrap my head around inflicting pain on those you love. There’s enough pain in the world… and in life… already. Count your blessings, spread love, not pain.
I go back to my typecases and admire the mix of order and disorder. There are stories here, yet to be uncovered.
This is an icon I created when working in Fiji. It was one of 24 icon-style illustrations with Pacific themes. Being my favorite, I adopted this one as a psuedo-logo.
Mara Jevera Fulmer's Blog 