Hey, Ron! I feel like you'd be a fan of Greta Van Fleet.
https://youtu.be/TrIzgD9i7hU
Thursday, December 13, 2018
Hey, Ron! (Trip to McD's)
Hey, Ron!
Remember that time you took me home to meet your parents, but you'd failed to tell them when we would be arriving and we showed up just as they were about to sit down to a nice dinner they'd made, complete with wine?
You said, "Boy, that looks good! I'm kind of hungry."
And I looked at the two plates on the table and said, "I think we are interrupting their dinner." and you said, "No, it's ok."
Your parents insisted that we eat their dinner. I was so embarrassed, and nervous. They seemed so nice and generous. [That opinion has never wavered]
After dinner we borrowed their car so you could drive around and show me your hometown. As we passed McDonald's, you hit the breaks and said, "Are you thirsty? I'm thirsty. I'm going to get a drink!" It seemed like an odd thing, to suddenly be super thirsty. To be honest, I wondered if you were an undiagnosed diabetic, or something. You pulled up to the drive-thru, ordered a drink, pulled up to the window, paid and got your drink, and drove away.
Later that evening you confessed that you'd stopped because you saw your old girlfriend was working, and you wanted her to see you out with your new girlfriend. I laughed and laughed.
"My god, that's so... petty!"
"I guess so."
"Really, that's so passive-aggressive!"
"You think she was jealous?"
"Oh, definitely. I'm pretty hot."
[27 years later the two of you would get married in a quiet ceremony atop scenic Dorsey's Knob, but we didn't know that then. This was a story we would chuckle about often, over the years, and any time we drove past that McDonald's I'd ask, "Do you need to get a drink?"]
Remember that time you took me home to meet your parents, but you'd failed to tell them when we would be arriving and we showed up just as they were about to sit down to a nice dinner they'd made, complete with wine?
You said, "Boy, that looks good! I'm kind of hungry."
And I looked at the two plates on the table and said, "I think we are interrupting their dinner." and you said, "No, it's ok."
Your parents insisted that we eat their dinner. I was so embarrassed, and nervous. They seemed so nice and generous. [That opinion has never wavered]
After dinner we borrowed their car so you could drive around and show me your hometown. As we passed McDonald's, you hit the breaks and said, "Are you thirsty? I'm thirsty. I'm going to get a drink!" It seemed like an odd thing, to suddenly be super thirsty. To be honest, I wondered if you were an undiagnosed diabetic, or something. You pulled up to the drive-thru, ordered a drink, pulled up to the window, paid and got your drink, and drove away.
Later that evening you confessed that you'd stopped because you saw your old girlfriend was working, and you wanted her to see you out with your new girlfriend. I laughed and laughed.
"My god, that's so... petty!"
"I guess so."
"Really, that's so passive-aggressive!"
"You think she was jealous?"
"Oh, definitely. I'm pretty hot."
[27 years later the two of you would get married in a quiet ceremony atop scenic Dorsey's Knob, but we didn't know that then. This was a story we would chuckle about often, over the years, and any time we drove past that McDonald's I'd ask, "Do you need to get a drink?"]
Hey, Ron! Harrison Got his License
Harrison learned to drive and got his license. I taught him myself and gave him lots of practice. He even aced the parallel parking part!
I have to admit the best part of spending all that time alone in the van together was the long, philosophical discussions about life, the Universe... Everything.
I have already lost my gym buddy, since he can drive himself there, now. I will be sad to lose my deep thought thinker when he gets a car of his own.
Sunday, December 2, 2018
Hey, Ron! - A New Separate Blog within a Blog
On April 25, 2016 Ron Staubly unexpectedly passed away. He left behind 5 kids, a set of parents that loved him more than anything, a wife and an ex-wife. He left behind friends and co-workers. He left with so much of his story untold and unwritten. We are nothing but our memories, in the end. This blog-within-a-blog will try to record these memories as they come to me. They will also help fill in what he's missing. Due to the nature of the human mind, these will not be in order, chronological or otherwise.
April 25, 2016
Harrison sobbing in the car, "I wanted him to come to my concert. I'm playing a Led Zeppelin song and I didn't even tell him because he loves Led Zeppelin and I wanted it to be a surprise."
April 27, 2016
I bought clothes for Harrison, for the funeral. We went to Target and he tried them on and liked what he saw in the mirror. Then he asked if he needed a tie. I said, "Valgardr has ties; you can borrow one from him."
He was quiet for a moment and tears started falling down his cheeks and he said, "I don't know know how to tie a tie." His breath caught and he continued, "I don't know how to do a lot of things."
In the car on the ride home, Harrison looked out the window and said, "He was going to teach me to drive this summer. I know other people can teach me, but it's sad knowing he never will. He'd probably always looked forward to that, when I was little and growing up."
I once asked Ron (when he was about 30) what he saw his life like at 50.
"Pfff! I won't make 50!"
"Why the hell not?!"
"I don't know. I just always felt like that. You know?"
"No! I'm going to be 50! I'm going to be a hundred and two! Why can't you see past 50?"
"I don't know."
He died when he was 49.
I never stopped loving him. I never even tried to stop loving him. I just accepted that he was happier away from me/ us all the time. Over the past couple years during the divorce, I'd think of an inside joke, or remember something funny that happened, and I'd text him and say, "Remember the time we...?" and he would always text back, "Please keep all of our correspondence strictly about the children."
I thought, in time, he'd come around and we'd be able to chat about the old days again. So much of our lives are tangled in each other stories. Now that can never happen, and I carry these stories alone.
Kristy is his widow. There is no name for me, the Not-Widow. There is no place for me to grieve.
April 25, 2016
Harrison sobbing in the car, "I wanted him to come to my concert. I'm playing a Led Zeppelin song and I didn't even tell him because he loves Led Zeppelin and I wanted it to be a surprise."
April 27, 2016
I bought clothes for Harrison, for the funeral. We went to Target and he tried them on and liked what he saw in the mirror. Then he asked if he needed a tie. I said, "Valgardr has ties; you can borrow one from him."
He was quiet for a moment and tears started falling down his cheeks and he said, "I don't know know how to tie a tie." His breath caught and he continued, "I don't know how to do a lot of things."
In the car on the ride home, Harrison looked out the window and said, "He was going to teach me to drive this summer. I know other people can teach me, but it's sad knowing he never will. He'd probably always looked forward to that, when I was little and growing up."
I once asked Ron (when he was about 30) what he saw his life like at 50.
"Pfff! I won't make 50!"
"Why the hell not?!"
"I don't know. I just always felt like that. You know?"
"No! I'm going to be 50! I'm going to be a hundred and two! Why can't you see past 50?"
"I don't know."
He died when he was 49.
I never stopped loving him. I never even tried to stop loving him. I just accepted that he was happier away from me/ us all the time. Over the past couple years during the divorce, I'd think of an inside joke, or remember something funny that happened, and I'd text him and say, "Remember the time we...?" and he would always text back, "Please keep all of our correspondence strictly about the children."
I thought, in time, he'd come around and we'd be able to chat about the old days again. So much of our lives are tangled in each other stories. Now that can never happen, and I carry these stories alone.
Kristy is his widow. There is no name for me, the Not-Widow. There is no place for me to grieve.
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