Paddy: The camera loves me.
Navigating Distance and Devotion in Our Late 50s
I have made ten thousand pots of chili in my lifetime and tonight it was a bowl for one. For the first time in more than two decades, Robert is not here to finely chop the peppers, rake a pile of leaves from our old elm, or haul Christmas up from the basement.
He is not here to wrap the tree in lights or hang them on the three pitched gables of our airplane bungalow. He is not here to take out the trash, rub my feet, or take my Jeep in for an oil change. Also, not here to feed and walk these dogs. These anxiety-prone, high-maintenance Shetland Sheepdog Sh*t A** Sugar Babies. If I had known I would become the sole caretaker of these delicate creatures, I would have become a fish mom.
This is the face Paddy McCollum makes when I feed him dry dog food.
And I have a confession. The other day, while walking the dogs, one of them ca-rapt in a stranger’s yard. I bent down, put the plastic bag around my hand like a glove, and pretended to pick it up. Instead, I grabbed a handful of pine needles, turned the bag inside out, and walked away like I’d done my civic duty. I just did not have it in me. But guilt is a powerful thing. The next morning, when it was thirty-two degrees and the ca-rap was frozen, I went back and picked it up.
Robert calls me every morning and evening. Most days, we flirt like a couple who just discovered each other. Sometimes we also fight on FaceTime, which means I fight and Robert stares into the screen, happy as a lark to be in a different time zone. I am quite lovely when I am angry. I should have blogged our last argument in real time because I cannot remember now what caused me to threaten to never speak to him again. I am sure it was something extremely serious, like the two-hour time difference.
Long distance is hard, y’all. The highs are very high and the lows are very low. Some nights I do not sleep and convince myself we are finished. Mostly, though, it has been strangely rewarding. He will be home in a few days for Thanksgiving and then again for Christmas. I can’t wait to see him! The real test will be winter into spring. It is a busy season for me at work and we will both be navigating storms, detours, and a complete lack of direct flights between here and there.
Meanwhile, with every phone call, my Bobby looks grayer. His raven hair is now more salt than pepper. He is more handsome than ever, and I am certainly not complaining about the hot selfies he sends me while wandering the ancestral territory of his Illmawi people. The Pit River runs through those 789 acres, a sanctuary for fish, fowl, deer, and men. Especially men who have grown tired of this ridiculous world with all its gossip, grifters, games, and whoremongers. You would think people would get tired of making so much trouble for themselves and each other, but they never do.
Joe Leaphorn, I mean, Bobby. I mean Robert-Bobby.
One of the main contenders for the 2025 National Book Award said it better than I ever could:
This is the second piece in my new series, Memoir of a Commuter Marriage, about love, aging, and what endures. The series is for paid subscribers. The rest of my posts, including the Generation X Newsletter, will remain free.