Ida Leclair discusses how husbands work on special projects at the most inopportune times.

My Grandmother, Dora Gilbert, used to freeze her garbage. This was in the days before garbage disposals, so there was a lot to freeze. But she didn’t let that intimidate her. For Dora, freezing garbage was more than just a way to keep it from stinking. It was an art form. I can see my grandmother now standing in her immaculate kitchen, a little Franco-American woman with permed gray hair, full make-up, a house dress, nylon stockings, sensible shoes and a bib apron, carefully wrapping her garbage in little foil packets. ‘Course there’s nothing really unusual about freezing garbage. Not in my family, anyway. We all freezes our garbage. Having a garbage disposal doesn’t really …

Few weeks back, Charlie’s out mowin’ the lawn. I’m putterin’ around the kitchen, you know, cleaning the stove top, excavatin’ the vegetable bin, when I happen to look out the window and see Charlie doin’ the two-step around the yard. Weird, I thought, but gee, he can move pretty fast for an old duffer. Later, I see him bending down, lookin’ under our big viburnum, the one by the bird house my niece Caitlin give us. When he comes in, I ask, “Charlie, what the heck were you doin’ out there?” “Mowing the lawn. What did it look like I was doin’?” “Gettin’ ready to audition for “So You Think You Can Dance?” “Very funny. …

Charlie come home from work the other day, and I could tell straight off, he had some sort of bee in his bonnet. “What’s a matter?” I ask. “I’m gonna mow the lawn ‘fore supper,” he says, stormin’ out the door and lettin’ it slam behind him. “OK. Sounds good.” Now, in the early years of our marriage, I’d try to get Charlie to tell me what was bothering him. I’d hug him, you know, wanting to make things better. Frankly, all that did was make him feel smothered. Then, I’d end up as miffed as he was. Nowadays, I give him a wide berth, let him work through whatever it is at his own …

Drivin’ along, what did I see? A big, blue tarp, up in a tree How did it get there? I thought to myself That’s not the work of some mischievous elf It was right around Whitey’s, yard sale heaven Where there’s always one goin’, 24-7 The tarp must’ve blown off their table, I betcha Perhaps Whitey Junior can climb up and get ya His father, I’m sure, will just let the thing be And Junior’s too fat to be climbin’ that tree I guess I could help ‘em to get the thing down But right now I’m busy, see you around! Now, who do you think’s responsible for that little nugget? William Shakespeare? Nope. Me? …

You know how we tend to confide in our hairdresser or bartender? As a cashier down to the A&P, folks tend to confide in me, too, even if they don’t always know they’re doin’ it. ‘Cause checkin’ out a person’s groceries is more intimate than you image. You know who’s drinkin’ a little too much, who has a Doritos habit and who’s addicted to the National Inquirer. You see the same folks once a week, minimum, and you can kind of sense whether they’re feelin’ their oats or not. So I’m workin’ register 3 per usual, cashin’ out Roberta “Bobbie” Robbins, makin’ conversation, like you do. “How’s that cute little dog of yours? Blah, blah. …

Up ‘til the economy tanked, “staycation” wasn’t even a word. There’s a reason for that. See how only half the word resembles “vacation”? That’s a hint as to the outcome of most staycations. At best, they’re kind of like a vacation. At worse, they’re more like a week spent in the Gulag. Charlie and me learned this the hard way a few years back. We’d never taken a staycation, so we thought we’d give it a try. We even made a plan, well kind of. We’d scrape and repaint the deck the first weekend, ‘cause it needed it wicked bad. Then we’d spend the rest of the week doin’ little day trips, you know, makin’ …

“What are you makin’?” asks Charlie. “An apple pie,” I reply. “Mmm! For me?” “No, not just for you! For all of us. Tonight.” “What’s goin’ on tonight?” “We’re having dinner, remember? With Irene and Jimbo?” “We are? When did this come up?” “A couple of weeks ago. I told you!” “News to me.” “No, it’s not. Where’s your calendar?” Charlie pulls out his dog-eared pocket calendar. “I know it’s in there, Charlie. I remember watchin’ you as you scribbled it in. Probably can’t read your own handwriting.” Charlie fumbles through it. “Oh. Yeah. Guess I should look at it every now and then.” “Might be helpful. Anyhoo, if you want pie, that’s what we’re …

A good relationship is like your favorite whoopie pie, you know? Sweet, simple and easy. Thing is, what happens when your bakery runs out of the kind of whoopie pie you’ve been enjoyin’ for years? Well, a different flavor can still be good, especially if you’re realistic about your expectations.   There’s this gal, Doris, in my book group. She lost her husband Mike a few years back, and just last fall, she started dippin’ her toe back into the datin’ pool. Boy, that can’t have been easy. But now she’s seeing a nice fella, Gerry, that she met at church. I run into her the other day down to the Busy Bee. “The weird …

You can’t help but think about it. Unless the two of you are in a plane crash or something, chances are, one of you is gonna be the last one standing. And, if you’re like me, you don’t know which is worse: dyin’ first, and makin’ your husband go through that trauma, or him goin’ first and bein’ left all by your lonesome to pick up the pieces. Good thing it’s outta our hands, right? There’s other kinds of leavin’, too, of course. I know from watchin’ my mom go through her cancer journey, your loved one can still be here sittin’ with you, but you’re actively missin’ the healthy person they once were. Same …