By Terri Elders
Nobody succeeds beyond his or her wildest expectations unless he or she begins
with some wild expectations.
~Ralph Charell
On my seventieth birthday, my husband of just seven years photographed me amidst our scarlet Asian lilies. Then he donned an elegant taupe striped shirt, splashed on his woodsy signature Devin cologne and escorted me to an Early Bird Supper at Stephani's Oak Street Grill in Colville.
We toasted with huckleberry iced tea, and then Ken patted my hand. "Enjoy your dinner, baby. I'm glad I still can take you out for special occasions. But I want to ask you something. Now that you've reached seventy, is there anything you've always wanted to do that you haven't gotten around to?"
His question surprised me. Ken wasn't one for introspection, though he'd become more reflective since his recent cardiac bypass surgery. I took a bite of my lemon garlic salmon and considered.
"Well, there's that government education award from my VISTA service. I'd like to study literature and history at the University of Cambridge International Summer School."
Ken smiled. "It sure would be something to brag about. Is there a deadline on that award?"
I calculated. I had to use it within seven years of the conclusion of my service. "I have until 2013," I said.
"Then I expect Cambridge can wait a while. You'll go someday. I don't have enough energy for any more trips."
I understood his concern. After his kidneys had taken such a hard hit from his surgery, Ken believed that his time was running short. He'd decided against dialysis. I doubted we'd be going anywhere far away ever again. And there was little at Cambridge to hold his interest.
Then one evening several months later, Ken surprised me.
"Remember your birthday when I asked if there was anything you still wanted to do? I've been thinking it over. I want to see the Rosetta Stone and Loch Ness. Think you could book us one last trip? Let's do it all... England, Wales, Scotland, maybe even Ireland."
I went to our computer and tapped away. "What luck," I announced. "There's a sale on flights to Heathrow right now. We have enough frequent flyer miles for one fare, and we can buy a second for half price if we go in March."
"Let's do it," Ken said. "We can get a BritRail pass, and take the trains everywhere."
"Except we'll need a ferry to get to Ireland," I replied, laughing.
So we went, expecting to do it all. A cryptographer while in the Air Force, Ken frequently mentioned his fascination with that ancient Egyptian stele, the Rosetta Stone. He managed the walk from our London hotel to the bus stop, but he sighed when we stepped off the double-decker in front of the British Museum.
"I can't take another step, baby. I'll just sit in the lobby."
I pointed to the collapsible wheelchairs by the entrance. "We've come all this way. You're going to see that Stone!"
He relented. "I guess you could push me here. Nobody we know is going to see me."
That was so like Ken. He placed great stock in keeping up appearances. Didn't want to look sick... didn't want to look frail... even when he was.
He made some last valiant efforts. When we toured the Guinness brewery in Dublin, Ken plodded up the ramp to the top floor. When we got to our B&B in Inverness, though, he dispatched me to fetch a takeaway curry, and acknowledged we'd need a taxi to meet the tour going to Loch Ness the next morning. He couldn't navigate the few blocks to their office on foot. But he grinned the entire time we boated across the lake, alert to glimpse the fabled Nessie. By the time we met up with old friends in Bristol a few days later, Ken claimed to be plain tuckered out. I could see the weariness in his eyes.
Once we returned home, we rarely went out, even to the movies. The last one we saw together was The Bucket List, where a pair of terminally-ill men travel the world with their final "to do" wish list.
"I guess seeing Loch Ness and the Rosetta Stone completed my bucket list," Ken said as we exited the Alpine Theatre. "You make certain you get to Cambridge University one day."
That autumn we learned Ken's eldest son would remarry. The wedding would be in Colorado Springs. Ken's other boys and all the grandkids planned to be there.
"I'd like to see my three sons together once again. Final bucket list request," he said.
"Would you agree to let me order wheelchairs for the Spokane and Denver airports?"
He hesitated for just one second. "Yes."
That was our final trip together. By Valentine's Day we learned that Ken now had cancer, as well as kidney failure. Tough to the last, he stayed at home, dogs flanking his recliner, until the end.
After he died I moped for months. Then I remembered what Ken had said. Despite reservations that at seventy-three I'd be too old to fit in with a college crowd, I applied for the 2010 Cambridge summer school. I selected three courses, all in Victorian literature and history. I especially looked forward to taking "Criminals and Gentlemen: the Victorian Underworld in Charles Dickens' Oliver Twist and Great Expectations."
The moment I set foot on the grounds of Cambridge's Selwyn College, where I'd live for two weeks, I felt at home. I loved studying in my Ann's Court dorm, and savoring supper in the dining hall. I wandered through this storied town that dates back to medieval days, sipped cider at the Anchor Pub on the banks of the River Cam and debated Dickens and Victorians with new friends of all ages, from dozens of countries. Most of all, I pondered the layered nuances of Great Expectations.
The novel's title alludes to inheritance, the expectation of a legacy. That's the literal meaning, from the moment a lawyer tells Pip, the hero, that he'll have money coming from an anonymous benefactor. The title's ironic, as well; it references Pip's other expectations, beyond that said fortune. Then there are the expectations that Pip believes others have of him, those great things he believes God or fate or his own conscience expect. The title even hints at what readers might expect when they read a Dickens novel.
I considered our own expectations. When Ken and I married in 2000 we didn't expect to come into a fortune. But we did well enough when I retired, selling a townhouse near Washington, D.C., and buying a country home in Northeast Washington State. Ken hadn't expected to travel, but we did, watching glaciers shard in Alaska's Inner Passage, photographing the Leaning Tower of Pisa, hefting steins at Munich's Oktoberfest.
I didn't expect to lose my husband so soon. But Ken left me a legacy, an appreciation for that "bucket list." I've fulfilled most of my personal expectations, writing my narrative essays and continuing with community service. And there's still some money left in that education award, so I'm not quite through with Cambridge.
I expect I'll return there this coming summer. I've even picked my course. It's "Napoleon and His Enemies." Now there was a man with great expectations!
Nobody succeeds beyond his or her wildest expectations unless he or she begins
with some wild expectations.
~Ralph Charell
On my seventieth birthday, my husband of just seven years photographed me amidst our scarlet Asian lilies. Then he donned an elegant taupe striped shirt, splashed on his woodsy signature Devin cologne and escorted me to an Early Bird Supper at Stephani's Oak Street Grill in Colville.
We toasted with huckleberry iced tea, and then Ken patted my hand. "Enjoy your dinner, baby. I'm glad I still can take you out for special occasions. But I want to ask you something. Now that you've reached seventy, is there anything you've always wanted to do that you haven't gotten around to?"
His question surprised me. Ken wasn't one for introspection, though he'd become more reflective since his recent cardiac bypass surgery. I took a bite of my lemon garlic salmon and considered.
"Well, there's that government education award from my VISTA service. I'd like to study literature and history at the University of Cambridge International Summer School."
Ken smiled. "It sure would be something to brag about. Is there a deadline on that award?"
I calculated. I had to use it within seven years of the conclusion of my service. "I have until 2013," I said.
"Then I expect Cambridge can wait a while. You'll go someday. I don't have enough energy for any more trips."
I understood his concern. After his kidneys had taken such a hard hit from his surgery, Ken believed that his time was running short. He'd decided against dialysis. I doubted we'd be going anywhere far away ever again. And there was little at Cambridge to hold his interest.
Then one evening several months later, Ken surprised me.
"Remember your birthday when I asked if there was anything you still wanted to do? I've been thinking it over. I want to see the Rosetta Stone and Loch Ness. Think you could book us one last trip? Let's do it all... England, Wales, Scotland, maybe even Ireland."
I went to our computer and tapped away. "What luck," I announced. "There's a sale on flights to Heathrow right now. We have enough frequent flyer miles for one fare, and we can buy a second for half price if we go in March."
"Let's do it," Ken said. "We can get a BritRail pass, and take the trains everywhere."
"Except we'll need a ferry to get to Ireland," I replied, laughing.
So we went, expecting to do it all. A cryptographer while in the Air Force, Ken frequently mentioned his fascination with that ancient Egyptian stele, the Rosetta Stone. He managed the walk from our London hotel to the bus stop, but he sighed when we stepped off the double-decker in front of the British Museum.
"I can't take another step, baby. I'll just sit in the lobby."
I pointed to the collapsible wheelchairs by the entrance. "We've come all this way. You're going to see that Stone!"
He relented. "I guess you could push me here. Nobody we know is going to see me."
That was so like Ken. He placed great stock in keeping up appearances. Didn't want to look sick... didn't want to look frail... even when he was.
He made some last valiant efforts. When we toured the Guinness brewery in Dublin, Ken plodded up the ramp to the top floor. When we got to our B&B in Inverness, though, he dispatched me to fetch a takeaway curry, and acknowledged we'd need a taxi to meet the tour going to Loch Ness the next morning. He couldn't navigate the few blocks to their office on foot. But he grinned the entire time we boated across the lake, alert to glimpse the fabled Nessie. By the time we met up with old friends in Bristol a few days later, Ken claimed to be plain tuckered out. I could see the weariness in his eyes.
Once we returned home, we rarely went out, even to the movies. The last one we saw together was The Bucket List, where a pair of terminally-ill men travel the world with their final "to do" wish list.
"I guess seeing Loch Ness and the Rosetta Stone completed my bucket list," Ken said as we exited the Alpine Theatre. "You make certain you get to Cambridge University one day."
That autumn we learned Ken's eldest son would remarry. The wedding would be in Colorado Springs. Ken's other boys and all the grandkids planned to be there.
"I'd like to see my three sons together once again. Final bucket list request," he said.
"Would you agree to let me order wheelchairs for the Spokane and Denver airports?"
He hesitated for just one second. "Yes."
That was our final trip together. By Valentine's Day we learned that Ken now had cancer, as well as kidney failure. Tough to the last, he stayed at home, dogs flanking his recliner, until the end.
After he died I moped for months. Then I remembered what Ken had said. Despite reservations that at seventy-three I'd be too old to fit in with a college crowd, I applied for the 2010 Cambridge summer school. I selected three courses, all in Victorian literature and history. I especially looked forward to taking "Criminals and Gentlemen: the Victorian Underworld in Charles Dickens' Oliver Twist and Great Expectations."
The moment I set foot on the grounds of Cambridge's Selwyn College, where I'd live for two weeks, I felt at home. I loved studying in my Ann's Court dorm, and savoring supper in the dining hall. I wandered through this storied town that dates back to medieval days, sipped cider at the Anchor Pub on the banks of the River Cam and debated Dickens and Victorians with new friends of all ages, from dozens of countries. Most of all, I pondered the layered nuances of Great Expectations.
The novel's title alludes to inheritance, the expectation of a legacy. That's the literal meaning, from the moment a lawyer tells Pip, the hero, that he'll have money coming from an anonymous benefactor. The title's ironic, as well; it references Pip's other expectations, beyond that said fortune. Then there are the expectations that Pip believes others have of him, those great things he believes God or fate or his own conscience expect. The title even hints at what readers might expect when they read a Dickens novel.
I considered our own expectations. When Ken and I married in 2000 we didn't expect to come into a fortune. But we did well enough when I retired, selling a townhouse near Washington, D.C., and buying a country home in Northeast Washington State. Ken hadn't expected to travel, but we did, watching glaciers shard in Alaska's Inner Passage, photographing the Leaning Tower of Pisa, hefting steins at Munich's Oktoberfest.
I didn't expect to lose my husband so soon. But Ken left me a legacy, an appreciation for that "bucket list." I've fulfilled most of my personal expectations, writing my narrative essays and continuing with community service. And there's still some money left in that education award, so I'm not quite through with Cambridge.
I expect I'll return there this coming summer. I've even picked my course. It's "Napoleon and His Enemies." Now there was a man with great expectations!
http://www.chickensoup.com
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