"Black Widow," as published in The Pickens County Progress on 5/19/2011

“A father to the fatherless, a defender of widows, is God. He sets the lonely in families.”
Psalm 68:5, 6 NIV

"Black Widow"

By Bettina Huseby

Times, they are a-changing. Defining what’s proper must keep social experts like Miss Manners indisposed, with a cool rag on her forehead. I made a Facebook page and then took it back down. I couldn’t define who was “friends” and who was “family.” I’m a grass widow, whose husband is alive and well, but we’re separated, divorced, or somewhere messy in-between. A true widow is a dirt widow, who’s separated from her beloved by six feet of red Georgia clay.

My best girlfriend in book-form, Jill Conner Browne, notes that both widows feel exactly the same, but the dirt widow gets better treatment. She’s fed, pampered and petted. Widows like me are lucky to get a black cupcake and a bouquet of roses with the blooms cut off.

My burden is the midlife task of wading through grief and finding a job. Raising my chilluns and husband into adulthood aren’t transferrable job skills. So it was off to trade school.

Book-learning isn’t easy when it’s interrupted by hot flashes. I was tempted to grab the first man to come along who still drew a paycheck. But married women can relax! Your husbands are perfectly safe. The smart grass widow doesn’t want half of your husbands; she wants a whole one of her very own. And her taste in men will change as she changes. She could even decide to fly solo.

You know, since Miss Manners is feeling so poorly, I’d be happy to speak on behalf of widows everywhere and squelch a few false rumors. My life is not as glamorous as it seems. I spend most of my time at home talking to Wilson, my soccer ball. I sleep alone; lest you count the many doggies who chew the covers, mouth-breathe and snore.

If you have growing concerns for my sanity, a blind date fix-up would be great, but remember I’m a woman, not a pack mule. My neighbors invited me to church for some “Godly man shopping.” But here was the husband’s pitch: He said, “Any guy would be lucky to get a strong, hard-working woman like you.” I said, “Stop, Mickey. You’re making me blush!”

But truthfully, my neighbors are great. They feed me. They visit me. A mystery man takes my trash cans to the street. And someone is sneaking over to mow my lawn, but the skinny little fellow gets away before I can I.D. him. You might say he’s the grass widow’s grass cutter. He knows that charity isn’t a tax deduction. It’s a verb.

Times may be a-changing for the better. I ought to put that Facebook page back up again. There are a bunch of new “friends” and “family” for me to list, once I learn all their names.