The fudge

I used to make fudge every year for Christmas. It started about 15 years ago when I needed to bring something to the office Christmas party. I discovered I had a talent for it. I would do it the old-fashioned way with sugar and not marshmallow creme.

Over the years, though trial and error, I added my own twists. I did a slow boil rather than a quick one to get the texture smoother. I experimented with how much vanilla to put in. I settled on pecans instead of walnuts. I got really good at making fudge.

Eventually, even though I took it into the office, I was doing it for myself because a) I was good at it; b) I got compliments and c) when I got it wrong I got to eat the mistakes.

Then Deb came along, and I started making the fudge for her. She looked forward to it, knowing not only she'd get to take it into her office and get the compliments, but knowing she'd share in the mistake batches and even scrape the bowl for every little bit of chocolaty goodness.

Then she was gone. I tried to make fudge that first year, but it wasn't right. I followed the recipe, tried all my tricks, but it just wasn't right.

I haven't made any since.

This year I made ginger snaps. I took them into the office, and when one co-worker saw I was handing out treats, he said, "All right, Chong made fudge!"

I had to tell him I hadn't. I hadn't made an announcement or anything that I wasn't making them because Deb was gone. I just sort of presumed people would figure it out on their own.

Then he started going on about the fudge. About how it was better than another co-worker's specialty. How he missed it.

And I'm thinking maybe it's time to make the fudge again.

It may be time to give it another try. It may not be the same as it was before. It may never be better than that. But it's probably time to see whether I still have the knack.

By the way, I'm not going for any metaphors here. I'm not trying to substitute "making fudge" for "going on a date" or "finding true love." I waited 35 years for the right one, and I'm prepared to wait another 35 for someone remotely comparable to her.

It's just ... maybe it's time.

The 2nd best birthday present

The best present, of course, was meeting Deb.

The second best was a Red Ryder BB gun. I was 25 at the time. Mom finally figured I was ready to handle the responsibility.

True story.

Over my shoulder

So last night I was watching "Good Will Hunting," which I hadn't seen in years, and it gets to the part where Robin Williams is cutting Matt Damon down to size for thinking he knows everything because he's read a lot. Everything was ok until he got to this line:

I'd ask you about love, you'd probably quote me a sonnet. But you've never looked at a woman and been totally vulnerable. Known someone that could level you with her eyes, feeling like God put an angel on earth just for you. Who could rescue you from the depths of hell. And you wouldn't know what it's like to be her angel, to have that love for her, be there forever, through anything, through cancer. And you wouldn't know about sleeping sitting up in the hospital room for two months, holding her hand, because the doctors could see in your eyes, that the terms "visiting hours" don't apply to you. You don't know about real loss, 'cause it only occurs when you've loved something more than you love yourself. And I doubt you've ever dared to love anybody that much.

It leveled me to the ground, like the first 10 minutes of "Up" floors me. I had to turn off the movie. I spent the rest of the night mopish. If anyone else had been around, I wouldn't have been fun to be around.

Today I went to Big Cat Rescue. I've had a bug to see places around the area I haven't gotten around to seeing even though I've been here five years. I don't want to be like the guy who lives in New York his whole life and never gets to the Statue of Liberty.

I'm walking with the tour group, and suddenly I get a feeling someone's standing behind me over my left shoulder. I turn around and no one's there. I shrug and move on.

A couple of minutes later, it happens again. Again a shrug.

The third time it happens, it clicked.

I don't think I have to spell it out. She loved cats, especially big ones. And she never could stand to see me sad.

By the way, Big Cat Rescue is a great place. If you're ever in Tampa, it's a must see.

Four years on: 10 observations

1. I just realized today that Deb died five years after 9/11, so for the rest of my life the landmark anniversaries of that day, like next year's 10th, will also be a landmark for me, like next year's 5th. Since I'm bad with dates, this is frighteningly useful to me.

2. I often dream that Deb is still alive, and I always become aware of it being a dream. I always shrug and just go with it.

3. Four years can seem like an eternity and a moment at the same time. It seems like forever since I held her, but only a moment since we said goodbye.

4. The gas bill is still in her name. It was going to be a hassle to change it over, so I just left it. It don't bother them, it don't bother me.

5. I still watch movies and videos and think, "She would've loved this." The latest one: Disney's "Alice in Wonderland" synced to Pink Floyd's "The Wall." As both a Disney and a Floyd nut, she would approve.

6. After we got married, someone picked up the cloth rose petals that were tossed in front of her and gave them to us. Since then, whenever I take a vacation out of the country I leave a petal in each place I visit. So far, there are petals in Jamaica, Belize, Mexico, Grand Turk and Honduras.

7. Since we got married in my mom's trailer, we never really had a first dance. The only time I remember us dancing is at Barenaked Ladies concerts to "Call and Answer," so I guess that would be our song.

8. I've put away most of the stuff of hers I kept, but I always keep her coat on the coatrack by the door.

9. I still have the first present she ever got me: a book called "The Vigilantes of Montana." I have no idea why she thought I'd be interested in that. I've never read it.

10. I still wear a couple of her T-shirts.

Still miss you, Sweetie., and still love you.

Happy birthday, you

Hey, Sweetie.

You would've turned 45 today. And you wouldn't have appreciated me saying that officially makes you "my old lady." But I doubt you would've minded after we got back from Disney World and I took you to your favorite restaurant, The Front Porch, for dinner.

Best of all, we would've been one year closer to getting that place in Colorado, the one we could see the sun setting over the mountains from our own front porch, rocking the day away.

Miss you.
Tim