Most anniversaries celebrate longevity and joy. Then there are the anniversaries that widows know. Where do you find something to celebrate or be joyful about there?

Each of us has our own way of converting all family memories into fond ones. These are mine.

The other day Carol announced she was going out. Back in a time that is now lost to history, she would have said simply: “I have to run to the store.” But since running to the store nowadays is a call to arms for the warrior class, Carol’s announcement carried the weight of a loved one deploying to Iraq.

One positive of the coronavirus quarantine is knowing that your spouse’s sudden preoccupation with the UPS guy is merely the result of increased online shopping. I’ve been struck by how many things we’re finding we need to buy, now that we can have it delivered instead of fighting traffic and mall crowds. And, yes, I understand that there are people who enjoy the bustle and interaction of traffic and crowds, especially after weeks of not being around them.

I’ve been 70 for a year now, which is perhaps a deceptive way of saying I’m now 71. Actually, I’ve been 71 for almost two months. Which, of course, is an offhand way of saying I’m going on 72.

We’d planned to meet for the first time on this day, two years ago. I’d fly in the evening before from Seattle, and meet Carol for a tour of the mission and then lunch in San Juan Capistrano. Flying standby and not wanting to risk not getting a seat on the last plane of the day, I arrived at the airport early the morning of May 3rd, and got a seat on the first flight out. That put me in California around 11:00 a.m., now a full day earlier than planned. Trying not to appear over eager, or worse, that I was bending the terms of our plans, I casually texted that I had arrived, and would hang out somewhere until I could check in to my hotel. Carol texted back: “Tell me why we’re not having lunch together?”

Carol watched as I completed fastening the top of one of the pergola posts to one of the cross supports. The idea of leaning the post on a steep slant by balancing it on our kitchen step stool in order to reach it and secure it to the cross support had been my idea. That way I could work at ground level and once fastened together, lift both the post and support back into an upright position. It was still a struggle to align the pieces correctly, but I finally succeeded.”I told you this would work,” I said smiling triumphantly.

It arrived in the middle of southern California’s first heat wave of the season. The directions to assemble read like an IKEA divorce decree. Ever the optimist, even Carol was doubtful. “I don’t think we can do this,” she said, as she surveyed the posts, arches, cross structures, staves, supports and enough hardware to start our own Ace is the place.

As I slowly morph into the couch I occupy daily, Carol strives to maintain social distancing from the spore of a mushroom I am inexorably becoming. The problem for her, I believe, is that she fears I’m not afraid of becoming “fungible” (to coin a new and unexpected meaning of the term), And in this, Carol is correct.

In 2017, Mike Madigan’s life ended abruptly on April 19 in a car accident. The end of Carolyn Marquardt’s life began on April 17th, with hospital treatment for a leukemia she was not to survive. For Carol and me, April has been the cruelest month for the past three years.