Letter From America: Gayless in Troy
Ronnie Bray finds himself alone in his Montana home - and realises he should never again be parted from his beloved wife Gay.
When I took off for a week in Florida last year to join up with Jo and Nick, and the Fab Four who hail from Telford, I enjoyed myself immensely, but notwithstanding that Laura came up from Oregon to stay with Gay.
We felt the pain of separation so bitterly that we swore off ever spending time apart again. Even so, we relented and forced ourselves to do it again later in the year when Gay’s number one son, Kirt, was visiting Portland, Oregon, on business, because it meant that three of Gay’s four children would be within striking distance of each other.
Thus it was that she flew down to spend a week with them. Once again, we found being apart was more than we could stand, so we reaffirmed our determination never to be parted again under any circumstances.
However, a couple of weeks ago, when Jeanie, mother of the celebrated Troy Triplets, said she was flying down to Mesa Arizona to see her Dad and his wife who were returning from their mission at the Mormon Kirtland historical site in Ohio, and invited Gay to make the journey, I was surprised to find myself urging my reluctant darling to go with her niece and visit her son Mark and his sweet family.
Gay protested, citing the Non-separation Treaty we wrote on the tables of our hearts in our own blood, its major clause being that we would not, under any circumstances, be parted again until the visit of the Grim Reaper. Even then, we will want to negotiate a double-header with the spectre auguste!
Nevertheless, I calmed her to some extent by pointed out the advantages of the excursion, chief of which was that she would see five of her grandchildren, each of which has grown exponentially since we last laid our peepers on them two years since.
After more assurance, some of it bland, and some of it baroque – I was desperate for her to have this benison – she let me go online and get her an aeroplane ticket, and that was that.
The day of her going came. The nearer it got to the time of her leaving, the more unsettled she became, we shed a few tears. I comforted her, assuring her that the days would fly by because she would be kept engaged being entertained by the grands in Mark’s performance-oriented family, and by seeing girlhood friends who had gathered some important figures from her past life in the South West. They would visit the Temple, have a sumptuous repast, catch up with their lives and loves, and they would shop!
Still entertaining misgivings, she clambered aboard Jeanie’s Chevy Suburban.
Once she was seated, we said our tearful goodbyes. With the Suburban's wheels spinning on our iced over car park, Jeanie headed the rig towards Spokane airport, two states and a hundred and sixty odd miles away.
The drive to the airport took as long as the flight to Phoenix, being plagued by a traffic-stopping snowstorm that reduced visibility to the end of the driver’s eyelashes as they drove off the high mountains in the Idaho Panhandle, and into the flat Spokane River Valley of eastern Washington State.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, the house was suddenly quiet. Our two Border Collies lay down on the floor and went to sleep. As noon approached, I bundled them into our rig and drove into Libby to take care of some business and do a bit of shopping. Roseaur’s had a special offer on hot dog sausages and sliced meats – both of which our dogs adore - and I had to clear their shelves of them!
When we drove back onto our property, things just didn’t seem right. We went in and were met by the eerie silence that filled that the house. My Gay was not there!
As the afternoon wore on, I became increasingly uneasy. By teatime, I was counting my legs for something to do.
Such is my skill in mathematics that I counted them eight times - and got eight different answers!
I looked at the dogs for sympathy and understanding. They looked straight back at me, but neither of them spoke.
I telephoned Gay that night. She reported that they had had a good journey apart from the snowstorm, a good flight into the unremitting sun, had arrived on time, been well met, and then been swiftly delivered to their temporary abodes. She was enjoying the kids and grandkids, but missing me as much as I missed her.
By ten o’clock that night, I knew we had made another grave mistake, and that we needed to abandon solo jaunts. The words Milton penned about the Nazarite’s end in Samson Agonistes tumbled into my mind as I walked the lonely corridor toward our deserted bedroom. He describes Samson as:
Eyeless in Gaza;
at the mill with slaves .
The chilling words cut to the core of my bones. In that moment, I knew exactly how isolated and forlorn the hero felt! Roll on next Wednesday when my eyes and my heart come back home.
