May 8
The cold weather has definitely passed. It hit sixty-five degrees today— Spring has returned! Water drips from the roof as the snow melts. That means our solar panels will begin generating again. No way would I climb onto the roof in a foot of snow to brush them off. That seems like a good way to fall off and break one’s back. Besides, I’m scared of heights. I have a difficult time getting up on the roof even in the summer when it’s not slippery.
The wind turbine has continued spinning in the constant wind. I love to see it turn: I know that’s money we won’t have to pay when the power bill comes.
Thanks to the weather, Sarah and I have been spending an unusual amount of time together, indoors. It gives us time to talk and think, hopefully not in that order.
This morning, I asked her something that’s been on my mind ever since she mentioned the flags at half mast. “Do you ever regret that we didn’t have kids?” I asked. She gave me a quizzical look. “Why, do you?” she asked, turning it back on me. “I don’t know,” I said. “I never thought I did. But lately, I find myself wondering…” “What?” she prompted. “It’s strange,” I said, trying to pull my thoughts together. “It’s the war, I guess. I wonder if we’re missing something by not risking the life of our sons and daughters. You know, I thought yesterday about how those parents must feel who’d lost a child in the war. I don’t think they probably feel very patriotic about it. A child is a child, and it’s got to hurt to lose one no matter what the cause.” “And you think we’re missing something because we haven’t loved in that way?” she asked, putting words to my feelings far better than I had.
“I guess that’s it,” I said. “Only I’m not sure whether we might be better people if we had. Maybe we’ve avoided a normal and necessary part of being human.” Sarah thought about that for a while. Then she said, “I don’t think we’re any less human. At least I hope not. I think we just experience and express it differently because we made different choices.” “You don’t regret not having a child?” I asked. “No,” she replied. “But I’m selfish. If we had a child, we’d have less time for each other, and for ourselves. Besides, I never thought I’d make a very good parent.” I gazed at her for a long moment. Then I smiled. “Well, you make a great wife,” I said. “I’m glad we chose the way we did. We’ve got a good life.”
“Yes, we do,” she agreed.
This morning, I asked her something that’s been on my mind ever since she mentioned the flags at half mast. “Do you ever regret that we didn’t have kids?” I asked. She gave me a quizzical look. “Why, do you?” she asked, turning it back on me. “I don’t know,” I said. “I never thought I did. But lately, I find myself wondering…” “What?” she prompted. “It’s strange,” I said, trying to pull my thoughts together. “It’s the war, I guess. I wonder if we’re missing something by not risking the life of our sons and daughters. You know, I thought yesterday about how those parents must feel who’d lost a child in the war. I don’t think they probably feel very patriotic about it. A child is a child, and it’s got to hurt to lose one no matter what the cause.” “And you think we’re missing something because we haven’t loved in that way?” she asked, putting words to my feelings far better than I had.
“I guess that’s it,” I said. “Only I’m not sure whether we might be better people if we had. Maybe we’ve avoided a normal and necessary part of being human.” Sarah thought about that for a while. Then she said, “I don’t think we’re any less human. At least I hope not. I think we just experience and express it differently because we made different choices.” “You don’t regret not having a child?” I asked. “No,” she replied. “But I’m selfish. If we had a child, we’d have less time for each other, and for ourselves. Besides, I never thought I’d make a very good parent.” I gazed at her for a long moment. Then I smiled. “Well, you make a great wife,” I said. “I’m glad we chose the way we did. We’ve got a good life.”
“Yes, we do,” she agreed.
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