I have never had a driver's license; this has been somewhat a strain on Cliff's love for me, since it requires his taking me to the grocery store, to the doctor, and other necessary places. But after almost forty years, he's used to it. He makes sure he has some reading material along to make the time pass faster while he waits for me.
Throughout the years, I've often been asked, "What will you do if something happens to Cliff?"
In the last ten years or so, I've come up with an answer, and it is, indeed, my plan, should Cliff die before I do: I'll sell this place and everything on it and move to senior citizen housing in a town fifteen miles from here. The apartments there are close to the grocery store and the library, and there are plenty of churches I could attend. My doctor's office is there. I'd have my computer, and I'd be fine.
Once I had decided on this plan, I worried no more; and I had an answer for that inevitable question everyone asks when they find out I don't drive.
However, last weekend I found out Cliff's younger sister doesn't like this plan. She's sure I'd be miserable without my cabin and the horse, and my country home. She doesn't realize that without Cliff, this place would mean nothing to me... not to mention the fact that it would go back to brush and weeds, which is how much of it was when we acquired it. It takes a lot of money for upkeep on a farm, even a hobby farm. Money a widow wouldn't have.
I lived in apartments in Kansas City for over three years, between my graduation and my marriage. I was content, except I wished for someone to love me. But I don't mind living in the city, or a small town, or any environment, really. There are pretty sunrises and sunsets anywhere you go.
Back to Cliff's sister: she and her husband live in a house on an acreage in the country, and she has decided I must move in with them, should poor Cliff die first (he was listening to all this, and getting rather distressed that we were making plans for his untimely demise). She refuses to see me living in a cramped-up apartment in town.
There are a couple of things wrong with her idea: First of all, the only way I'd get along with anyone living in the same house is if I had my own seperate quarters; I'm a slob, and I need my space. But here's the kicker: Charlene, although she's fourteen years younger than I am, has severe asthma. She barely makes it through each winter. If I were a betting person, I'd wager that I'll outlive her.
But you know, it makes me feel good that someone is that concerned about me.
Meanwhile, Cliff wonders what everyone knows that he doesn't, since we all seem to be forseeing his death.