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An October Day, An Eternal Message
Ruth and I had been married for 52 years. When you’ve been with someone that long, you almost develop your own language. Like the way Ruth and I said “One, two, four” when counting off before jumping in a pool or moving a piece of furniture. There was no reason to leave out the three—it was just one of our little quirks.
For 20 years, we lived on the Gulf coast of Florida. But it was at our secluded summer cabin in the woods of western Pennsylvania that we felt most at peace. We spent many afternoons strolling in the woods, feeding nuts to the chipmunks and laughing at their antics. Funny how it was those small shared moments that made us feel closest.
When Ruth was diagnosed with breast cancer early in 1992, I took her up to my brother’s house in Pennsylvania. My brother and his wife were there to help out, and his place was not far from our cabin. I spent every moment with my bedridden wife. She’d put her thin arms around my neck, and together we’d say “One, two, four” before I helped her sit up in bed so we could gaze out the window at the woods in which we’d spent so many happy times.
Ruth died on September 15 of that year. After the funeral, I went to our cabin alone. God, I just wish I could feel my wife with me one more time, I prayed, share just one more laugh.
On October 13 I woke up and walked into the bathroom. In the sink lay a single peanut. That’s strange. There were no peanuts anywhere in the cabin and no windows nearby through which an animal could have come in and dropped the nut.
Next morning it happened again. This time two peanuts were in the sink. Where could they be coming from? I wondered. I searched the entire cabin but still couldn’t figure out the source of the peanuts.
The next day was October 15, exactly one month since Ruth’s passing. That morning I found more peanuts in the bathroom sink—four of them.
I had to laugh. And I knew Ruth would have too. One, two, four.
Blake C. Logue
Submitted by Richard
Ruth and I had been married for 52 years. When you’ve been with someone that long, you almost develop your own language. Like the way Ruth and I said “One, two, four” when counting off before jumping in a pool or moving a piece of furniture. There was no reason to leave out the three—it was just one of our little quirks.
For 20 years, we lived on the Gulf coast of Florida. But it was at our secluded summer cabin in the woods of western Pennsylvania that we felt most at peace. We spent many afternoons strolling in the woods, feeding nuts to the chipmunks and laughing at their antics. Funny how it was those small shared moments that made us feel closest.
When Ruth was diagnosed with breast cancer early in 1992, I took her up to my brother’s house in Pennsylvania. My brother and his wife were there to help out, and his place was not far from our cabin. I spent every moment with my bedridden wife. She’d put her thin arms around my neck, and together we’d say “One, two, four” before I helped her sit up in bed so we could gaze out the window at the woods in which we’d spent so many happy times.
Ruth died on September 15 of that year. After the funeral, I went to our cabin alone. God, I just wish I could feel my wife with me one more time, I prayed, share just one more laugh.
On October 13 I woke up and walked into the bathroom. In the sink lay a single peanut. That’s strange. There were no peanuts anywhere in the cabin and no windows nearby through which an animal could have come in and dropped the nut.
Next morning it happened again. This time two peanuts were in the sink. Where could they be coming from? I wondered. I searched the entire cabin but still couldn’t figure out the source of the peanuts.
The next day was October 15, exactly one month since Ruth’s passing. That morning I found more peanuts in the bathroom sink—four of them.
I had to laugh. And I knew Ruth would have too. One, two, four.
Blake C. Logue
Submitted by Richard
