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Barbara Presnell: What wife does when husband is away Comment By Barbara Presnell More Content Now MailTribune.com By Barbara Presnell More Content Now Posted Apr. 21, 2015 at 7:50 AM By Barbara Presnell More Content Now Posted Apr. 21, 2015 at 7:50 AM » Social News Kate Chopin, the tortured and socially restricted author of “The Awakening,” also wrote a short story in the late 1900s that is considered a frontrunner in feminist literature. It’s called “The Story of an Hour.” In its opening paragraphs, a young woman named Louise Mallard receives the terrible news that a train wreck has killed everyone aboard. Her husband, Brently Mallard, was on that train. While her friends and neighbors gather downstairs, wondering how they will console her and how she will live through this terrible tragedy, Louise goes upstairs to her bedroom, throws open the windows and says, “Free! Free! Body and soul free!” The world outside her window is all sunshine and blue sky, and she’s invigorated by the life she’s about to live. But then comes another knock on the front door. It’s her husband, Brently. It seems he missed the train, and he is home safe. When Louise sees him, she collapses and dies. Doctors proclaim that she died “of heart disease — of the joy that kills.” Indeed. Now, it’s not the late 1900s, and my name is not Louise Mallard, but I have to admit that, when my husband climbed in the car and headed south for a week away, something in me was saying, “Free! Free!” I admit this because I know I’m not the only one who feels this way when suddenly the house is empty and my time is wonderfully my own. I can do what I want, eat what I want, fill my time outside of work with my own quirky idiosyncrasies. Understand that I am not unhappily married, nor do I feel confined at all by my long relationship with my husband. In fact, I love him deeply and completely. We have a good time together almost always, support and care for each other with devotion. Unlike Louise Mallard, I am not restricted by societal expectations to behave a certain way. And if anyone tries to so restrict me, they get a piece of my mind. Still, there is a gasp of fresh, clean air when suddenly the house is mine. That very day after he left, I headed straight to the grocery and bought a pint of chicken livers. I love chicken livers. I love the rich, livery flavor. I love them baked, with bread crumbs and a side of Brussels sprouts. He doesn’t like them. That was my first night. Day 2, I started watching “Jeopardy.” He thinks it’s a waste of time, and I think his televised stock reports are major sleepers, so the compromise is we don’t watch TV when we eat together. But when I’m alone in the house, Alex Trebek calls and I answer. It feels like a deviance. Day 3, it occurred to me I was talking non-stop to Arty, my emotionally challenged dog who follows me around the house like he’s connected with a string. I can tell him everything, and he listens to each word, his ears perked up, his face assuring me he understands and loves me no matter what. Day 4, I realized I was singing pretty much all the time. I like to sing. I get tunes in my head and mindlessly sing them over and over and over. I sing while I cook. I sing while I shower. I sing while I brush my teeth, tuning to the pitch of the electric toothbrush. Day 5, my friend Malcolm sent me an email. He’d been on a ski trip to Montana with his wife and three boys, but he’d come home ahead of them to teach his classes. “I’m alone in the house,” he said. “Two days of NOT MAKING THE BED.” He spelled it in all caps, just like that. “Not making the bed?” I emailed back. “This is what you do when she’s gone? Is this a gender thing?” When I’m alone, I make the bed obsessively, neatly, corners turned, wrinkles smoothed. “Must be,” he responded. Malcolm confessed he was also obsessively talking to the dogs, except they followed him only twice a day, in the morning and again at night, and they stopped following him as soon as he filled their bowls. It was Day 6 before I realized the most amazing thing about my week alone: There was no basketball. No 24-7 tournament or March Madness games that tend to rattle my brain and make me madder than a hatter. I came home in the afternoons to a blissfully quiet house. Malcolm and I acknowledged what goes unsaid here: that we wouldn’t trade our noisy, family-filled houses for anything. A few days is heaven. But a week is enough. Anyway, I’d filled up on chicken livers, “Jeopardy” had been preempted by basketball games, and even Arty was starting to ignore me. I think if only poor Louise Mallard could have had a week completely to herself now and then, chances are her heart would be still be ticking. Barbara Presnell is a poet and teacher of writing who lives in Lexington, North Carolina. Contact her at barbarapresnell.com . By Barbara Presnell More Content Now MailTribune.com By Barbara Presnell More Content Now Posted Apr. 21, 2015 at 7:50 AM » Comment or view comments Reader Reaction » STAY INFORMED Email NewsLetter Sign Up Today Sign up for our newsletter and have the top headlines from your community delivered right to your inbox. Southern Oregon Directory Featured Businesses Loading... 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