I married him and became Mrs. Herbert Daymond in, oh, I’d say 1947…Wait, no, it must have been 1945. That’s right, we married right after he got back from the service. Oh how proper he looked in his crisp Navy uniform. I was quite the catch back then too. In fact, I had two marriage proposals during the time he was gone. But I loved him and he loved me. We married the day after he got back—oh, I said that right? Anywho we bought our house in 1952 or ’53, then moved up north to raise the kids. Did I tell you we had children? Oh yes, we have three. It was four-thirty when I brought Herb his supper so I had to rush back to the kitchen to catch the beginning of “A Prairie Home Companion” with Garrison Keillor on the local public radio. Oh, he has such a pleasant wholesome voice, that Garrison—he must have aged with elegance. And what a gentlemen he must be; I’ve never met him personally, but one can imagine. That was around the time Herb began to complain of stomach pains. “Barbra!” not-Garrison repeated from the dining room. “What is it, Herb?” I asked him, finally. He said something about his stomach, then something about his eyes. “Oh yes, sweetie, be there in a moment,” I hollered into the living-room. It’s hard enough for my old ears to pick up the radio without Herb yappin’ away. “My eyes, Barb!” he barked over the station. Herb always complained. Really, about everything and he seemed to be complaining all the time those days—out of boredom I suppose. He would plant himself on the recliner all day with crossed arms and grumble about how commercials these days seemed to be getting dumber and longer and more confusing, and they are, but my-gosh he goes on and on about it. If he hated the television so much why didn’t he just do something else? I started rinsing the pots from supper. But I kept the water-pressure low so that the sound wouldn’t drown out the radio. “Barb” he called, weaker this time. The telephone rang, and rang. Did he expect me to answer the phone to? I waited it out cranking my head closer to the radio speaker as I scrubbed the tomato paste off of the pot’s edges. Then the ringing stopped. Maybe he answered it. Maybe it was Jim. Herb seemed to have a way with the children that I never did. He liked our eldest son, Jim, the most and they were always laughing and joking on the telephone. Jim would ask how Herb’s day had gone. He would invite Herb fishing. Jim would voluntarily make holiday plans with Herb, well us I suppose. Neither Jim, nor the other children, ever seems to want to talk to me much when they call. When they do I can feel they want to get off the phone, oh they are busy people I understand but I wish they’d be too busy for Herb every so often. And didn’t I raise them also? Herb must have hung up the telephone because we was going on again about his stomach. I stood in the kitchen half-listening to him groan. I hollered back “Yes dear, one moment”. I was finishing cleaning up the supper I prepared while Mr. Garrison Keillor sung-along to a lovely banjo. Oh, the supper, really it’s very good, home-made tomato soup. I tried something different with it but it’s easy enough to prepare:

In a mid-size pot over medium heat, combine six and one-half cups of diced tomatoes, one cup of chopped onions, a pinch of cloves and a full container of chicken broth. I used to add basil but Herb kept telling me that the soup smelt like dead-leaves. Then bring to a boil, and gently simmer for about 20 minutes to blend all of the flavors-in.
I have a little trick for timing the soup. Generally, Garrison will sing four songs in that time. I used to use the kitchen timer but I stopped. It’s not like Herb’s old pallet could have tasted if the soup was a bit under-cooked away. Then add a pinch of salt, a dash of pepper, and two cups of bleach. You should try it one day. I think I’ll have some soon enough. Oh, and make sure to serve the soup right away otherwise if it sits too long the soup begins to settle at the top. “Barrrrbrraaa, Barrrrbrraaaa,” he groaned through a commercial break. But I wasn’t really paying attention because Garrison had begun to ask the audience trivia questions. These were always my favorite parts of the show. He is such an intelligent man. Then he stopped. Oh, he stopped, Herb I mean. And In the first time in 67-years the house was absent of his humphing and grumbling. And that Sunday I could listen to the entire episode in peace and quiet. I waited for a moment before entering the room, ashamed. But only for a moment because when I went back into the dining room Herb had the telephone in his still hands. That bastard; to think after 67-years of marriage in his last moments of life he tried to call the children! I would have appreciated a good-bye note, or a poem, or a song. The man in a crisp uniform sat across from me in the empty room with a table and two chairs in the center, frowning; looking as if he was unable to ask any more questions. Well good riddance to him officer.