Remembering Nancy II: . . .after the lovin'

10:48pm. I lean back into my padded desk chair. Flex my shoulders and stretch my back. I rub my eyes and yawn. Lift my arms and stretch. It's all in there: safely posted. Another yawn. A grin.

'Sbeen a looong day. Early morning light: overcast with blowing wisps of flaky snow. Weather-Channel forecast: blizzard. Ran some quick errands while I could still get out and back. Plowed back up the drive around 9:30am. Left long tracks of packed snow stuck behind me on the driveway: "Damn! That'll take some extra elbow grease."

10:05am. Late breakfast-early lunch. Coffee and toast with strawberry jam. Snow stopped.

Into sweat-clothes, hooded sweat-shirt, light-jacket, and boots. Heavy gloves. Feathery-light-Snow, maybe four inches deep. Drifted 6-8 inches in places.

Quick decision. Shovel instead of snow-blower. Rising breeze. Blower'd just throw it high and back into my face.

My drive winds back over a hundred feet. Terminates in a huge pad in front of three garage doors. But I like to shovel. Takes me back to my boyhood. Today this workout in the fresh air'll replace my scheduled Day4, yoga, Airdyne, weight-bench workout.

Fresh air thrown in for free.

Snow's light. Rolls up high, piles forward and to the sides as I take my first furrow right down the center of the pad, some thirty feet to where it narrows into the 12-foot-wide drive. Two furrows down the center. Then a series of chunks to each side, until the pad's clear. I check my watch: 16 minutes. Not bad for an old guy. Unhurried, too.

By now I'm all-cozy-warm inside my snow-throw gear. The pad done, I toss my jacket onto the deck-lid of my car and throw back the hood of my sweat-shirt. My dew-rag's wet. But I'm feeling all strong, so I set a reasonable pace with the shovel. Start with the drive.

By habit I clear the drive in three sections. Six long strides makes a furrow down the center of the first third of the driveway. On the way back toward the house I toss the first shovel-loads beyond the sides of the drive. Quick-turn, and on the way toward the road I clear the rest.

Third pass: swishaCHUNKswishaCHUNK. Slowly, deliberately -- the the shovel slides swiftly along the concrete, chunks into the old snow-piles at the margin of the drive. This new snow arcs up over the old snow and slides clear. The rhythmic SwishaCHUNK satisfies. Kinda like dancing.

I straighten at the end of this first third. Bend low, reach high. Flex my lower back and twist side to side. My mind drifts.

I'm with Nancy. It's early morning. It's after the lovin'. The sky's pink, peeking through closed slats in the Venetian blinds. We're middle of the bed, facing each other on our sides -- arms and legs tangled close, foreheads together. Noses side-by-side. Lips touching at one corner. Breathing each other in.

Nancy bobs her head gently. A quick buss. Her left eyelid flickers on my right one. She snuggles closer. Eyes closed. Her breathing softens, evens out. A soft murmur: "I love you, Robby." Then a slight shoulder shrug. Wiggles in close as she can get.

My heavy breathing tapers off. One more deep breath and a long contented sigh. I wiggle my nose on hers, pull our tangled arms closer, press my chest against her breasts, and breathe deeply.

Shalimar and Right Guard. The taste of her sweet perspiration on my lips: "I love you more. So much more." I know it's true.

There's the perfect song for this moment dodgin-round in my head, but I can't catch the words exactly -- I grope around, then, mostly humming, I softly sing to her:

"Laah-dah-Dum'-dah-dah-Dum' after the lovin', I brush back the hair from your eyes. And the look on your face is so dah-dum' that I wanna cry. Dah-dah-Dum'-dah-dah'-Dum, every thing that I'm feelin'-dah-dah-dum,dah-dah-dum,dah-dah-dum, But I love you so much, THAT your face dah-dah-Dum gets me high. (Then up for the bridge) Thanks for takin' me, on a one-way trip to the stars. . . ." (more dum-da-dee-dums, then finally the words I've been tryna find): "After the lovin' I'm still in love with you."

She kisses my forehead. Presses her cheek down hard on the spot, and sighs.

And I think in that moment: Engelburt got that so right! And it's true. So true. And astonishingly real. Just like the song says. Whoever wrote that love-lyric trulyTRULY loved. Truly loved somebody. Just like I do Nancy. Just like we love.

The image fades slowly. And I'm back in the snow. I move along methodically, the shovel moves smoothly. I hum along, throwing the snow -- new-light-white streaks arc up over the old piles along the drive. Now I'm humming softly as I work.

SwishaCHUNK-swishaCHUNK, after the lovin'. . . . Down and back twice each side completes the second third of the drive. Swisha-CHUNK-swisha-CHUNK, after the lovin', on I go.

Lips all dry. "Lah-Dah Dum'-dahdah-Dum'. . . ." Now I'm cutting into the last segment of the drive. Working slowly, methodically. I concentrate, stay in touch with my body, keep my heart-rate reasonable. Break a sweat. Now and then Nancy flickers in my mind. Makes me smile. I keep on swish-a-humming along smoothly.



Doc Milly pulls in next door just as I complete the drive and move on through the mailbox run. She waves and smiles. Walks toward me, stomping her feet, tryna keep snow off her light shoes.

"Hiya Robby! Been workin' long?" Mid-sentence she becomes Doc Willy. She looks me over, up&down. Moves close and places the palm of her hand center of my damp sweatshirt to the left of my breast-bone. Her eyes narrow and turn to the side. I watch her count for about half a minute. Then she slides her hand upward and lightly presses my carotid artery.

She smiles, having discovered what I've been watching closely as I throw snow: heart-rate and respiration within normal range. No outward signs of developing stress. . . .

Now the Doc's searching my face. Checking my eyes for some reason, I guess: "No pains? Chest? Back? Triceps?" Her eyes narrow and she cocks her head in that take-charge, no-nonsense way she has that always makes me feel all mother-loved and all doctored-up.

She's far away from her real dad in Indiana, who's just my age. I'm the surrogate. I don't mind, either. Since Nancy's gone, I'm about fresh outa anybody to worry about and cluck over. Fresh outa anybody close around, caring about me, too.

Satisfied, she grins. . . let's it grow into my favorite-daughter-Milly-Smile.

I smile back real big: "How'd-yer night go?"

"Midnight through early light, OKAY! Late-morning kinda rough. Snows bad fer some older guyz. (rhymes it with Geez!) Didn't lose any though. Pains in the chest 'n down the back of their left arms. Came in all scared. NoneUv'EmCollapsed. So that's good. Business was SUUUper-goooooood!"

She draws it out like that and grins like mischief. I cluck at her and give the old index-finger rub: for shame.

That makes her chuckle: " Can't work for free all the time."

She grins real big and continues: "You're my only charity case." Another quick look up&down, like making sure I'm all fit. "John made some reeeely good cheesy-chicken-tomato soup last night. Saved some for you. Rich, thick golden stuff. You'll love it."

She starts to turn away, then turns back: "Yer all done here." She gives me a high-skedaddle-hand-wave, ducks her head to show she means business, meanwhile checking her wrist watch: "Clean-UP! I'll be over with yer soup in about ten minutes. ' Sal-most lunchtime!"

I watch her disappear up her drive, into her garage.

I'm feelin' good. Drive's all done. Milly's coming with lunch. I've got the crackers-n-cheese. Some hot tea, too.

And I've got a story in my head. Life's good!

I turn toward the house. Midway up the driveway, Nancy flickers in my mind: After the lovin', I'm still in love with yoooooooh.

And I am. I DO. I touch my breast-bone: Got-Nancy-right-here-all-snug. . . .