Bittersweet

Why bittersweet, I wonder, not sweetbitter? How did this compound noun come to be created in this order, putting painful first and pleasurable second? (Yes, yes, I could open my OD of English Etymology to delve into the history of the word and perhaps discover a suggestion as to why it’s constructed this way . . . but that will only lead me down a rabbit hole . . . .)

I was thinking about the exact definition of “bittersweet” yesterday as my new step-dog and I walked a (tiny, tiny) portion of the Bruce Trail. 

I was trying to focus on living in the exact moment - truly appreciating the last of the bright autumn trees, the crunch of fallen maple leaves we were walking on, the difference in temperature between the sun and shade. 

But earlier I had read the BBC’s explanation as to why they don’t use the word “terrorist” after several Guardian articles about the Israel-Hamas war, so my mind kept circling back to the power of language.

When I passed a map of the entire Bruce Trail my first thought was, “Oh, Doug would have loved this walk.” I don’t know how much of it he walked - he lived in Southern Ontario for most of his life but I remember many stories about hikes in Algonquin Park, none about this trail. Still, my thought process was sweet first - then bitter - then sweet again.

We loved planning long walks in the UK, we loved the walks themselves, we loved having walked them. Hours spent pouring over maps & making picnic lunches, hours walking, hours reminiscing about the highlights of the walk. Win-win-win. 

I used to want to walk every mile of every walk, start to finish, including every side trail. Doug taught me to relax a little - and jump on a steam train for a mile of two, go off on a tangent at the risk of missing a few miles of the exact path, spend longer in a museum or at a ruin or foraging for mushrooms or berries, or admiring a view - then make up the difference with a bus at the end of the day if necessary. Once day we stopped for “just an hour” at an airplane museum in Carlisle because it was marked on the OS map. We spent the entire morning there.

I was reminded of that visit when David and I were in Germany last month. We went to the Technik Museum in Sinsheim; I had no idea how big a collection it was, or how fascinating I would find it. In four plus hours we barely scratched the surface. I sent Doug a postcard - even knowing he can’t read it, or even understand it when it's read to him. I was here, I thought of you, I thought of us. In this way I can witness what we had, what we’ve lost, and what I have. 

And how incredibly lucky am I to be able to turn to David and say, 'Doug would love this,' knowing that David will understand? 

That was the week of September 11th. For the first 17 years after the hurricane, I woke on September 11th every year and thought “Ivan.” Last year I was on holiday with my Mum, and the significance of the date didn’t register until mid-morning. This year it was late afternoon before I realized what day it was. It’s possible there will come a time when the entire day will pass without my acknowledging Ivan (though unlikely because that is also the date of 9/11, and the news coverage of that anniversary reminds me of my own before/ after life-changing moment).

In the library this week I picked up a novel in which a Caribbean hurricane plays a part in both scene-setting and plot. For many years I would have put it down again, but this week I checked it out. I may even read it before it’s due back. 

Thanksgiving Monday - another day of ‘remember whens.’ I was lucky enough to spend the day with my dear friend, Donna. We reminisced about Thanksgiving 2019 which we spent with our husbands and another couple. 

Doug moved into long term care soon afterwards, and the two other husbands have both since passed. Despite the many changes in our lives since that meal only four years ago, Donna and I are both still thankful for fundamentally the same things now as then. Sweet  . . . bitter . . . sweet.