My daughter and her husband are separated at the moment, because his work has taken him half a world away. She and their boys will be joining him at the end of the school term, which is three months away. She was telling me he is very lonely and hates it. He doesn’t know anyone in a strange country and is living in a rented apartment  and eating meals in a restaurant. Meanwhile, she’s back in Canada trying to manage three boys and a big house and school and hockey practices and would kill for a restaurant meal. We wondered together why men can’t be alone.

My father (may he rest in peace) married the first woman to cross his path after my mother passed away. I know he was panicked at the thought of having to spend weeks, let alone years, alone. My sister’s husband complains when she comes to visit because it means he’ll be alone for 7 days. My ex-husband is still living with a woman who doesn’t make him happy because, in his words, “What are my options?” He used to not want to be alone — come to think of it, I should have recognized the early signs of dissatisfaction when he didn’t complain about being left alone.

 Women, on the other hand, crave ”alone” time. My daughter can only dream about being lonely, like her husband is lonely. Her 18 month old is attached to her thigh like velcro. She goes from 6:30 am until 8:30 pm in the service of her children. When finally her “alone” time comes, she falls into bed exhausted. Married women my age — with retired husbands — celebrate their husbands’ lunch dates, golf dates, doctor appointments. It means they are out of the house, creating “alone” time for their wives. This isn’t a story told by the occasional woman — this is across the board!  

So here’s my question, ladies (and any men who care to respond). Why can’t men be alone?

“Janice Harper?” My head jerked up, just over the rim of the desk, and I froze with one hand holding the book of short stories I was stuffing into my satchel and the other flat on the table for balance, my butt half on and half off the seat, my back horizontal to the floor. I looked over my left shoulder. She was seven rows forward, scanning the barracks-style classroom like a drill sergeant.

The room had erupted into its “day is done” rhapsody as my name rang out. Students – all teenagers, except me – were throwing backpacks over their shoulders, laughing, talking, shoving and moving with an energy no one could have predicted based on in-class participation. They were enrolled in Canadian Literature 101 because it was a prerequisite for university transfer; I was enrolled to avoid bathing and bedding two kids on Wednesday nights. Act your age. You’re an adult, a wife, a mother, a university grad, and the past president of the Tynehead PTA; she’s a community college instructor, tired, humorless, near retirement. I regained vertical alignment and aimed for insouciance. My arm jerked to half mast and my voice rose two octaves, as if I wasn’t certain I was me: “Here?”

Miss Livingston (the title she preferred) was holding a sheaf of lined legal paper, folded length-wise and neatly labeled in ink with the name and number of the course, the title of the assignment, a student’s name and a date. Locked now on my location, she came fast down the aisle. Oh shit… it doesn’t matter, lady. This isn’t a prerequisite to anything for me. I don’t have anywhere to go next — I don’t have a next. She stopped beside my desk and placed the paper precisely in the center of the scuffed, beige, Formica rectangle. I darted a glance. My name and a grade. Something plus – was that an F? Is F+ a grade?

“Ms. Harper,” she began with no preamble and little expression. “Are you a writer?” I bent closer — A+. She’s really nice, I decided. Release-of-anxiety laughter bubbled.

“Oh no, I’m just here for a rest. I mean — I trained as a physiotherapist and didn’t take any arts subjects but now I’m home with the kids and going a bit crazy so I decided to take a course to get out of the house and just do something different but I’ve never done a summary thesis before so I just followed the instructions you put on the board…”

Ignoring the non sequiturs, she persisted. “What do you write?”

“Well, nothing…” At her look my back straightened and I dug deeper. “Letters? I write letters. Our friends and families are all back East and I write to them – just newsy letters to friends and my in-laws and my parents and my sister.”

“How often do you write these letters?”

“Three or four a week? But I don’t really write. I mean, I don’t write stories or anything, I’m not a writer.” Was that a smile? Why is she smiling?

“Yes you are.”

Branded. Yes. You. Are. Yes… you are. Yesyouare. Yes-you-are. Miss Livingston was still talking.  “…some creative writing courses next.” Then I was smiling too, like a giddy child who didn’t think her turn on the Ferris wheel would ever come. Next…  I have a next.

  My sister and I spent the past week doing what sisters who haven’t seen one another for more than a year do… we shopped. We shopped for six days. We shopped for six hours a day for six days. On the seventh day we rested and talked about our shopping.  As women everywhere will understand, this constitutes a good visit. Shopping with a close female friend or relative is not  about commerce. It is not about the exchange of money for goods. If goods are found; if the goods found are great goods; if the great goods make us look younger, slimmer, richer, rounder, prettier, smarter, classier, funkier, friendlier; if the great goods that make us look younger, slimmer, richer, rounder, prettier, more intelligent, classier, funkier, friendlier are on sale, shopping is elevated from the pedestrian to the sublime. It is a symphony of endorphins, celebration and goodwill that sets the stage for the real business of shopping… the exchange of information.

  Eighty -four days ago I flew home from what many call the trip of a lifetime, a safari in Kenya. Kenya then was soft colours  Great Rift Valley; proud, industrious, content people At Kazuri Beads; animals once dreamed of Zebras Crossing; smiling faces Joseph at Amboseli; amazing sunsets Night Sky; did I mention the animals? Elephants; wacky, wonderful travel companions Swara Mates; unforgettable sights One of the Acacias; and a man called Agoi from Vintage Africa – driver, guide, teacher, friend.    

     Kenya now looks different. http://africanpress.wordpress.com/2008/01/

     Kenya now is not content. 

Dear Karen,Thanks for your e mail well received and for your concern both for me and the people of Kenya. It is sad what is happening. We are fien and are hoping for a better tomorrow. Agoi is on safari and am just replying all his e mails. God Bless you all and pray for Kenya. Regards Bainito    

     Yes, I’ll pray for Kenya now.

  I have five good women friends — one I’ve known for 25 years; one I’ve known for eight years; the rest fall in between. We’re a disparate group ranging in age from 30-something to 60-something. Three are married and three used to be married. One of us is without children; the rest of us have 12 between us; three have grandchildren. The common link is work — once upon a time we all worked together and enjoyed it. The working group broke up seven years ago and we began to get together every 4-6 weeks for dinner. Over the years this get together morphed into five or six times a year getting together at someone’s home and ordering out for food because we’re working women and none of us is Martha Stewart (well, one of us is, but that’s another story). It’s an evening I anticipate with great relish. The talk is so thick you have to fight for air space. We laugh . We argue. Ignoring the rules of engagement, we bring up past incidents and throw them in one another’s faces, just because we can. We inflict each other with pictures of our kids and grandkids, trade horror stories about menopause and all forms of female suffering, diss our ex husbands, bosses, and in laws. We talk philosophy and recipes; cheer on that month’s winners and console the losers. Over the years we have walked beside each other through:

• two adulterous husbands
• two job terminations
• one work stress leave
• the birth of two children and nine grandchildren
• the arrival of three children chosen from outside Canada
• parents dying; parents in extended care; parents needing care