I cannot come to terms with being widow. Neither with the fact, nor with the label. While filling forms, and there are many of them these days, I feel strange. I want to jump over it. It is not possible. In addition to this new role, I became a man in the household. Despite the fact that I have never been interested in emancipation. I do not drive a car because of my troubles with concentration to follow traffic, children in the car, the road, headlights that have to be switch on, supposedly called blinkers.
It went like this in our home. Petr was driving a car and controlling some other matters. I took care of the rest – renovation of the house, family. Petr prepared and set every technical stuff in our home before each season and US…girls were using them whenever necessary. Still, there are many devices known to us only because they are hindering us in the garage (at least that what I thought up to now). For example, once after Peter’s departure to some place in the universe, I wanted to make Terezka happy and take her cycling, during these difficult times for which none of us is responsible. It took me a three-quarter of hour to pump up the tyres. I did not manage by myself. Finally, Klara knew how to do it, supported by our skilful uncle Jarda who were here to assist when we needed it like hell. These failures make me always cry these days. In other circumstances, I would lough on them. There are no other circumstances, neither will be.
I am clumsy with technical stuff. It was like this in my family. Technical stuff did not flourish there. When alarm clock was broken, we went to a repair shop to find out that it was just not set (these were mechanical alarm clocks). When the vacuum cleaner did not work, we called a technician only to find out that the bag inside was just full. My dad is a Czech language and history teacher. He enjoys relaxing. He never liked technical stuff. None in my family drove a car. It is a complication for me now. My mum, despite being practical, has more or less similar approach to technical matters as my father. Hence, it is in my genes.
Partially accepting that there is no one else to deal with these things now, I have started winter maintenance around the house. A weather was beautiful. Despite beginning of March, it was 20 degrees. Nature is doing what it likes to do. Greta Thunberg knows it too. I do not do what I like to do at all. I struggle with the stuff I do not understand. I am taking a machine from the garage, which should clean under a pressure stones making pavement around the house. There is too much dust, earth, needles falling from the trees and everything else. It irritates me a lot. It seems like destruction, everything is gloomy, filthy and even neglected, I guess. We did not bother too much with Petr. We planned to renovate the second part of the house in January. Nonsense.
I am still dealing with administration due to decease and my bank accounts are blocked. There is plenty of moss in chinks that would otherwise look nicely and naturally – let us have some green around. Mosses are expanding rather inappropriately around the stones; there will be no chinks soon. Only holes. While I am very desperate, I do not want girls to see it, so I am taking heroically a high-pressure cleaner – as the manual suggests. It is clear to me immediately, that the high-pressure cleaner will not be my friend. I have to turn on water first. I pray for the tubes not to be frozen and for water to run. I know were the outside tap is. Where are rubber tubes? There are probably under tons of garbage in the garage. By the way, we planned to clean it during the Christmas break with Peter, before the next construction work starts. Thus, one part of the house seems normal; other part is a construction site. There will be some photos. I have a different idol now. I found the rubber tubes. I manage to connect them with the high-pressure cleaner, but ouch, there is only a small stream outpouring from the “pistol”. It pees like a man with prostate problems. They would suggest to “catheterizing it” to a man, however, what I can say to this machine. I am just saying loudly “fuck off”, “fuck off” and once again. Girls are hearing me. This is not a moment to maintain decorum.
It will not work out this way. I call a friend on the phone. It is Vladimir this time. Fortunately, there is a Czech community around a club “POHODA” (meaning well-being). There is no well-being. Out of its founders, there is only me, another one is in the Czech Republic and the third one lives in France. “POHODA” as an association of patriots is still functioning and I am lucky to be able to ask anyone a question. And there are plenty of them now! Everyone is good in something. I can ask questions. It is just a bit complicated by phone. I am taking a phone. I am trying to solve a problem of high-pressure cleaner, phone, water and somehow everything. I cannot manage without help of Klara and Terka. Vladimir is encouraging, explaining. We are trying. The stream is still too small. If the world economy had functioned under such a pressure, we would be still in a Stone Age. The rubber tube is fixed, the water is running, the electric cable is plugged, the pressure button is at maximum. Yet, the water is running like if you are washing dishes in the kitchen sink and watching TV at the same time. Vladimir finally got the idea to switch on the engine. You could have knocked us down with a feather. We looked for an engine. Of course! We (rather me) have forgotten to unwind the entire electric cable, to spare some work, and the engine (the bitch!) was hidden under the cable. The first little victory in the fight against machines in the garage. The terrace around the house is cleaned. It looks nice. I need to see tangible improvements of our situation. And this is visible. Moreover, manual work cleans a head. I need a clean head. Otherwise, I will get crazy.
I am happy to share WhatsApp message with my friends Lucka and her husband Renda. I am explaining that I have learnt something. That I can work with the high-pressure cleaner. My friend is calling back to congratulate us and to tell me softly that the machine is called “wapka”. I ask for the reason of the name. Supposedly, it is the name of the concern that has produced it first. However, now it has a different name, since the company has been sold. In addition, mine is called Karcher. To sum up, I do not care. I am trying to come in terms with the life. Sarcasm and staying on top of things help. Fortunately, at least some things are working. I have my first victory – I have managed something! Cartigny, 12.4.2020