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By J.P. DEVINE 11/25/2007

Take, for example, my grandfather’s five brothers, who were grateful each Thanksgiving only to curse God, life and all of its mysteries the very next day. I am reminded of Elizabeth Kubler-Ross’s cycle of emotional states when dealing with grief, which most of us suffer one time or the other, but which the Irish have made an art form. For me this applies to the beginning of winter and all the grief that goes with it for the aging homeowner. Winter is, to the young, full of glitter, to the elderly, a premonition.

l. Denial. It’s only Nov. 22, and it’s snowing already, and I’ve still got water in my basement from the big rain a few days ago. A friend I kissed two days ago just called and said she had something she thinks is a cold, but the doctor’s not sure. Memo: Stop kissing and hugging for the year. (My throat is itchy, this isn’t happening to me!)

2. Anger: The news just announced that gas is going up another three cents this weekend. So I drive out in the rain to the gas station to beat the price rise just as I see the owner out there with his long-handled rake shoving up bigger numbers. “Can I fill up my tank before you do that?” I shout over the noise of the traffic. “Sorry,” he says, “It’s already on the pump.” (WHY is this happening to me?

3. Bargaining: As I get out of my car to pump the gold juice, I bang my knee on the gas pump and aggravate the torn meniscus, that has been dormant for three years. (I promise I’ll be a better person, God, if you make this pain go away so I can drive home.)

4. Depression: When I stop at the supermarket, I find that the price of my favorite wine has just tripled. It doesn’t matter, because it’s all gone anyway, and I think I’m catching a cold. That night as I sit down with a cheap wine to watch my favorite political show, the lights flicker and go out. I bang the bad knee on the cabinet door where I keep the flashlight. It doesn’t matter as the flashlight isn’t there anymore, and I can’t remember where I put it. This is happening more and more and an online blog says this may be the first sign of the end.

So the lights come back on, but the furnace won’t start. I know what this means. It means a $65 repair call and probably more because it’s after 8 o’clock. (I don’t care anymore.)

5. Acceptance: Okay, I decide to wait an hour and keep pushing the little red re-start button before I make the call. It will still be an emergency call no matter what. (I’m ready for whatever comes.)

Thirty minutes later the furnace comes back on, and I’m feeling better. But the television is back on, and Obama has passed Hillary in the polls in Iowa. Just as I’m cursing the fact that a bunch of white redneck midwesterners have all this power to affect my choice for president, I’m reminded of the deal I made with God. I don’t believe in God, but I do believe in his mother, the Blessed Virgin, who probably was responsible for the knee pain to subside and the furnace coming on.

I’m going to bed now before my hernia acts up and the whole cycle starts all over again. J.P. Devine, a freelancer, lives in Waterville.

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