StephMemorial: No holes, no stains

Steph and I went to Goodwill often, sometimes as donors, more often as customers. We went to Goodwill stores in San Francisco, in Kansas City, and in Madison. We went to Goodwill stores in Beloit and Janesville, just for fun, while we were on day trips around Wisconsin. Good prices for good stuff, supporting a nonprofit that does good work.

The chair I'm sitting in came from Goodwill, as did one of the shelves in the Shrine, and one of Stephanie's three slideboards, and the giant sun/sculpture/thingie she liked so much (which is still on the wall), and lots of other things in this cluttered apartment.

After her death, the Goodwill on Madison's eastside got most of Stephanie's clothes, some of our plates and cups, and almost all her other other stuff, unless it held some strong sentimental attachment.

Yesterday I drove to that same Goodwill store to get some shirts and stuff. Hadn't realized it until pulling into the parking lot, but this was my first visit since giving them so much of Stephanie's stuff, ten and eleven months ago. And of course, it was weird walking into the place without her, but that's something I've almost grown accustomed to. It's always an odd feeling to enter some shop or restaurant or the library, anywhere that Steph and I frequently went together. It gets a little less abnormal — just a little — after I've been to the same place without her ten or twenty times.

After putting a few shirts and a pillbox and a tabletop fan into my shopping basket, I wondered whether any of Steph's things might still be in the store? So I looked through the shelves of kitchen stuff, but didn't see any of our plates. In the women's wear section, I didn't see any of her clothes on the rack, though there was a blouse in her size that she probably would've bought.

And what would I have done if I had seen Stephanie's pants or plates or shoes for sale at Goodwill? Probably just bawled, in the store and in the car on the way home. I wouldn't have bought them again; all that stuff was donated to charity because they weren't among Stephanie's favorites. Anything she really liked or frequently used is still at home, either in the Shrine or in the basement.

"Gotta always look very closely for holes and stains," Steph said, more than once, while we were shopping for clothes at Goodwill. Well, that blouse I thought she'd like? I took it off the rack, to check for holes and stains. It was light orange with brown stripes, and it passed inspection. It was $4.99, and I'm 85% sure she would've liked it, and I seriously considered buying that blouse for her.

No, I didn't buy it. I'm a little nuts, but not that nuts. On the drive home, I chuckled at the thought of Steph telling me how ridiculous it was to even think of buying it. "Sweet," she would've said, "but really ridiculous."

Welcome to StephMemorial

Stephanie Webb was my wife, my closest friend, my angel. We were together from 1997 until 2018, and for all that time we were head-over-heels in love. She was the best thing that ever happened to me, or ever will.

Who was Stephanie? She was complicated, and sometimes difficult. She was brilliant but insecure, eloquent but introverted, strong-willed but soft-spoken, tough as titanium but always vulnerable, a dreamer but utterly down-to-earth. Sometimes she was deeper than the Marianas Trench, and other times so silly you'd be giggling for hours.

She wasn't famous, and she was never arrested or made headlines. She worked ordinary office jobs, but after hours and on the weekend she was adventurous — oh, the places we've been (though always on a budget). She developed major medical problems toward the end, but other than a few dark days she generally kept an optimistic outlook. She was 26 when we met, and 48 when she died.

This domain was created to post her obituary on-line, so old friends who'd been out of touch could Google her name and know that she'd passed away. After writing the obituary, though, there was more to be said. And then, more still.

I don't want to forget any of the moments we spent together, the things we did, or the promises we made, kept, and broke — but I'm old and sometimes forgetful, and it's not likely that my memory will improve with age. So I'm writing it. Almost all of it. I reckon that's going to take the rest of my life.

I can't tell you everything about Stephanie, of course. As well as I knew her, there must be many stories she never told me, and many stories she told me that I've forgotten. There are also, of course, some stories that I'm not going to share.

She didn't often speak about her childhood, her adolescence, her first years of adulthood, and her answers when I asked were usually brief. She got the recipe for Stephanie exactly right, that's for sure — but I wasn't there while she was creating herself, day by day and bit by bit, so my focus will be on the time we had together.

It was delightful and never dull spending those years with her, and it's my hope to convey some small smidgen of the joy of Stephanie. Of course, her spirit can't be captured and posted on-line, and there's no doubt that I'm going to fail. But I am going to try.

I am under no illusion that this site will be popular. That's not the point. When I write about Stephanie it's like spending more time with her, or re-spending old times with her, and that's the best thing left in my life.

My name is Doug, and I'm (still and always) Stephanie's husband. If you knew her, or have something to say about the website, or if you've spotted a typo, you can reach me via the form below.