Bobby Tannenhauser, co-owner of West Side Rag, died April 25, 2025. Carol Tannenhauser, his wife and also West Side Rag co-owner, shares some memories of Bobby and her year of grief since his death.
By Carol Tannenhauser
The Dream
My late husband came to me in a dream last night. He put his cheek next to mine and I kissed it.
“Do you know you’re dead?” I whispered. “I don’t like it,” he said, peevishly.
It was my first communique from him, nearly 11 months after he died on April 25, 2025.
“I don’t like it either,” I wanted to tell him, but you know dreams – they disappear in an instant. I was happy to grab hold of this snippet. It warmed my heart.
Lately, I have been having trouble grieving for my husband of 53 years, whom I loved with all my heart. I find myself instead focusing on his imperfections and the flaws in our marriage.
That’s ironic, because when I saw him for the first time in a love-at-first-sight moment, my exact thought was “He’s perfect.” Then I spent the next half century trying to change him.
It turns out that what I call imperfections are characteristics that conflicted with what I wanted, qualities that made him who he was: the “perfect” being I saw in that first instant.
Or was he just good-looking?
*****
Butter and Jam
My late husband had a rule: you don’t mix the butter and the jam. In other words, you don’t use the same unwashed knife in both the butter and the jam consecutively, for fear of leaving traces of one in the other.
That rule was stated by my husband later in his life and in our 53-year marriage, probably after I had messed up the butter or the jam, or both, one time too many. After it was announced, I followed the rule meticulously, motivated by the shameful feeling that what I had been doing before was not just lazy, but somehow unclean.
Fast forward to this afternoon. I had finished buttering an English muffin and was preparing to spread on strawberry jam, when I found myself wondering whether I had to follow my husband’s rule now that he is no longer with me. I have gotten used to the rule, and in fact I like it, just as I like the way he – now I – put all the forks, knives and spoons together in the dishwasher. Things seem more orderly and efficient that way, cleaner, less messy.
But the quality of the rule is not the point, I realized. Rather it is the question of whether I still have to follow my husband’s rule now that he is gone.
The knife in my hand hung mid-air over the jam. I decided to eat the muffin only with butter. But the time will come when I must decide. I know in my heart I already have.
*****
Toilet Paper on Autopilot
My toilet paper shipment arrived yesterday. 18 Family Mega XL Rolls, courtesy of my late husband who placed an automatically recurring Amazon order sometime before he died nearly a year ago. That’s a lot of toilet paper for one person, but I’m not sure how to change or stop it – or if I want to.
Nor am I sure I want to throw out his shaving cream, mouthwash, or waterpik. I realize his sink has become a shrine. And half of our closet is still hung neatly with his casual shirts and pants. I gave away his suits and dress shirts to an organization that helps homeless men. That was easy; they didn’t personify him. But the flannel shirts and faded jeans were his go-to clothes, and I can’t let them go.
On April 25th it will be a year since he died and I’m still not ready to dispose of his things. They’re not bothering anybody, least of all me. Can’t I keep them forever?
My friends say no. It’s not a good sign. I’m not moving on. They tell me time and again that the Jewish length of mourning is a year. But lately I miss him more than ever. I’m acutely aware of being alone – not just in my apartment but in the universe. I must take care of myself.
Once I had a magic wallet. It sat in my husband’s top night-table drawer. It was always full. No matter how many times I dipped into it, no matter how many bills I paid or tips I gave to delivery or handymen, there was always enough money in it. Now, the magic is gone. My husband of 53 years who took care of me so well is gone. Now I must go to the bank myself to fill it, just as I must do so many things myself I never did before.
But I’ll never run out of toilet paper. Can you blame me?
*****
End of Story
When you’re a new widow, many of your closest friends might still be married.
That can be problematic, as you could start to hate them and the happy plans they are making for their futures, which they tell you about. You and your husband have no future; your story is over. And, incidentally, you yourself have no plans or future either, you believe, in the early days of widowhood.
I remember saying to a close friend, “Your perfect life is killing me. I’m hanging on by a thread.”
Don’t they know?
*****
Time or ‘I’m All Alone’
You’d be amazed at how time expands when you’re alone. I have endless empty hours now. Who knew having a mate was so time-consuming and required so few plans?
You don’t need plans when you have a mate – you’ve always got someone to hang out and eat and watch tv with. Now, you have to make plans – which I was never any good at – to have plans and see other people. If you are a writer and inherently shy, like me, this is especially hard, and if you have a touch of agoraphobia, it‘s even worse.
Then, once I’m outside, I’m acutely aware of couples – and dogs (mine died six months after my husband) – and happy families – and groups of laughing tourists. I try to get out of my head and enjoy the nascent spring, but negative thoughts keep intruding: “I’m all alone. The world is filled with happy people, but I stand apart. I am an extra piece of an obsolete pair. I’m finished.”
Then, I go home and a friend comes over to help me unwind from all the trying, and to cry. “I wish I could do more,” she says, anguish etched on her face. “You’re doing everything anyone possibly could,” I assure her. “You’re doing everything anyone possibly could.”
*****
‘He Didn’t Waste Words’
A friend, also a widow, had amazing encounters with her late husband via a medium who knew things she could not possibly have known in any but an otherworldly way. I considered trying to contact my late husband, but then I thought, “He didn’t talk to me when he was alive. Why would he talk to me now?”
Summoned to the anteroom on the other side to communicate with me, he would probably sit down and wait. He would have nothing to say, as far as he knew.
“He said what he needed to say. He didn’t waste words,” his cousin observed.
That was true, but it was more than that. Another friend described my late husband as an “independent actor.” He didn’t need anyone’s advice, permission, affirmation, support, or feedback. He was that sure of himself. He did what he had to or wanted to or thought was right. More often than not, he kept it to himself.
The other day I got a text from his former assistant, a dancer. “I’ll never forget when Mr. T gave me $2,000 to help me get to France to perform at the D day ceremony which was on June 7, 2025! ❤️❤️”
Needless to say, he didn’t mention it to me.
Were he alive, I would accost him. “How could you not tell me that?” I’d demand. “It was no big deal,” he would protest. “Yeah, but it’s the kind of thing people tell each other,” I would say. “That’s how they have conversations.” It was a recurring argument that was never resolved in his lifetime.
Would he be more open in the great beyond? Would he finally see my point of view and share more of himself and his life and thoughts with me? Would the God he never believed in tame this independent actor?
Not a chance.
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Bitterly sweet.
Thank you
What a wonderful tribute to your husband, Carol. He was blessed to have you!! You are not alone. We’re here for you.
Carol, what a beautiful, loving tribute to your husband of so many years. The anecdotes you relayed made me both laugh and cry. Losing a partner like this is something I can’t yet quite imagine, but I know it’s catastrophic and life changing. Thank you for memorializing these anecdotes about Bob. The one thing, though, is that you are not alone. So many of us are there for you. xo
I admire Carol’s raw honesty, along with her writing talent. It requires grit and bravery to rebuild your life after a 53 year marriage, Bobby Tannenhauser, with whom I was acquainted–but did not know well–was smart, kind, generous and compassionate, Many people mourn his loss, though none more than his wife, who whether she realizes it or not shares Bobby’s virtues. I wish her strength going forward. I know she”ll move through the future with grace and surprising happiness. Many people are cheering you on. Love you, Carol.
moving
Woke this morning thinking of Bobby and you, then read this – 3 times so far. You’re both still part of my psyche and my own “shoulds”- all good ones (“You have to fight everyday for your marriage” you told me on the chairlift 45 years ago). The brilliance, honesty & courage in your writing always hits me in the heart. Love you always dear friend.
Deb
P.S. I could still use more of your insights !
❤️
Thank you and your husband for West Side Rag!
Your writing shows great courage.
May his memory be a blessing.
Last week, I had a dream just as you described at the top of this essay.
A brief and tender moment with my wife of 35 years kissing me tenderly and smiling her huge beautiful smile while looking deeply into my eyes.
Like your dream, it went up in smoke, but I was able to hold on to just enough of it to remember and be calmed.
She died 10 years ago. So you have lots of visits coming in the years ahead.
Enjoy them.
Thanks for you paper and your writing.
All the best
Dave
It never ends, but it does get better. Thank you for sharing this and maintaining this space for the neighborhood.
I totally relate to your feelings on marriage and widowhood. Although my husband died 16 years ago, what you describe is still real to me.. Grief and relief co mingle in long term marriages. I always said the hardest part of marriage is to compromise, yet still be true to yourself. You sound like you have accomplished that and your eloquence on grief is proof.
Such beautiful essays. Thank you for being brave and sharing them with your readers. I can certainly relate to much of what you shared and how you are feeling. The visit dreams are something. You fight like heck to stay or go back to sleep as you don’t want them to end. Hang in there.
i want to be your friend cause we think alike!
it gets easier but always stinks…
Carol: I had not heard. You have my sincerest condolences. I did not know your husband, but I think I know YOU well enough to understand and appreciate your tribute.
Just so you know, based on several other people I know who lost their spouses, one year is not a lot. In fact, many people would not even be able to write what you did after just one year. So don’t pressure yourself. Take it easy, and love and be kind to yourself.
Peace.
lovely piece which speaks to me, too. I lost my husband of 55 years four years ago and I miss him more today than I did when he died. I also talk to him, see him in dreams and kiss his every night before I go to sleep.
Thank you for a beautifully poignant and honest piece. I have already shared it with many.
Thank you Carol. What a lovely remembrance you wrote. I went to High School with Bobby tho we didn’t know each other well. I’ve lived on the UWS near you off and on for my entire life. Just IMO you KEEP whatever you want -moving on is just an unhelpful expression meaning nothing. My beloved partner passed 2 years ago and because we weren’t legally married and inter-racial his family took everything. No money involved just wonderful clothing and crystal collections and and and. ..they cremated him and ruined my forever dream of becoming Heathcliff and Cathy wandering the world together (reference Wuthering Heights). So take care -wth love.
Carol, your words are so genuine. You selected such a deep, interesting, artistic portrait photo which has captured someone with great depth. Grief just doesn’t go away. I can only say from my own that it comes and goes and has lightened after many years. It’s hard to carry on. I was a swimmer and that helped a lot. I kept up with everything that was part of my relationship and most important of myself. One “activity” that helped a lot was writing letters to my lost one… love, anger whatever with no
interest in grammar etc. I read to to do this in a grief book.
I hope having written this beautiful tribute helped you. Communicating with The Rag’s Readers was so important to your husband. It’s like a gift to him. It’s hard to believe a year has passed since the announcement of Bobby’s passing. I wish you peace.
Thank you for sharing your feelings which I fully understand. My husband died a year ago and everything is exactly how he left it. I can’t bear changing things because I want to still imagine him here. Some days are better than others but a visit to NYC always helps!
Carol, my dear husband, also a Bob and also a journalist, died 20 days before yours. I find myself doing things that used to annoy me. Bob had a way of tying back the curtains that would cause me to grumble, “You’re strangling the curtains!” Guess how I now tie back the curtains! Carol, regarding happy couples—-whenever I see one, I can’t help but have the morbid thought that, someday, one will be mourning for the other. It balances out my pain and envy.
Beautiful piece Carol, especially the part about the butter and jam. Thank you for sharing, and I hope – as others have said – the process of writing this has provided you some solace.
Beautiful article, thank you.
It’s never easy, but you have great memories….well written , Carol. I miss Bobby’s wit, good humor and his sincere friendship.
Writing about it will help you get through it. The first year is the worst. Going on five years I still haven’t cleared out my wife’s office or all her clothes.
A beautiful tribute – thank you Carol & WSR team for continuing his legacy
Carol- Thanks for opening your heart. I hope it helps to know that others who have lost partners of many years understand how the everyday reminders (automatic toilet paper delivery!) can undo you. Please believe that time doesn’t steal those reminders from you, but it softens them and makes them sweeter. (Like butter and jam.)
I don’t think you are required to grieve on anyone’s schedule but your own.
If you are finding the time to hang heavy on your hands, though, perhaps that is a sign that it’s time to find another furry friend?
Thank you for your written testament to love. I am more like him, my husband of 50 years , more like you. I cried.
At first I didn’t want to read this, about another woman’s grief, but I am glad I did. It reminds me what a wonderful marriage I had. What I loved most was that two so different people seemed to grow together over the years. The parting is hard.
Beautiful and eloquent, Carol.
Science note: if you lick the butter knife, then dip it unwashed into the jam, the mouth bacteria will grow unpleasantly in the sugar/pectin medium. Wash it, and thank your loving memory.
I lost my husband recently and so appreciated your sharing your experiences. They ring true
It’s been 12 years – it doesn’t get better. It just gets different.
And…I talk to him every day. Sometimes he answers me. Sometimes I answer for him. Sometimes there’s no answer.
Yes. It’s sloppy and nasty to have butter in the jam and jam in the butter. You can’t use the butter as an ingredient then, in other things. He was right. And he was good-looking. Let him go to his happiness, he will still be with you and you’ll be together again. Consider yourself fortunate to have had him in your life.
In art class, I said we who lost our partners, after being together a long time, have to shoulder much of this alone now. Your beautiful article made me feel a commonality with your experiences. My husband was not a talker either so I totally “got” your perspective.