Mundane Mourning: Remembering Bobby Tannenhauser (1945-2025)

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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