Vaseline: Men on Pause 6

**July 14, 2024**Shattering. The small, authorless, scarlet English booklet, printed in Leipzig in 1929, fell into my hands about two years ago in a Biedermeier house from 1820 in Erlenbach in the Simmental, acquired along with the rest of the inventory and photo albums dated around 1900.And today I remembered these Vaseline lines, searched for them, and found them again thanks to my accurate memory—lines evidently written by a widowed woman about her sparse memories of her husband.He used to scold her whenever she failed to close the Vaseline jar. And every time she now discovers the open jar in the morning, she is reminded of him. And only then. After 50 years of marriage. Yet it was not her but me who was moved to tears—to collect them—this nameless woman who, out of fear of her husband, wished to remain anonymous in her writing.My tears gather on mountaintops, in empty beds, on photos, perfumes, the scent of hay, shower stalls, Avenida del Foix, during the shifting from reverse to forward gear while simultaneously anticipating the turn of the steering wheel to save time when driving away—much like the anonymous woman with her open Vaseline jars, discovered early in the morning. And only then. This morning I told myself: I will write down only the beautiful, good, funny, and humorous things about my wife. My Vaseline lids, so to speak. Read more