MOTHER-IN-LOVE

Back when Art proposed to me (well, when he asked whether I thought we ought to get married), I was happy with the prospect of our new life together, but I had no idea what to expect in terms of his family, which was about to become *my* family. I had already had the experience of one set of in-laws, plus a whole raft of the mothers of my boyfriends. Let me tell you, I was scared.

Over the years I had come to expect that the women who would come to know me through their sons were not necessarily thrilled with me. I seemed to have a knack for choosing men who were just a little too close to Mom, and therefore, mothers who were just a little too attached to their sons. Most memorably, one of these Moms had taken one look at me, scanned me up and down and pronounced, “You’re obviously a very weak person!”.

So on I soldiered in the wilderness of all single girls trying to date their way to happiness.

I was lucky. Art appeared just as I had given up — just as I had reached the stage in my life where I had made my peace with the strong possibility that I would never remarry, never have a family beyond my family of origin, and (the silver lining to all of this gloom) would never have to face another potential (or actual) mother-in-law again.

So it was with great trepidation that I picked up the receiver for the first time to speak to Art’s mother. I was sure she would be resentful of me, sure she would find good reason to be critical of his choice, sure she would cold-shoulder me and find me unworthy of her precious golden boy, her eldest son. I remember gripping the phone with both hands, shutting my eyes tight, and waiting for her to lower the boom. So, imagine my surprise when I heard this sweet, benevolent woman at the other end saying, “Is this Robin? I’m so pleased to finally speak with you. Art has told me so much about you — all good!” and I could actually hear her smiling over the phone. She then continued, “I was so worried that he would be alone in his declining years!” . (Quite a turn of phrase, and it broke the ice!) I opened my eyes, which were now brimming with tears of gratitude, just as I suspected hers were, too.

A couple of years later, Art and I traveled to Connecticut for the first time as a married couple. I met my in-laws in person for the first time. Art’s father was a gentle, soft-spoken man who said little but made every word count. He had played in a square dance band for over fifty years and had the heart of a true musician. He treated me with great kindness and compassion. When Ed picked us up at the airport, I saw clearly where Art had learned how to be a gentle-man. My first instinct when Art introduced me was to give my new father-in-law a big bear hug. But I was still nervous about what would happen when we got back to my in-laws’ house. Would Marge accept me? Had our lovely conversations over the phone given me false hope? Was I about to become that old cliché, the long-suffering and marginalized interloper who had “stolen her baby”?

And what did Marge do? She greeted me with open arms and held me tight. She welcomed me into her cozy kitchen and into her family as easily as if she had been my birth mother. When she introduced me to her friends and neighbors she referred to me as her “newest daughter”. She put fresh flowers in the guest room and brand new sheets on our bed. She tolerated, and even welcomed our lavish public displays of affection. She allowed me help in the kitchen, rather than demanded it. (And believe me, I’m no Betty Crocker!).

Which brings me to the next point: Over the years, Marge has quietly taught me how to be a “balabust”– She doesn’t know the word, but it’s Yiddish and it means a woman who knows how to make a house a home. That’s not to say that I hadn’t learned the basics at my own mother’s knee. I knew how to iron (I’m not patient enough, but I know how), I knew how to put together a dinner party, I knew how to make a bed and I had the good upbringing that gave me a certain ability to be at ease in a conversation and to treat guests with courtesy and respect. (My mother taught me never, NEVER, to allow guests to visit without offering them food.) So I mean no disrespect to my Mom. She was great.

But Marge continued where Mom left off. After all, I had left home at eighteen, so my domestic education had been cut short. Over the past twenty years, Marge has generously given me inside tips about cooking — her recipe for pie crust (hand written and proudly displayed on my refrigerator), her secrets about how to remove all manner of stains from the laundry. She has allowed me to be present while she made delicious soups, and I found out that the trick to thickening a vegan soup is potatoes and a food processor. From Marge I learned the elegant economy of washing clothes in cold water (saves energy, saves you having to sort by color, good for the environment, and good for the pocketbook). How to stretch your money at the grocery store (coupons). The best way to reseal cellophane packages (clothes pins). How to find extra storage space in the kitchen (hanging baskets from the ceiling). The list goes on and on, and every day, it seems, I discover another kindness, another pearl of wisdom she has bestowed upon me. She has demonstrated how to create an atmosphere of warmth and harmony within the home (too complicated to explain in twenty-five words or less). And she has treated me as an honored guest and member of the family when I visited her home — not an easy task, since on the surface, you would not think the two go hand-in-hand. Sometimes I sensed I was underfoot, but she never complained. I could go on and on, but maybe you get the idea.

Mothers-in-law often get a bad rap, and perhaps, many of them live up to their reputation. But daughters-in-law can be less than perfect, too. And with all of my own faults and shortcomings, Marge has treated me with more than respect. She has treated me with unfailing compassion and love. Recently I have begun to call her “Mom”. I couldn’t bring myself to use that word with her when my own mother was alive. I was afraid of being disloyal. She always understood that. But it feels as if my own mom has given me permission. Lizi will always live in my heart as my first mother, the one who gave me life, and the one who was there for me through every sickness, every crisis, every broken heart, every failure and disappointment, my first confidante, my mentor. But Marge is my “other mother”. The one who has, with uncommon grace, taken me under her wing as a daughter, a sister to her other children, and as a friend. The one who has entrusted me with the role of caretaker to her grown son. She is much more than my mother-in-law, she is my mother-in-love.

LOTTO

“Matthew, our paper got soaked last night. I’m going down to the liquor store to get another one. You want anything?”

“No, thanks, hon. I’m gonna take a shower. Care to join me?”

“Thanks. But my mother warned me about boys like you. First thing you know you’ll be soaping me up. Then where’ll we be?”

It was a beautiful early April day in Los Angeles; just slightly brisk at eight a.m., and the smog hadn’t had a chance to roll into the hills yet. The freak rain of the night before had cleared the air and you could see the foothills rising up just east of Pasadena. Ava plodded the block and a half to the liquor store. A young Latino man was busy painting out the graffiti still wet from the night before. The security gate inside the door was just being lifted.

Ava picked up the Times and a quart of orange juice. Mr. Bhutto asked her if that would be all. Absently, she reached across the counter for a Lotto ticket.

“Okay, one of these, too. I feel lucky. Thanks, Mr. Bhutto.” She slid her change into her jacket pocket and headed home.

Actually, lucky was the furthest thing from what she felt. Ava had the unfortunate habit of hiding her most painful feelings behind a barrage of pleasantry. She couldn’t bear to let Mr. Bhutto know the truth — that she was worried about her marriage. That after a blissful four-year honeymoon she had had the sudden realization that her husband was sleeping with his secretary. That it was all too much of a cliché to be true, and yet it was. That she was sure everyone knew but her. She was embarrassed, humiliated, wounded, terrified and enraged. Worst, she was walking around as if everything was okay. Her life in the past three days had been a scene out of Night of the Living Dead. She and Matthew were mere shells of the happy couple they had been only weeks before, or, to be precise, the happy couple she had believed they were.

It had been one of those epiphanies that sneak up on you. She had called Matthew’s office to ask whether he wanted to go out for pasta, and as soon as she had heard the hesitancy in Joyce’s voice, she had known. She felt she had been living in a fog for the past few months, and it had suddenly been lifted like a curtain revealing all of the illusions and false security she had been harboring.

On the way back home the traffic began to pick up out on the freeway. It was annoying. Ava began to be aware of the exhaust fumes curling their way into her nostrils. Someone laid on the horn loudly and insistently. Pounding on their horns. Cutting in and out of the lanes. Running each other off the road. Smashing into each other. Shooting at each other. She felt consumed with anger. Idiots. Soon she, too, would have to join the crush and make her way to her office in Westwood. She jammed her key into the lock and flung open the door.

“I want a divorce!!”

Matthew ambled out of the bathroom; a towel wrapped around his slender waist, drenching the carpet with his wet feet, his mouth hanging open as he tried to focus on Ava’s words.

“Huh? Watsamatter?”

“I WANT A DIVORCE!! Don’t you understand plain English?”

“Ava. Sit down. Whatever is bothering you, I want you to know we can work it out. We’ve always. . .”We’ve always what? Been perfectly honest with each other? Been totally loyal to each other? What? What?” Ava’s voice was cracking. At moments like this, no amount of psychological savvy could help her. Ava fell apart.

Matthew sat down on the sofa. “Joyce”, he softly murmured.

“Yes, of course, Joyce. What did you think? Did you think I’d never find out? Did you think no one would tell me?” She hadn’t been prepared for this much pain.

“Who told you? I mean, how did you find out?”

“Does it really matter?”

“Yes, it does to me.”

“No one.”

“NO ONE? How did you know? I was so discreet. It was a mistake. It was just. . .”

“It was just what? Once or twice? Jesus, Matthew. Don’t you give me any credit for sensitivity? You stopped sleeping with me months ago. Then you started staying late at work. Then you started having business lunches with Joyce, and I found myself regaled with tales of what a great secretary Joyce is. How smart she is. Her witty stories. God, Matthew. Discreet?”

Ava realized that she was still holding the paper sack from the liquor store. She left it on top of the television and started toward the bedroom. She began packing a small suitcase.

“What are you doing?”

“I’ll be at my sister’s temporarily.”

Suddenly, Ava felt amazingly calm. She marveled at her ability to pack in an organized fashion. She remembered seeing a segment on the Today show where they had had a packing expert come and explain how to get the most into your suitcase with the fewest wrinkles. She packed lightweight nylon and rayon dresses, a pair of jeans and two sweaters and framed the sides of the case with her belts. Expertly, she fitted her jewelry inside her socks and her socks inside her shoes. Her heart was beating a mile a minute as she phoned Yellow Cab.

“Ava,” (Matthew was fully dressed now, his hair slicked back away from his freshly shaven face). “When you feel ready, let’s talk. Please.”

Ava did not answer. She was afraid she would cry. Then, all would be lost. Her hard resolve would soften. Who knows, she might unpack her clothes and try to smooth things over. That would be the easiest way. But she did not want to do things the easy way, this time. She turned on her heel, gripped her suitcase and walked out the front door.

It was the kind of thing Ava had always feared. Some sixth sense had informed her from the start that she and Matthew were doomed and that he would never be able to stay with her. Here he was, a high-powered entertainment lawyer, movie star looks, all the social graces, charismatic, and yet with that slightly boy-next-door-aw-shucks charm that he had imported with him from his Methodist Connecticut roots. Here she was, slightly rounder than fashionable for Los Angeles, a fledgling psychotherapist with a tiny private practice in Westwood, shy, neurotic, and insecure, hailing from the less-than-chic Jewish ghetto of the San Fernando Valley. Come to think of it, this was not sixth sense. This was a logical deduction. It was not a question of if, to Ava; it was a question of when and perhaps of with whom. Still, for the first few years, things had been inexplicably wonderful between them.

******************

Ava sighed and rang the bell. Vanessa opened the door and her mouth formed a perfect “O”. Wordlessly, she reached out and took the suitcase from Ava’s grip while she encircled her sister’s waist with her other arm. Vanessa strained for a joke: “Darling, we’ve got to stop meeting like this”. Ava burst into tears.

Vanessa called in sick to work and Ava cancelled her appointments. The two sisters stayed at Vanessa’s apartment and painted their toenails bright vermillion. Matthew phoned several times that day to try to arrange a meeting, but Ava asked Vanessa to intercede for her. She was not ready to talk to him. She was still too raw; too vulnerable. She frankly had not sorted out her feelings at this point. She needed time to think. The two sisters made a huge bowl of popcorn and watched game shows and soap operas on TV. Finally, towards the end of the day Vanessa asked Ava what had happened. Ava stated the facts as far as she knew them with dry eyes. Vanessa listened with little comment except to exclaim softly, “Poor baby”. She hugged Ava and held her for a long moment. Ava felt as though she had survived a bloody battle. The war, of course, had only begun, but perhaps the worst siege was over. She slept heavily and dreamlessly that night on her sister’s foldout bed in the living room.

The call came at eight o’clock the next morning. Vanessa held out the receiver about six inches from her ear and mouthed the word “Matthew”, but Ava signaled with a wave of her hand that she did not want to speak with him. Vanessa suddenly looked shocked.

“Matthew, are you sure? Well, did you double check? Maybe it was a typo. You know, the paper can make mistakes about these things . . .”

Ava jerked the phone from Vanessa’s hand.

“Oh my God something’s happened. Oh my God, Matthew. What is it? Is it my mother?” She reached for her sister’s hand and took the receiver.

”What? Is this your idea of a joke? Or are you just trying to get me home so you can talk your way out of . . . You did? They did? There is? We are? I don’t believe it! Alright. I’ll see you here. Half hour. Okay. Bye”.

Ava hung up the phone and clasped her hand over her mouth. Vanessa clasped her hand over her mouth. Suddenly they both started laughing. It was just too much.

Ava spoke from behind her hand. “We won the Lotto. Twenty million dollars (give or take a few thousand). There was only one other winning ticket! Twenty for him. Twenty for us. It’s not a hoax. Vanessa–honey – We’re rich!”

Matthew arrived twenty minutes later. Ava poured him a cup of coffee, dumped in two heaping teaspoons of sugar, placed it in front of him at Vanessa’s kitchen table and waited expectantly with her hands folded in front of her. (Vanessa had slipped out discretely on the pretense of wanting a morning walk. She hadn’t gone on a morning walk in five years, so it was about time, she murmured.) There was no doubt about it. Twenty million dollars to be prorated over twenty years. One million dollars a year. That would be, what? Say, five hundred thousand dollars a year after taxes? Matthew and Ava looked at each other wordlessly for a moment. Ava held out her hand and Matthew pulled out the ticket. Ava picked up the paper and checked the ticket against the numbers on the page. No doubt about it. They matched exactly. She stared for some time. So funny. She hadn’t even picked the numbers out. She had let the computer do it for her. No birthdays. No lucky numbers. No Social Security numbers. No addresses. Just six little random numbers. Nothing fancy. Just dumb luck.

“We have a lot to talk about, Matthew”. She put the ticket on the table between them.

“What do you want to do about this?”

“About what? About the fact that we’ve won the Lotto? About the fact that you’re sleeping with your secretary? About the fact that I can’t trust you? What?”

Matthew felt the wind had been knocked out of him. “Can’t trust me? Because I made one mistake?”

“It depends. How long did this mistake take? A year? A month? Six months?”

“It just kind of happened gradually. I don’t know – probably over the last three or four months. Joyce was having a hard time. We were spending long hours at the office. That last deal at Warner was huge – You know that. I hated being away that much, but I had no choice. I know this doesn’t excuse, but . . .” Matthew’s voice trailed off.

“No, Matthew. It doesn’t excuse. But the really terrifying part to me is — How did you manage to come home
and act so casual with me. So intimate? When I asked you if anything was wrong you were so sweet and reassuring. How could you do that?”

“Because, to me, nothing really was wrong between you and me. I mean, uh — I never stopped loving you, but sometimes I just — I guess I wanted something else. That sounds horrible, I know.”

“You have no idea.” Tears were streaming down Ava’s cheeks. “Sounds like you were bored. How can you be bored with someone you love? With me?” Her voice cracked.

“Ava, you are a creature of habit. It’s one of the things I love about you. But you sleep night after night in that ratty old flannel rag. You walk around the house in baggy dungarees with no make-up. I always know beforehand what we’re eating for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Honey, you’re a great pal, but where’s that feisty, dynamic, unpredictable, hot-blooded Jewish princess I fell in love with?”

“She’s buried under tons of textbooks, case notes, household chores, bills, grocery runs, all the little everyday demands that are part of life. Matthew! Life cannot be a continuous stretch of heavy breathing! Not even with Joyce!” Unintentionally, his secretary’s name came out as a vocal sneer.

“Just for the record, I broke off my relationship with Joyce two weeks ago. She’s looking for another job. I know you don’t believe me, but it’s true.”

Ava looked at Matthew. She did believe him. Her gut instinct told her he was not lying, and his face was anguished.

“Ava, I’m so sorry. In a way, I’m relieved. I knew that sooner or later we had to have this conversation. I just didn’t know where to begin. I’m sorry I had to let you initiate it. I don’t blame you for anything. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Ava reached her hand across the table. Matthew clasped it in his. Both of their hands were cold and shaking.

Ava pulled her hand away.
“Okay, look. Let’s go and claim this ticket. Then let’s go home and try to sort all of this out.”

**********************

It was a Thursday. They went home and forged a truce. They were tentative with each other over the weekend. Ava slept in the study “to avoid confusion”. They would talk a little, then retire to their separate corners, and then talk a little more. They talked about half-forgotten childhood memories and somehow managed to find whole areas of their lives that somehow had remained untouched until then. Each seemed almost like a stranger to the other. Matthew showed Ava a ring he had made from a peach stone when he was eight years old that he had kept in his possession all these years. He didn’t know why. Ava told Matthew about the time she had stolen ten pennies from Myrtle Maloney when she was in kindergarten. She had suffered terrible guilt for it.

As it turned out, Ava and Matthew received a letter from the State Lotto Commission on Monday. It turned out that an unscrupulous State employee, an insider with access to the computer, had rigged this particular drawing. Somehow he had forged a winning ticket for himself. The drawing had been declared null and void. The system had been compromised. The State had no choice. They were very sorry for any inconvenience. Matthew handed the paper to Ava. She read it with a sense of unreality. They looked at each other and simultaneously began to laugh. They fell into each other’s arms laughing and fell to the ground laughing and laughing until they both began to cry. Then Ava snorted and they both began to laugh again. It was a million-dollar laugh. They had gambled. They thought they had lost. They had won, after all.

Copyright © 2008 · All rights reserved · Robin Munson

FOR US GIRLS (AND SOME OF YOU GUYS)

FOR US GIRLS (AND SOME OF YOU GUYS)

My sister is getting married on New Year’s Day. That’s my older sister. (I think we’ve already established that I am way north of thirty-five). My younger sister (younger by one year only) just got married in July – to a man who is chronologically quite a bit younger than she is. Myself, I was a relative spring chicken when Art and I got hitched over fifteen years ago (just shy of forty)!

What’s all this got to do with the price of tea in China? Well, I know the myth. The myth in this country is that a woman has more chance of being struck by lightning than she has of ever getting married after the age of 35. I do remember that there was a national magazine some twenty years ago which expounded that theory so persuasively that we all just bought into it. What a crock!

The shame of it all is that there are perfectly wonderful women, some divorced, some never married, who are walking around in despair of ever finding a life partner. They have been brainwashed into believing that they are without hope.

Furthermore, there is another equally fallacious myth in this country. The corollary of the first myth is that women who are single/divorced deserve to be single/divorced. The basis for this myth is the widely held opinion that, in general, this wonderful country of ours presents a level playing field to all, and that therefore, logically, if you try hard enough, you will succeed in achieving whatever you wish to achieve, whether the goal is financial or personal. We then move on to the ludicrous assumption that those who have not been so fortunate have simply not tried hard enough. What a crock!

On top of all of that, we women have a tendency to extrapolate from all these false assumptions that, basically, if we are unhappy, it is our own damn fault. We then look for our fatal flaws that supposedly led to our misery. We are lazy. We are unattractive. We are overly aggressive. We are too withdrawn. We are overweight. We are underweight. We are not sexy enough. We are not bright enough. We are too needy.

Well, of course we’re needy. We’re all needy. As Bruce Springsteen so aptly put it, “Everybody has a hungry heart”. It’s so obvious. It’s as obvious as saying, “Everybody has a hungry stomach” or “Everybody needs air to breathe”. Even our president, who puts on a very good imitation of John Wayne in a bad Western, reluctantly admits that he needs his woman. We are made for companionship. What could be more natural?

So what are the chances that a woman over thirty-five will find true love? Pretty good. As my father-in-law likes to say, “There’s an ass for every seat”, or to put it a little more delicately, “There’s a lid for every pot”. The important thing is not to give up. Each of us is as unique as a snowflake, and somewhere out there is a compatible snowflake. (It doesn’t have to be an exact match). Try to remember that the very thing that makes you feel “different” is probably the very thing that will eventually help you to track down your very own snowflake. And when it all feels like too much, remember my sister – who will be a bride on New Year’s Day.

© 2004, Robin Munson

THE BUZZ – PART TWO

Preface: In case you are just dropping in for the first time, this is the second part in a short story. Part One was posted yesterday (December 7th).

THE BUZZ – PART TWO

Sami was crushed. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand as she headed out for her broken down Renault. She got mascara all over her hand. She looked like a raccoon with pink-eye. It was her first and last interview with a casting agent. After that, she had given up on acting. She concentrated on being a singer-songwriter, figuring that the age/looks bias was less of an issue in that arena. It was around that time that MTV was born. Live and learn.

She had knocked around Hollywood as long as she could stand it, sitting at beer-soaked pianos with half their keys missing, doing her best to bring across her heartfelt lyrics as sensitively as possible while trying to drown out the drone of the noisy and largely uninterested audiences. She played at restaurants during cocktail hours, but they only wanted “covers” of the “top forty” tunes and “standards”. This made her sick, but it paid. She played at the “clubs” that graciously allowed her to play original tunes, but of course, she lost money on these. Finally, she had stopped playing altogether for nearly ten years. She had found a job as a secretary. At last, all that manual dexterity was going to pay off.

David was another story. He had begun his career as a musician at seventeen and had never stopped. He had started playing in the Marines, and since he had been stationed in Southern California, he had begun to make a living as a professional guitar player with an early surf band and somehow, had just kept on going. Of course, he was one of those people who was legitimately gifted. His playing was strong and clean, tasteful. He had enjoyed a reputation as one of the “heavy” studio players for many years. Then he’d simply gotten bored with the success that had come relatively easily to him. He gave up playing to have his own studio. Again, he had been quite successful. Again, he had gotten bored with that, too, and decided to give up the studio to concentrate on simply writing and producing. This is the stage where Sami Applebaum and David Jorgensen met.

If it was love at first sight, it was a different kind of love than either had expected. It was more as if they had recognized each other right away; as if when they came together for the first time, each had found their other half, and they hadn’t known up to that moment that there was another half.

When they had been seeing each other for several months, Sami had gathered up her courage and presented David with a home-made cassette of some of her tunes. She had been much too shy to play anything for him on the piano. She was somewhat awed by his great experience and success in the music business. Besides, she felt that showing her songs would be like giving him instant access to all the secrets of her soul – the ones she had so desperately and futilely tried to conceal in the first blush of courtship. The songs were extremely intimate, delicate. Folksy in their style and delivery. “Not hip”, she knew. What if he didn’t like what he heard?

David had listened to her self-conscious little tape and realized that, although it was very rough and she obviously hadn’t sung much in some time, there was something endearing and genuine about the overall quality of her songs. He loved her more for it.

In exchange, he had given her a copy of his solo album which he had produced himself. He hadn’t gotten a deal on it yet, but it was polished, professional, avant-garde, fully fleshed out, mostly with synthesizers, and of course, guitars. He had done everything himself. She was struck dumb by his obvious talent. She was also a little frightened. Who was this person? Nothing at all like the quiet, gentle boy-like man she had been dating for the past three months. Each looked at the other with new eyes.

After a year of dating, they decided to live together. After a year of living together, Sami brought up marriage. David was reluctant at first, but he warmed to the idea enough not to cancel the rabbi on the morning of the wedding. Sami’s mother worried that it was a “mixed marriage”, but she was wrong. They shared a common religion—music. The rabbi was a drummer from one of David’s bands. The ceremony was scheduled for eleven o’clock on a Sunday morning by the swimming pool in back of the house. At nine o’clock the bride and groom were taking their last walk around the neighborhood as an unmarried couple. Sami stopped in her tracks:

“Are you sure, David? We can call this off right now. Really.”

“Yeah. I’m sure. Let’s do it.”

To Sami, this was the most romantic speech she had ever

heard.

So, here it was. They had been married now for three years. They had written and recorded at least an album’s worth of material that they both felt wonderful about. All the while, they had kept themselves going financially with their “day gigs”. David had begun a mail order business for bulk recording tape. Sami had been doing secretarial work out of their home. They lived together and worked together. They were in love and happy. There was only one thing missing. It was the next logical step in their relationship. The next phase in their development as human beings. The cornerstone of their maturity and commitment: A record deal.

AT HOME WITH FAMILY

Art and I got to Connecticut Friday night. We were lucky because the weather cooperated with us and our flight here was (mostly) okay. (The plane bucked over the Rockies like a bronco buster. You can imagine how happy that made me)!

But we got a beautiful gift today. The sky got pregnant with little grey fish-belly clouds that seemed to get heavier and heavier with each passing hour of the day until at about 2:00 it gave birth to a beautiful baby snow. Now, for two people who have lived in California for most of their adult life, this was an enormous thrill! I can’t remember the last time I saw snow, but it was probably about five years ago (when we lived in Tennessee).

Tonight as I looked out across the street there was a thin layer of white outlining the trees and the houses. Our neighbors had all thoughtfully put up their Christmas lights early this month, so the whole street was glittering and shining. For just a moment we both agreed that this was the only place to be. We could imagine living here year round. We made ourselves a cup of tea and sat in front of the fireplace (although we didn’t have any logs, so we could only imagine the roaring fire).

Of course, we then realized that we would miss California way too much to be here year round. It’s a sad fact that, no matter where we are, we are missing somebody, since Art’s family is here and my family is in California. We decided that the only solution was to have a home in both places, which is what we have finally managed to do.

I don’t know if this was our wisest possible financial decision. I would need a CPA and a crystal ball to tell you that. I do know that it was the best decision for our souls. Family, I have come to believe, is the bedrock that keeps you firmly grounded and centered.

When we moved to Tennessee some ten years ago, we were so foolish that we thought we could just pick up and move to a place where we had no roots. In the six years we lived there, although we had a few very dear friends, nothing could fill that gap. When I got sick back in 2000, it was crystal clear that I had to return to my family. We made a beeline for California. And I’m so glad we did!

But as soon as I was better, I found that I missed Art’s family, too, maybe almost as much as he did. I remember being in Sunday school and learning about Ruth in the Old Testament who said, “Thy people shall be my people.” At the time I didn’t understand how that could happen. Wonderful thing about marriage – it really does.

So we’ll be here for another week, enjoying the nippy weather and setting up house. Hoping for more snow (and hoping it will stop in time for us to make our way back to Sunny California). But mostly, we’ll be enjoying being home with family. I guess the truth is, whenever you’re with family, you’re home.

© 2004, Robin Munson

A VERY LONG ENGAGEMENT

In exactly twenty-four hours Art and I will be at the airport. At about this time I will swallow my little white pill, which will help me to get through the rest of the day. My hands and feet will probably be a little clammy. (They usually warm up when the pill kicks in).

But it would be better for me to skip the part about how we get to Connecticut and to concentrate on how it will be when we get there, because apart from my well-known reluctance to fly, I am actually looking forward to this trip.

Among other reasons for our going, we will be there to visit Art’s parents. (I’m not going to use their names because I don’t want to embarrass them). They will be celebrating their sixty-fifth wedding anniversary this month. No, that’s not a typo. I mean that Art’s parents got married in 1939. Before World War II. When FDR was in office. And miraculously, over those sixty-five years, they have never separated. This is one long, continuous love affair. No doubt there have been bumps along the way, but isn’t that what makes life interesting?

I wish I knew the secret, but I do have a few theories.

First, you start out with a great big helping of romantic love. It doesn’t hurt to have a little parental opposition thrown into the bargain, or maybe just a hint of secrecy. That gives you forward momentum. And these “kids” were young, gorgeous, energetic, and determined. (I’ve seen the pictures of them at that age – they looked like they were from Central Casting. The chemistry is obvious).

Second, it doesn’t hurt to be born into an era that values perseverance and integrity above all else. They may have been the originators of the homily: “When the going gets tough, the tough get going”. My in-laws didn’t buy anything “on time”. They believed in saving up their money until they could afford to pay cash. They shared common beliefs about work. They shared beliefs about how to raise their kids. They agreed never to fight in front of the children long before Dr. Phil was around to spread the gospel. They took full responsibility for their lives. I think they could have chimed in with Harry Truman when he said, “The buck stops here”. Let’s compare that to the current atmosphere in Washington. Hmmmmm.

Third – They still hold surprises for each other. They have not forsaken their individuality and merged into one. Somehow (and I think this is tricky) they’re like the States in the United States. Each of them has sovereignty, and yet each of them is part of the larger whole. They consult each other on important matters, but they still have the power to make decisions independent of each other. There’s still a little mystery – even a little conflict from time to time that makes the sparks fly. How wonderful!

Over the years they’ve developed a very deep trust. When things get hard, they turn toward each other, instead of away. The relationship has become so much more than the sum of its parts. They are the best of best friends.

Every now and then when we visit, I will see them holding hands under the table like a young, newly engaged couple. And I realize that marriage does not mark the end of the engagement, just the formal beginning.

© 2004, Robin Munson

PACKING

Within forty-eight hours Art and I will be on a (gulp) plane bound for Connecticut. I am doing what I always do – vowing that I will not wait until the last minute to pack. Mentally taking stock of what we’ll need, and realizing that no matter what I take or don’t take, it will be wrong.

To begin with, Art does not believe in checking baggage. He doesn’t like the wait at the end of the trip for luggage that may or may not be coming down the ramp. So, we are one of those couples who have maxed out our carry-on allowance. Art carries his computer (of course), and I carry my purse (of course). That’s the end of our “personal items”. Then we each have one of those little rolling suitcases. Mine is the one that has the bum wheel – like one of those carts at the supermarket that doesn’t quite work.

Now for Art, packing is a relatively simple matter, since he refuses to wear anything but his “uniform”. His “uniform” consists of the following: a pair of jeans, a t-shirt with a pocket (has to have a pocket for his glasses), and an over shirt (with a pocket for the same reason as the T-shirt) with long sleeves. So if I pack him a week’s worth of underwear and socks, one pair of jeans (as an alternative to the ones he wears on the plane), one sweater (he only wears Shetland wool crewnecks in traditional colors) and his toothbrush, we’ve pretty much got him covered.

I’m a different story. After all, I am a woman. I have tried to emulate Art’s simplicity of dress, but I can’t quite pull it off. I look hideous in T-shirts. I get tired of jeans. And man-tailored shirts look less and less attractive to me. So I have cardigans and turtlenecks and boat necks and Peter Pan collars and mandarin collars and shrink tops and big tops and blue jeans and black jeans and black slacks and brown slacks and cords and denims and . . . As Joni Mitchell once said, “ . . .the crazies you get from too much choice”.

Once I got so caught up in deciding what to wear that I completely forgot to pack socks. For a woman who wears trousers all the time, forgetting socks is about as bad as forgetting underwear. (I have done that, too).

Also – I keep trying to push this question out of my already-crowded mind: What are we going to do with our great big winter coats once we get on the plane? I think wearing them all the way to Connecticut may be our only option!

Furthermore, when you’re traveling, your purse becomes a small suitcase. More than likely, Art will hand me various and sundry items like his wallet, his keys, his glasses, and his sunglasses, and he will entreat me to keep them for him. So they go into the purse. Then I always have to carry my address book when we travel (even though Art swears all those numbers are in his computer). Then, of course, there is make-up. But when I travel, I take more with me (I don’t know why – I never use it). Then there are my “comfort” items: I must have the following: chewing gum, nasal spray, bottled water, Kleenex, Ear Planes, headset, my little white pills to keep me from panicking, and my reading material and knitting. (Yes, they let you carry knitting needles on the plane. If anyone tries to highjack us, I will be the best-armed passenger in this side of the Mississippi. I can just imagine the scene: “Alright, fella. I’ve got a pair of Number 10s here and I’m not afraid to use them”! All in all – I don’t know how I’m going to stuff my purse with all that junk.

Complicating matters is the fact that we have just gotten ourselves a little condo in Connecticut so that we will have, not only a place to stay when we visit Art’s family, but (and this is crucial) so that we won’t have to schlep everything we own across the country every time we travel. The only trouble is, we don’t have a comprehensive list of what’s there, so we both have to scratch our heads and ask each other questions like, “Do you remember if I left a brown jacket in Connecticut”? Chances are, I did. Chances are, I’ll still pack another jacket “just in case”. If I don’t pack it, then I didn’t leave the jacket there after all. That much is guaranteed.

So. It’s Wednesday morning. By this time Friday morning we’ll be somewhere over the Mojave Desert – too late to turn back for the forgotten shampoo. But as my very wise grandmother used to always say, “It’s not like you’re going to the vilderness”! That’s why God invented 24-hour drug stores.

© 2004, Robin Munson

DANCING BETWEEN THE RAINDROPS

A boy and a girl, Henry and Rose, were so much in love, that they couldn’t wait to get married. Although she was only sixteen and he was only seventeen, it didn’t matter to them. They asked for their parents’ blessing, but their parents could only shake their heads and say they were too young. So they ran away.

They went to a small town in a state where you didn’t have to be eighteen to get married. But as much in love as they were, and as eager as they were to wed, they were very particular about the results. They wanted to live happily ever after. They knew that the circumstances must be exactly right for that to happen, because they hardly knew of anyone who had lived happily ever after. As a matter of fact, they didn’t know anyone, because (logic tells us), in order to know someone has lived happily ever after, we have to wait until the “ever” part is over to know for sure.

So the boy and the girl went to the small café in the small town and they found out there was a town wisewoman – a gypsy fortune teller named Matilda – who was the all-around guru and soothsayer for everything from rheumatism to broken hearts. They walked to her little cottage on the outskirts of the town and knocked on the door. The elderly woman who answered the door smiled when she saw them. And although she was covered in wrinkles and brown spots and her hair was grey and thin and wiry, her smile lit up the whole doorway.

“What have we here? A pair of lovebirds, I see. Well, well, well. Come in! I’ll make a pot of tea.”

So the boy and the girl came into the warm, sunny little cottage and made themselves cozy beside the fire. A grey cat with white whiskers appeared out of nowhere and plopped herself down in the girl’s lap. The girl stroked her and spoke.

“We want to get married.”

The old woman looked thoughtfully at the boy. “Is that so?”

“Yes, he said. Very much so”.

“Well”, said the gypsy, “There is the preacher down the road. He can help you with that. I don’t do weddings.” And with that she began to get up. Then she stopped herself. “But there is something else, isn’t there?”

“Yes”, replied the girl. “We want to live happily ever after. We want to make sure. We don’t ever want to make each other unhappy.”

“Hmmmm.” The old woman mumbled. “I see. So you need the secret, is that it?”

“Yes, please” the boy politely replied.

“You must, of course, get married on a sunny day”, the old woman replied. “Otherwise, all bets are off”.

“That’s it?!” the couple cried in unison.

“That’s it,” answered Matilda.

With that, Henry and Rose jumped out of their chairs, hugged Matilda, and told her they would arrange to be married by the preacher down the road on the first sunny day available. As they left they promised to invite Matilda to the wedding. She waved after them, smiling.

Henry and Rose visited the preacher down the road, who expressed some doubt when he found out how young they were, but then relented, realizing that he and his wife, who had been happily married for over twenty years, had been just about their age when they had married. So they all consulted the Almanac and they tuned in to the Weather Channel, and they even looked outside for signs of rain. They decided that the next day would be a fine, sunny day. The preacher was available (as it would be a Monday), and all was hastily and happily arranged. Henry and Rose shook hands with the preacher and thanked his plump little wife who was making dumplings in the kitchen. They then went to the café and announced their wedding for the next day at the church down the road. All the town was invited. They called Matilda from the phone booth in the café and told her the good news. And because they were not yet married and had no where to go, they spent the night in separate rooms in the home of the café owner, which was just upstairs overlooking Main Street.

Well. The next morning the young couple rose to the smell of fresh coffee and cinnamon buns. They went downstairs for breakfast and tried to pay for it with their meager savings, but the café owner would not hear of it – not on their wedding day.

Just as they sat down to the steaming coffee, they heard a CRACK and a BOOM. They looked outside, and to their horror, saw that a huge lightning storm had come in out of nowhere. They were sure their wedding would have to be called off. Now they would never live happily ever after, they thought! They were miserable, and decided to consult Matilda one more time.

Henry and Rose put on their matching yellow slickers and ran to Matilda’s cottage. “Now what?!” They cried as she opened the door. Matilda just smiled her big, warm smile and ushered them in for a hot cup of tea.

“You have to dance between the raindrops!” she exlaimed.

Rose and Henry looked at her quizzically.

“Go ahead and get married in the church, just as you had planned. Then after the wedding, you have to go outside and have your first dance as a married couple. All you have to do is dance between the raindrops, and you will magically convert your bad luck into good luck. In fact, dancing between the raindrops is the best luck of all!”

Well, Rose looked at Henry, and Henry looked at Rose, and they were full of doubt, but more than that, they just wanted to be married, so they agreed. They hugged Matilda and put on their yellow slickers again, running out into the pounding rain.

At two o’clock, just as planned, they stood before the preacher. The ceremony was short, but very sweet. Henry and Rose were glowing and so happy they thought their hearts would burst. They ran outside the church and began a merry dance. There was no music, because the band would not play in the rain. But Henry and Rose heard the music in their beating hearts, and they danced for a full fifteen minutes. They tried very hard to miss the raindrops, but they wound up getting soaked. Their feet sunk into the mud. Rose’s dress was ruined. Henry’s Sunday best was dripping. By the end of their dance, they were laughing so hard that they fell down in the muddy street and just rolled around while the town cheered.

After everyone had congratulated the young newlyweds and the townspeople had gone home, they realized they had to consult with Matilda yet again. It suddenly dawned on them that they had not quite lived up to the stipulated requirement for living “happily ever after”, for in spite of all their care, they had not been able to avoid the raindrops. Matilda was quietly waiting for them inside the café, utterly dry and sober, and sipping a cup of tea. “Come in, my children!”, she called.

They trudged into the café, their hair sopping, their shoes squishing, their clothes covered in mud, and their eyes shining. Rose spoke for both of them.

“Matilda, I’m afraid we failed, as you can see! We tried so hard to dance between the raindrops, but no matter how hard we tried, they just kept coming and coming and – well, we got drenched! Now we’re afraid we’ll never live happily ever after!”

Matilda laughed a deep belly laugh.

“Nonsense! You have performed your task exactly as instructed. You danced between the raindrops. But who ever said you wouldn’t get wet?!”

And as predicted, Henry and Rose lived happily ever after.