(Marriage Part Deux – from “My Marriage” Series)
I knew from the get-go my ex had a temper. Oh, boy, did he have a temper! (And here I thought I’d blocked out all the unpleasant memories---hah!) I learned about his temper near the beginning of our courtship, when I attempted to step out with a gentleman caller I’d met at a weekend fallout shelter “retreat.” My ex and I had made no promises to each other—nothing in writing—but I had the good sense to know he might be pissed at the thought of my stepping out with another guy. So, that’s why I didn’t tell him. I didn’t have a phone back then, and since my ex never committed to the next date when we were together, I gambled and told Ray to come over on a Wednesday night (I think). As luck would have it, my ex showed up shortly before Ray and quickly picked up on the situation. The blood draining from my face, and my stammering and babbling must have cued him.
Long story short, I didn’t go out with Ray that night—probably just as well because the name Ray conjures up images of bowling leagues, tattoos, scratching and farting—you get the picture. In spite of a good deal of yelling and hollering, Ray managed to avoid a physical altercation with my ex. (Coincidentally, I never saw him again…) The wall in the hallway wasn’t so fortunate however; it got a fist through it, just for trying to give some structure to the building. But I digress. The point is, I knew about his temper and married him anyway. Sigh.
Fast forward to our first year of marriage. We lived in an efficiency apartment with a Murphy Bed. For you whippersnappers, that’s a bed that pulls out of the wall. Our refrigerator was an under-the-counter deal like you might find in a dorm room. Vinyl tile floor throughout. Luxury. But one of the bright spots was our black and white TV that we watched from bed (Do you know you can buy a Murphy Beds over the Internet??) Since the furniture came with the place, the TV was one of the few things we owned. (When you’re married in the courthouse, you don’t get a lot of nice stuff—something Will and Kate apparently figured out.) Toward the end of year one, we were splitsville and I moved into the YWCA (That’s a blog for another day!). When I returned three weeks later, I learned he’d thrown the TV off the balcony in a fit of anger. Not sure what the TV ever did to him, but whatever it was, it didn’t do it again.
Another fast forward. We now had a 3-year old daughter and were in our first house, which came with a stove. The stove wasn’t much--didn’t have a working oven, which didn’t bother him. But it irked him that the burners didn’t turn on right away—sometimes there was a delay. So, for nine months, I went without an oven. One sunny Saturday in June, I came home from my part-time job at the S & L to find I no longer had an oven or a stove. It seems the burners didn’t come on fast enough for him that day, so he threw the stove out the back door. (He was strong when he was angry!) As he tells it, the neighbors on both sides were talking across the fence to each other when the stove went flying out the back door. That must have been quite a sight — and sound; I’m sure the air was blue from swear words lingering in the air.
So, we — actually, I — went a month without a stove. I made do with a little outdoor grill, a crockpot, and an electric frying pan. What more could a gal want? Well, apparently I wanted a 1930’s model stove that he surprised me with one day. He liked it a lot. I’ll have to admit it was cool looking and a pretty color of green. The oven was about big enough to bake a TV dinner. It didn’t have any temperature markings on the dial—you just had to guess how hot it was. Fun!
He got custody of the stove when we divorced, as well as the house (he bought me out), and most of the contents. We’d never had a sofa (a cut-out bathtub was our sofa—his idea, of course) and I was hot to buy a waterbed and start my new life. So I left with the rocking chair I’d rocked my daughter in, the kitchen table and chairs, my daughter’s bed and dresser (that we’d paid $15 for), some burlap shelves and cement blocks, my clothes, and half of my six-year-old daughter.
So, what’s the point of telling you all this? I’m really not sure. So you’ll appreciate your lives/marriage more? Dunno. But I have come up with the perfect moral to the story: “People who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stoves.”
Bah dump!
Monday, May 2, 2011
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Nancy
All I really needed to know I learned, not in kindergarten, but from my childhood friend, Nancy. Nancy, who had the good sense to invite me to accompany her to the outhouse one eventful spring day (before cell phones...) so I could run and tell her grandma she had a “poop stuck halfway in and halfway out!” Friends were created for such emergencies.
I’ve been thinking about Nancy lately, perhaps because spring is allegedly here. On those days when spring is teasing me like a child with a feather, I find myself daydreaming about Nancy, who lost her life at 20. Nancy – who inspired me when I was a kid and who continues to inspire me.
Nancy Clotfelter lived across the street from me when we were little girls. Her May birthday made her a month older than me, a big deal when you’re five or six years old. Nancy and I lived with our grandparents in Coffeen, Illinois. Her folks ran the grocery store until her dad died when she was about six. I didn’t have a dad for all practical purposes – a common bond.
We played together nearly every day. I can picture her blond hair, blue eyes and turned up nose, even though I don’t have a single photograph of her. She was perpetually cheerful– always smiling, never complaining. Most kids don’t really have much to complain about, but Nancy did. Both of her legs had been amputated above the knee because of a birth defect. At least that’s what I think happened. As I child, I wasn’t too concerned about the details. As an adult, I concluded her disfigured legs were amputated so she could be fitted with prostheses. I used to watch in fascination as she sat on the bed and strapped on her bulky, unwieldy legs. Dragging those heavy legs around all day must have worn her out – but they didn’t slow her down.
Nancy had no trouble keeping up with me as I rode my tricycle down the street. She loped along behind, blond hair flying, with a big smile on her face. I picture us from the perspective of someone watching from across the street rather than someone who was peddling the tricycle. Nancy’s summer wardrobe consisted of little ruffled midriff tops and cotton slacks. She wore wide-legged pants to hide her legs when other little girls wore sundresses.
I moved away from Coffeen when I was seven, after my mother remarried. I saw her occasionally after that, and then her mother remarried and they moved to the Chicago suburbs. We were 12 when we last got together. It was an awkward meeting. Several years had passed since we’d seen each other, but we eased back into a familiar groove and hugged when we said good-bye.
A commuter train killed Nancy when she was 20. Her legs buckled as she crossed the railroad tracks. A young father and businessman came to her rescue, but he was also killed. They were no match for the 60-mile-an-hour train. The yellowed newspaper account holds a special place in my scrapbook.
Even though she was only 20, Nancy was on her second marriage. She didn’t let any grass grow under her artificial feet. She drove a car with hand controls. She was a fast mover, but she was not fast enough to escape the train. I shudder to think what her last moments must have been like.
I wonder if I’ll see her again someday–and if we’ll pick up where we left off.
Frank Sinatra nailed it when he recorded a song about his daughter, Nancy: “No angel could replace Nancy, with the laughing face.”
I’ve been thinking about Nancy lately, perhaps because spring is allegedly here. On those days when spring is teasing me like a child with a feather, I find myself daydreaming about Nancy, who lost her life at 20. Nancy – who inspired me when I was a kid and who continues to inspire me.
Nancy Clotfelter lived across the street from me when we were little girls. Her May birthday made her a month older than me, a big deal when you’re five or six years old. Nancy and I lived with our grandparents in Coffeen, Illinois. Her folks ran the grocery store until her dad died when she was about six. I didn’t have a dad for all practical purposes – a common bond.
We played together nearly every day. I can picture her blond hair, blue eyes and turned up nose, even though I don’t have a single photograph of her. She was perpetually cheerful– always smiling, never complaining. Most kids don’t really have much to complain about, but Nancy did. Both of her legs had been amputated above the knee because of a birth defect. At least that’s what I think happened. As I child, I wasn’t too concerned about the details. As an adult, I concluded her disfigured legs were amputated so she could be fitted with prostheses. I used to watch in fascination as she sat on the bed and strapped on her bulky, unwieldy legs. Dragging those heavy legs around all day must have worn her out – but they didn’t slow her down.
Nancy had no trouble keeping up with me as I rode my tricycle down the street. She loped along behind, blond hair flying, with a big smile on her face. I picture us from the perspective of someone watching from across the street rather than someone who was peddling the tricycle. Nancy’s summer wardrobe consisted of little ruffled midriff tops and cotton slacks. She wore wide-legged pants to hide her legs when other little girls wore sundresses.
I moved away from Coffeen when I was seven, after my mother remarried. I saw her occasionally after that, and then her mother remarried and they moved to the Chicago suburbs. We were 12 when we last got together. It was an awkward meeting. Several years had passed since we’d seen each other, but we eased back into a familiar groove and hugged when we said good-bye.
A commuter train killed Nancy when she was 20. Her legs buckled as she crossed the railroad tracks. A young father and businessman came to her rescue, but he was also killed. They were no match for the 60-mile-an-hour train. The yellowed newspaper account holds a special place in my scrapbook.
Even though she was only 20, Nancy was on her second marriage. She didn’t let any grass grow under her artificial feet. She drove a car with hand controls. She was a fast mover, but she was not fast enough to escape the train. I shudder to think what her last moments must have been like.
I wonder if I’ll see her again someday–and if we’ll pick up where we left off.
Frank Sinatra nailed it when he recorded a song about his daughter, Nancy: “No angel could replace Nancy, with the laughing face.”
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
A Marriage Made in Heaven
(I realized while writing this, the subject of my marriage will have to be a series of postings. It’s impossible to capture 10 years of bliss in one posting. Gives you— and me— something to look forward to.)
As I lay in bed the other night mulling over the day’s activities, I was hit by a “divine” inspiration for the subject of my second blog posting: my marriage. My 9-year and 11- month marriage that began in 1968 and ended in 1978. A marriage made in heaven—or perhaps not. And on this, the anniversary of our wedding day, I’m getting misty-eyed and sentimental.
We got married on a typically cold winter day—Thursday, February 29, 1968. (It was his idea to get married on Leap Year—“Only have to celebrate every four years.” Ha!) The day started with my being in an absolute panic because I couldn’t find the marriage license. I was in the process of moving and I was sure I’d accidentally packed it away in one of the boxes. I called my ex in tears, practically hysterical. He must have felt sorry for me, because he told me where he’d hid it. It’s always nice to begin a marriage with humor.
We were married at 10:00 in the morning at the courthouse in downtown Springfield. Our witnesses were the judge’s secretary and her friend. A janitor stood in the back doorway leaning on his broom or mop (I’m not making this stuff up, folks!) I was wearing a sleeveless white lace dress I’d made, which nicely showcased the bruises on my arms from the three times they had to stick me to draw blood. Back then, no stickee, no marriage license-ee. Our reception was held at my in-laws house; lunch was tuna salad sandwiches. The attendees were my in-laws, and us—the happy couple. My ex had a long-standing policy of not having his picture taken, (He’d spent the night in jail during the Kennedy campaign when he created a disturbance trying to confiscate the film of the photographer who’d taken his picture. But I digress.) so a few wedding pictures were taken of me in my wedding dress using a Polaroid Swinger Camera. (My yellowed dress still hangs in my closet—I’ll bet the feng shui folks would have a hissy fit if they knew that!)
We left that afternoon for a short honeymoon trip to New Orleans. Since we had time before our flight, we stopped by the aircraft hangar, where my ex had recently worked. One of the mechanics said, “What’s new, Henry?” to which he replied… “Nothing.” He didn’t introduce me or mention we’d gotten married that morning. Bless his heart; it must have slipped his mind.
The rest of our wedding day was equally romantic. When we got to our hotel, he spotted a coin-operated copy machine in the lobby. He sold copy machines but had never seen a coin-operated one before, so he threw the suitcase in the room and headed back down to the lobby to find out about coin-operated copiers, while I cooled my heels in the room.
That night, his best friend called at 11:00, apparently thinking he would “interrupt” us. To the best of my recollection, he didn’t. (My ex was probably poring over brochures on coin-operated copy machines.)
The end of a perfect wedding day. And the beginning of a perfect marriage. Stay tuned. It gets better!
(So I get home from work last night (2/28) and find a vase of roses and a box of fudge on my doorstep, a gift from my ex, commemorating our anniversary. He apparently experienced our marriage differently than I did—or he feels very guilty. I’m guessing the latter!)
As I lay in bed the other night mulling over the day’s activities, I was hit by a “divine” inspiration for the subject of my second blog posting: my marriage. My 9-year and 11- month marriage that began in 1968 and ended in 1978. A marriage made in heaven—or perhaps not. And on this, the anniversary of our wedding day, I’m getting misty-eyed and sentimental.
We got married on a typically cold winter day—Thursday, February 29, 1968. (It was his idea to get married on Leap Year—“Only have to celebrate every four years.” Ha!) The day started with my being in an absolute panic because I couldn’t find the marriage license. I was in the process of moving and I was sure I’d accidentally packed it away in one of the boxes. I called my ex in tears, practically hysterical. He must have felt sorry for me, because he told me where he’d hid it. It’s always nice to begin a marriage with humor.
We were married at 10:00 in the morning at the courthouse in downtown Springfield. Our witnesses were the judge’s secretary and her friend. A janitor stood in the back doorway leaning on his broom or mop (I’m not making this stuff up, folks!) I was wearing a sleeveless white lace dress I’d made, which nicely showcased the bruises on my arms from the three times they had to stick me to draw blood. Back then, no stickee, no marriage license-ee. Our reception was held at my in-laws house; lunch was tuna salad sandwiches. The attendees were my in-laws, and us—the happy couple. My ex had a long-standing policy of not having his picture taken, (He’d spent the night in jail during the Kennedy campaign when he created a disturbance trying to confiscate the film of the photographer who’d taken his picture. But I digress.) so a few wedding pictures were taken of me in my wedding dress using a Polaroid Swinger Camera. (My yellowed dress still hangs in my closet—I’ll bet the feng shui folks would have a hissy fit if they knew that!)
We left that afternoon for a short honeymoon trip to New Orleans. Since we had time before our flight, we stopped by the aircraft hangar, where my ex had recently worked. One of the mechanics said, “What’s new, Henry?” to which he replied… “Nothing.” He didn’t introduce me or mention we’d gotten married that morning. Bless his heart; it must have slipped his mind.
The rest of our wedding day was equally romantic. When we got to our hotel, he spotted a coin-operated copy machine in the lobby. He sold copy machines but had never seen a coin-operated one before, so he threw the suitcase in the room and headed back down to the lobby to find out about coin-operated copiers, while I cooled my heels in the room.
That night, his best friend called at 11:00, apparently thinking he would “interrupt” us. To the best of my recollection, he didn’t. (My ex was probably poring over brochures on coin-operated copy machines.)
The end of a perfect wedding day. And the beginning of a perfect marriage. Stay tuned. It gets better!
(So I get home from work last night (2/28) and find a vase of roses and a box of fudge on my doorstep, a gift from my ex, commemorating our anniversary. He apparently experienced our marriage differently than I did—or he feels very guilty. I’m guessing the latter!)
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