You’re Married?

“Wife? When you say you’re his wife, what exactly do you mean?”

Imagine my deep sadness when a good friend e-mailed a seven-person group to say his son was near death in the hospital, asking for prayers and for God’s hand to move positively in his son’s life.

Imagine my calling him that morning immediately after receiving his message to express my sorrow and assure him of my prayers and his emitting a nervous laugh. I thought it odd but attributed it to the frightening situation.

Imagine further my shock, calling later that eve and having a female answer his phone—a female who declared she was my friend’s wife.

I have a lot of married friends, and none are scared to tell me that they’re happy or not happy in their relationships. But I have known this guy for 10 years and never has he displayed any sign that he was married. He’d indicate in subtle ways that he was interested in me, though not as overtly as some. He’s always been quiet, intelligent, and a good writer, not one who would sit and openly converse as friends do.

Listening is something he maintained he did better. Now I see that listening was better because talking might have inadvertently revealed verity.

My eyes are now wide open, and my mind is satisfied that I listened to my intuition. The last time he stopped by, I actually said that I have a rough time trusting people who don’t openly express themselves, fearing they were hiding something. I told him that I felt guys were after one thing and often sluts, thus averting any potential advance.

My gut spoke, and I listened. I have found it to be the best intelligence and my true friend.

So as this guy updated his now-undisclosed e-mailing list about his son’s daily condition, he’d sign off with “Yours in Christ,” or sentiments like that.

Hello? What does that mean? A guy who seemed willing to cheat on his wife, weak and lacking self-discipline, a guy who declares himself Christian? Give me the life of a heathen, so at least I can commit myself to a sinful life eating alfredo and meat, drinking wine, and eliciting choice remarks.

Yes, I am imperfect and hurt. I feel betrayed. Not because this guy and I would have gotten to first base, but because he had thoughts that surpassed his vows to both his wife and me. As a friend, truth is imperative. Truth allows a person to freely be with another. Sans judgment.

I will admit, I thought he and I were friends, but now, judgmentally, I wonder how many other me’s were out there, how many times he lied to his wife, and how deep his faith in Christ really is.

I wonder if he wonders if the fate of his son had something to do with his behavior.

I will never know, because I will never communicate with this fool again.

Seamingly Creative

(Puzzle piece number 10 of 38.)
In “Unearthed,” my first post, I mentioned that my parents were not cut from matrimonial cloth. Rather, they wove an erratic web of discontent. Like pants that were too tight: they kept crawling up each other’s butts.

Their ubiquitous disharmony far surpassed light moments, and their periods of silence superseded even mundane conversation. So one way Mom communicated with Dad was through subterfuge—with a creative streak.

About a year after Mom discovered her sewing machine (see “Secrets”), Dad accepted a transfer from Wisconsin to Minnesota. Mom and I were not thrilled in the least about leaving Nana, her mom, and the comfort of having her nearby. I had just started kindergarten and depended on Nana to walk me across the street to her home on school days. Nevertheless, before winter break, Dad cemented our plans to move from cold to colder.

The first winter in western Minnesota was excruciating. It snowed almost all the time and the frigid winds blew drifts so high, we were able to climb onto our roof. It was that winter when I discovered there was no Santa Claus—even I couldn’t get my little buns down our chimney.

Months after settling into his new position as branch manager, Dad decided to buy a ranch and raise beef cattle—his lifelong dream, Mom’s and my nightmare.

We didn’t live on our ranch; in fact, I wonder if we lived at all. We worked. We all had full-time jobs in addition to being full-time ranchers. Dad ran the loan company, Mom managed an appliance business, and I functioned as student, homemaker, maid, and referee between parents.

We lived in town close to my elementary school and commuted ranchward to care for our cattle, horses, and cats. Workaholism is one of our family addictions (laziness is a sin).

On weekends, Dad practically lived on the ranch. He’d erect fences, build structures, plant oats, wheat, and alfalfa, care for the animals, and expel flatus. Mom would keep her distance as much as possible, thinking of ways to torment my father.

When a person feels the call of nature while in a field or in the woods, one doesn’t run to find a biffy, as Norwegians called the loo. If the person is male, relief is all the easier. So Dad unzipped his overalls, but found no opening in his boxers. Feeling a flood of desperation, he quickly reached to the back of his shorts, figuring he’d put his boxers on backward, only to discover another sewn seam.

Under his breath, he muttered, “That wife.”

Yes, Mom and her sewing machine. What a stitch.

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