Unlocking the secret to a successful marriage, with smoke alarms filling the air
- Michelle Wood: SWCD
- October 18, 2009
- 884
She’s a kind, caring, loving person, one who did me the wonderful honor of marrying me, making Oct. 22, 2007, the best day of my life.
What’s more, she doesn’t mind it when I share stories of our lives together with you; or should I say, more precisely, that she says she doesn’t mind.
We shall soon see.
We vacationed earlier this month in Siesta Key, an island off the Gulf Coast of Florida, where we packed our cares away and enjoyed the azure waters, warm breezes, breathtaking sunsets and each other’s company.
There were some rough patches of road, however, as there always are when two people try something new. For many years, faithful readers might recall that we’ve traveled to the Outer Banks of North Carolina during World Series week and have stayed in the same ocean front house.
We’re comfortable there. We know the house and its quirks. We know the restaurants. We know what to expect when the winds shift and the Atlantic boils in advance of an incoming storm.
It is, in a word, familiar.
But this year, my wife decided that it was time we stepped out of our comfort zone and into the unknown.
The cottage, painted bright blue, with pink and yellow accents, was on the small side, but cozy and just right for two. Lizards skittered along the floorboards of the side porch – which my wife says is called a “pergola” – and you had to be mindful upon reentering the house not to give any of them a chance to slide inside.
There was a hot tub out back and a serviceable shower in the bathroom.
And, of course, there was a gas grill available should anyone want to try his hand at grilling.
And that’s when I ran headfirst into the unyielding wall of unfamiliarity.
I am a charcoal man.
Learned all I know from my father.
And, not to boast, but I’m pretty good at it.
The Blue Dolphin, as our rental home is known, was equipped with a propane-fueled machine, one that, to tell the brutal truth, I was never able to fire up.
I followed the directions on the lid of the contraption – “Directions,” I scoffed, invoking “Treasure of the Sierra Madre.”
“I don’t need no stinking directions!” – but the thing remained stubbornly inert.
My wife, cognizant of the fact that my pride had been wounded by that failure, didn’t criticize me, even when – after trying to broil the steaks in the kitchen – the whole place filled up with acrid smoke, setting off alarms in nearly every room.
I was abashed and that’s probably what kept me from making fun of my wife when, the next morning, she locked herself outside the cottage.
She just knocked on the bedroom window, awakening me well before my usual hour, and I let her in.
The same thing happened two mornings later ... and the one after that!
My wife’s a very smart person, someone who sailed through nursing school near the top of her graduating class, a woman who, before that, ran her own successful business in our hometown. She handles all the finances for us and is a decorating wizard.
But for some reason, she kept locking herself out of the cottage.
Three times in five mornings.
Each time, of course, she was embarrassed, especially after Incident No. 3.
“I’m getting used to it,” I said, joining her on the sun porch for a glass of orange juice as I eased into my day, a little earlier than usual.
So I decided to put my time to good use.
I taught her how to use the lock.
“See this?” I asked, indicating the locking button. “When it’s in this position – straight up and down – imagine a ‘Thumbs Up.’ That means when you close the door behind you, it won’t be locked. OK?”
She nodded.
“Now,” I continued, “if the thingy is like this, horizontal, you see? That’s means it’s not going to let you back inside. It’s saying ‘No, no, no’ OK?”
And I made a gesture like a football ref does when a team declines a penalty.
“Shall we review,” I said, “or do you think you have it?”
My wife’s smile never wavered.
“How are you coming along with that propane grill?” she asked.
Which is why we get along so well.
Mike Dewey can be e-mailed at Carolina mikeD@aol.com or snail-mailed at 6211 Cardinal Drive, New Bern, NC 28560.