On Matrimony, Money, and Managing

Up until now and perhaps at the risk of being irrelevant, I have dwelt largely on the past in my public writing… partially because of the safety that time brings and partially because in spite of a show of sparkling energy, I am very lazy. When I have archives of comfortable, old material at my fingertips, why chip my nails banging out something current and incendiary?

Our first anniversary is this weekend, however, and I find that the spirit is upon me to reflect. My husband, newly certified to instruct budding pilots in the intricacies of aviation, will be spending the evening doing just that, and I am prepared to fend off his absence by ruminating on him, us, and our togetherness.

Of the deep things of marriage, I do not write tonight, not because they are not real and precious, but because they are real and precious. Instead, I will look at the human interest side of marriage. I have always enjoyed observing people and their relationships, and one’s own marriage is perhaps the best place to do that.

We met and began our relationship in what felt like a series of fireworks, and in the blinding flash, our personalities were set up against each other. Now, looking back, it is easier to detect the early patterns of interaction that will probably still entertain our grandchildren someday when they visit us in the nursing home.

One of my most vivid memories of our first evening together as a dating couple was the alarms and blinking lights going off in his car, and how perturbed Charles was at the alarms. That car’s alarms have always done that and still do, and Charles still gets perturbed about it. As we parked at our restaurant, we jumped out and started inside. (I think we both forgot about him opening the door for me. After that we remembered intermittently until the next morning when Charles told me that any time I wanted him to stop opening my car door for me, he would. So I obliged.)

“Oh, wait,” said Charles. “I have a gift for you.”

He opened the passenger door which set his horn blaring, and Charles scrambled around to the driver’s side to start the car and quiet the horn. After the brief interruption, he procured a jacket embroidered with Canadian symbols and presented it. I put it on pleasedly, and we went on our way. We ended the evening at a car wash, since it was conveniently along the route.

The horn in question has a lot of personality. Charles wired it to sound like a train horn, but something is wrong with it. It goes off at the wrong times. When it isn’t going off, Charles blows it himself. He likes the sound of the horn as long as he is in control. He will blow it rhythmically as it suits his mood. Sometimes there are cars ahead of us.

I say anxiously, “You know they can hear you.”

“No, they can’t,” says Charles. “I know they can’t.”

We have never been able to settle this discussion to our satisfaction, but it has recently become a non-issue. The horn doesn’t work anymore. It quit because of all the overtime, I say. Charles says this is not true.

Yesterday I was relating to someone another story that struck me as mildly symbolic of the two of us. Shortly before we were married, we were hurtling down the lane on our way to an event which we were late for.

I looked, saw a large black snake, and convulsed into a horrible shudder. “U-u-uh… A snake…”

“Where!” said Charles, throwing the gear into park. Propelling out of the car, he rounded the front, galloped back to fumble in a grocery bag for a piece of dried kiwi, and hauled after the snake.

The snake, misinterpreting his advances, dove in the other direction, and Charles returned to my side, miffed at the snake for its unfriendliness. “I wanted to feed it some kiwi.”

“Oh, well,” he added as we proceeded down the lane. “It’s probably good. Snakes really stink.”

“How do you know?”” I had no idea that snakes stink, not being in the habit of rubbing noses with them. I hate snakes. They are the only creepy, crawly thing that I object too, and all in all, I am quite reasonable about it. Charles, however, desires an acquaintance with any living thing he encounters upon the face of the earth or in the waters below or in the heaven above.

It just now occurs to me in relating this story, that I am quite used to thinking of myself as adventurous… I used to dream of backpacking through Europe on my own for six months. Yet somehow Charles continues to throw me into paroxysms of lady-like terror and complete unwillingness to partake in his activities.

I first encountered this phenomenon on the second day of our first weekend date. Charles suggested flying to see his grandparents who lived about three hours east. I remember thinking that he must be joking. Who goes on a day trip to visit their grandparents on their first date? I barely knew Charles (another story in and of itself) and was hardly ready to start meeting his extended family. It soon became apparent that he was completely serious, so I swallowed, reminded myself that I try never to say no to a new experience, and agreed.  So we did. It is now one of the most special memories of our dating, and it is still one of my favorite things about Charles. He truly values the older people who have contributed to his life.

We flew to the Smoketown Airport and borrowed a courtesy vehicle from the airport. The courtesy vehicle was an old, old truck, the kind that people buy, repair, and take to car shows. Accordingly, we set out through the middle of Amish country, and Charles grew fascinated by the tourism. He asked me quite seriously if I would like to take an Amish buggy ride at one of the tourist spots. I said yes and hoped we wouldn’t. We missed the turn-off providentially and stopped instead at a little art gallery. Wandering through it and making fun of the subjects of the pieces which were designed to appeal to Amish tourism, we encountered the proprietor. He related in severe tones that his wife was the artist. I was busy debating with myself over whether he had heard our remarks and how best to escape when Charles mentioned that we had just flown in. And… of course, the owner himself was a pilot. This is a miracle that happens over and over for Charles. For the first time there in that little tourist shop, I stood by and listened while Charles made another aviation connection.

Dating introduces two people to their similarities. Marriage highlights the contrasts. I am sedentary by nature, loving leisurely Saturday mornings, not eating till ten and sitting over our coffee till much later. If I have a good conversationalist or a good book on hand, I could sit all day. Charles gets a rash if he has to stay in the same spot for more than half an hour, and the half an hour only applies if he is somewhat occupied. Otherwise, I give it ten minutes. 

Whatever Charles does, he does with all his energy. Once when we were dating, we took a trip to South Carolina to his brother’s wedding. He picked me up at my home in Pennsylvania, and we made our plans. Charles said we should leave early so we could take our time and stop along the way. We were going to stop for meals, find a good hiking spot… there was a nice museum along the route we could inspect… I said it sounded wonderful.

Duly, we set out early the next morning and drove. We never really stopped, except for breakfast. Before our honeymoon, I remarked that I was afraid that on our honeymoon we would start driving and never stop. This however did not come true.

One of the defining tensions of our housekeeping is that I cannot stand accumulating stuff. Charles says he can’t either, but this means different things to us. I adore throwing things out. Charles lives in the valley of the shadow of fear that I will.

I was hanging up laundry the one day and looking at our very full closet. Some of those shirts I have never seen Charles wear. I thought (have mercy on my soul) that if I culled a few, he would never miss them. This is true. Charles routinely loses shirts, and he would and has happily blamed his brothers when one came up missing. Then I thought that perhaps I was treading on holy ground, so I backed away and didn’t touch them.

I mentioned it that night at supper. Charles paid immediate attention and commended me heartily on not touching his shirts.

“But you wouldn’t have even noticed.” I said.

“Yes, I would have.”

“But you always lose shirts and don’t think of it till months later. You wouldn’t have missed them. You never wear them.”

Charles arose and marched me into the bedroom, and I pointed out the shirts in question.

“That’s the one I bought in Ohio. And I got that one in Guatemala. Look, here’s the tag… see, it’s a Spanish company. That one I got for three dollars at Value Village… and that one…”

“Yes, I know. It came from Haiti,” I nodded, “And that one you soloed in…” We went back to our supper.

“You have a lot of books,” Charles observed.

“Yes?” I said, a cold feeling spreading inside.

“Would you notice if some of them went missing?”

“…most of them I would…”

“If my shirts,” Charles said, “…go missing… Understand?”

I said that I did. We are now happier than ever.

…Unless I dust his desk.

“You’re just like Mom,” he said after one episode. He adores his mother, and I think he adores me, but in this case, the comparison wasn’t healthy. “She always used to do this to my stuff.”

Another slight difference between us is how we view money. My pre-marriage view of it was pretty dreamy, although I think, I hope, that I was never a spendthrift. My wants and needs were few, and as long as I had enough on hand to pay for my next trip, I was content for it to go towards good causes. After I got married, Charles informed me that lattes and eating out were not good causes. He said spending it on books and traveling was okay, but I don’t think his heart was in it.

When I shop, I go to a store and buy something. I really don’t enjoy shopping, so expediency is the thing. Charles wheels and deals. When Charles shops, he goes to Kajiji or Thursday flyers. He looks at For Sale signs along the road. He sees something someone is getting rid of and asks for it. We outfitted our house with only a few hundred dollars’ expense, and Charles will chalk that up on his bulletin board till he dies. Some of our mattresses he picked up along the road where a discontent cottager had marked them Free. (They were still in plastic, so we trust them to be sanitary.) When we got our couch set (which admittedly has its failings), the owner threw in a microwave for ten dollars. Charles convinced the previous owner of our home to leave most of the rusty machinery sitting by the bush in case there should be some hidden life in them yet. He then ushered me down to see the drill press in the basement. I, beset by pre-housekeeping nerves and wanting to cry, asked tremulously. “What is it for?”

“For drilling holes in things.”

I laughed uproariously instead. I don’t know why it struck me so funny, but I remember a sudden mental illustration of Charles going around studiously drilling holes in things. We now have two drill presses.

Once during a tender moment, I referred to Charles as a slab of concrete… he really is no lightweight. Somehow I meant it as a compliment, but he found it insensitive. “Well,” he said, “You’re a good tax write-off.”

And so we get along… managing this marriage thing. Before I was married, a number of married women told me it was wonderful to be married… with a clause or two. I can now join in saying that it is wonderful to be married… and the clause or two makes it all the more fun.

This article has been vetted and published with Charles’s approval.