Chicken Soup for the Woman's Soul (16 page)

And Elaine is thinking: “He’s angry, and I don’t blame him. I’d be angry too. I feel so guilty, putting him through this, but I can’t help the way I feel. I’m just not sure.”

And Roger is thinking: “They’ll probably say it’s only a 90-day warranty. That’s what they’re gonna say!”

And Elaine is thinking: “Maybe I’m too idealistic, waiting for a knight to come riding up on his white horse, when I’m sitting next to a perfectly good person who’s in pain because of my self-centered, schoolgirl fantasy.”

And Roger is thinking: “Warranty? I’ll give them a warranty!”

“Roger,” Elaine says aloud.

“What?” says Roger.

“I’m such a fool,” Elaine says, sobbing. “I mean, I know there’s no knight and there’s no horse.”

“There’s no horse?” says Roger.

“You think I’m a fool, don’t you?” Elaine says.

“No!” Roger says, glad to know the correct answer.

“It’s just that...I need some time,” Elaine says.

There is a 15-second pause while Roger tries to come up with a safe response. “Yes,” he finally says.

Elaine, deeply moved, touches his hand. “Oh, Roger, do you really feel that way?”

“What way?” says Roger.

“That way about time,” Elaine says.

“Oh,” says Roger. “Yes.”

Elaine gazes deeply into his eyes, causing him to become very nervous about what she might say next, especially if it involves a horse. At last she says, “Thank you, Roger.”

“Thank
you,
” he responds.

Then he takes her home, and she lies on her bed, a conflicted soul weeping until dawn, whereas when Roger gets back to his place, he opens a bag of chips, turns on the TV and immediately becomes deeply involved in a rerun of a tennis match between two Czech players he never heard of. A tiny voice in his mind tells him that something major was going on back there in the car, but he figures it’s better not to think about it.

The next day Elaine will call her closest friend, and they will talk for six straight hours. In painstaking detail they will analyze everything she said and everything he said. They will continue to discuss this subject for weeks, never reaching any definite conclusions but never getting bored with it either.

Meanwhile, Roger, playing racquetball one day with a friend of his and Elaine’s, will pause just before serving and ask, “Norm, did Elaine ever own a horse?”

We’re not talking about different wavelengths here. We’re talking about different
planets
in completely different
solar systems.
Elaine cannot communicate meaningfully with Roger because the sum total of his thinking about relationships is
Huh?

He has a guy brain, basically an analytical, problem-solving organ. It’s not comfortable with nebulous concepts such as love, need and trust. If the guy brain has to form an opinion about another person, it prefers to base it on facts, such as his or her earned-run average.

Women have trouble accepting this. They are convinced that guys
must
spend a certain amount of time thinking about the relationship. How could a guy see another human being day after day, night after night, and
not
be thinking about the relationship? This is what women figure.

They are wrong. A guy in a relationship is like an ant standing on top of a truck tire. The ant is aware that something large is there, but he cannot even dimly comprehend what it is. And if the truck starts moving and the tire starts to roll, the ant will sense that something important is happening, but right up until he rolls around to the bottom and is squashed, the only thought in his tiny brain will be
Huh?

Thus the No. 1 tip for women to remember is never assume the guy understands that you and he have a relationship. You have to plant the idea in his brain by constantly making subtle references to it, such as:

“Roger, would you mind passing me the sugar, inasmuch as we have a relationship?”

“Wake up, Roger! There’s a prowler in the den and we have a relationship! You and I do, I mean.”

“Good news, Roger! The doctor says we’re going to have our fourth child—another indication that we have a relationship!”

“Roger, inasmuch as this plane is crashing and we have only a minute to live, I want you to know that we’ve had a wonderful 53 years of marriage together, which clearly constitutes a relationship.”

Never let up, women. Pound away relentlessly at this concept, and eventually it will start to penetrate the guy’s brain. Someday he might even start thinking about it on his own. He’ll be talking with some other guys about women, and out of the blue he’ll say, “Elaine and I, we have, ummm...we have, ahhh...we...we have this thing.”

And he will sincerely mean it.

Dave Barry

© Cathy. Distributed by Universal Press Syndicate. Reprinted with permission. All rights reserved.

Lost and Found

Winona was 19 when she first met Edward, a tall, handsome young man, in the summer of 1928. He had come to Detroit to visit his sister, who was engaged to Winona’s brother. Edward stayed with some friends, and although he was there for only a few days, there was enough time to get to know the lively, dark-haired young woman who intrigued him from their first meeting. They promised to write, and Edward returned to Pittsburgh.

For many months, they wrote long, newsy letters sharing details of their lives and their dreams. Then as quickly as he came into her life, Edward left. His letters stopped, and Winona gradually accepted that he simply wasn’t interested anymore. Edward couldn’t understand why Winona had stopped writing, and he, too, resigned himself to the fact that the woman he had fallen in love with did not return his love.

Several years later, Winona married Robert, a dashing man 10 years her senior. They had three sons. She got news of Ed’s life through her sister-in-law. Several years after Winona married, Edward got married, and he, too, had three children.

On one of her visits to her brother and sister-in-law’s in Buffalo, her brother announced, “We’re driving to Pittsburgh to Ed’s daughter’s wedding. Do you want to come?” Winona didn’t hesitate, and off they went.

She was nervous in the car just thinking about what she would say to this man she hadn’t seen in 30 years. Would he remember their letters? Would he have time to talk with her? Would he even want to?

Soon after they got to the wedding reception, Ed spotted Winona from the other side of the room. He walked slowly over to her. Winona’s heart was racing as they shook hands and said hello. When they sat at one of the long tables to talk, Winona’s heart was beating so hard she was afraid that Ed could hear it. Edward had tears in his eyes as they exchanged polite conversation about the wedding and their respective families. They never mentioned the letters, and after a few minutes, Ed returned to his duties as father of the bride.

Winona returned to Detroit, where she continued teaching piano lessons, working at an advertising agency, and, as always, making the best of whatever life offered. She tucked away the memory of her brief visit with Ed along with her other memories of him.

When Ed’s wife died 10 years later, Winona sent him a sympathy card. Two years after that, Winona’s husband died and Ed wrote to her. Once again, they were corresponding.

Ed wrote often, and his letters became the highlight of Winona’s day. On her way to work, she stopped by the post office to pick up his letters, and then she read them at the stoplights. By the end of her half-hour drive, the letters were read and Winona had a happy start to her day. Gradually, Edward expressed his love for his “darling Winona,” and they arranged for him to come to Detroit for his vacation.

Winona was excited and nervous about the visit. After all, except for their brief meeting at the wedding, they hadn’t spent any time together in over 40 years. They had only been writing for six months, and Edward was coming for two weeks.

It was a lovely, warm June day when Winona drove to the airport to pick up Edward. This time when he saw Winona, he rushed to her and wrapped her in a long, loving hug. They chatted happily and comfortably as they retrieved luggage and found their way to the car. It was an easy beginning.

When they were in the car on their way to Edward’s hotel, he pulled a small velvet box out of his pocket and slipped an engagement ring on Winona’s finger. She was speechless. He had hinted at marriage in his letters, but this was too sudden and too soon. Or was it? Hadn’t she waited all these years to know this love?

For two weeks, Ed wooed his Winona. He even wrote her letters from his hotel. Winona’s concerns gradually dissolved in the stream of Ed’s love and the whole-hearted support of her family and friends. On September 18, 1971, dressed in a long pink gown, Winona was escorted down the aisle on the arm of her oldest son. She and Ed were married and in Winona’s words, “We lived happily ever after.”

And those letters that had suddenly stopped so many years before? It turns out that Edward’s mother had destroyed Winona’s letters because she didn’t want to lose her youngest son. Forty-three years later, Winona found him.

Elinor Daily Hall

Grandpa’s Valentine

I was the only family member living close by, so I received the initial call from the nursing home. Grandpa was failing rapidly. I should come. There was nothing to do but hold his hand. “I love you, Grandpa. Thank you for always being there for me.” And silently, I released him.

Memories... memories...six days a week, the farmer in the old blue shirt and bib overalls caring for those Hereford cattle he loved so much...on hot summer days lifting bales of hay from the wagon, plowing the soil, planting the corn and beans and harvesting them in the fall . . . always working from dawn to dusk. Survival demanded the work, work, work.

But on Sundays, after the morning chores were done, he put on his gray suit and hat. Grandma wore her wine-colored dress and the ivory beads, and they went to church. There was little other social life. Grandpa and Grandma were quiet, peaceful, unemotional people who every day did what they had to do. He was my grandpa—he had been for 35 years. It was hard to picture him in any other role.

The nurse apologized for having to ask me so soon to please remove Grandpa’s things from the room. It would not take long. There wasn’t much. Then I found
it
in the top drawer of his nightstand. It looked like a very old handmade valentine. What must have been red paper at one time was a streaked faded pink. A piece of white paper had been glued to the center of the heart. On it, penned in Grandma’s handwriting, were these words:

TO LEE FROM HARRIET
With All My Love,
February 14, 1895

Are you alive? Real? Or are you the most beautiful dream that I have had in years? Are you an angel—or a figment of my imagination?
Someone I fabricated to fill the void? To soothe the pain? Where did you find the time to listen?
How could you understand?

You made me laugh when my heart was crying. You took me dancing when I couldn’t take a step. You helped me set new goals when I was dying. You showed me dew drops and I had diamonds. You brought me wildflowers and I had orchids. You sang to me and angelic choirs burst forth in song. You held my hand and my whole being loved you. You gave me a ring and I belonged to you. I belonged to you and I have experienced all.

Tears streamed down my cheeks as I read the words. I pictured the old couple I had always known. It’s difficult to imagine your grandparents in any role other than that. What I read was so very beautiful and sacred. Grandpa had kept it all those years. Now it is framed on my dresser, a treasured part of family history.

Elaine Reese

A Soldier’s Last Letter

A week before the Battle of Bull Run (also known as Manassas), Sullivan Ballou, a major in the 2nd Rhode Island Volunteers, wrote home to his wife in Smithfield:

July 14, 1861
Washington, D. C.

My very dear Sarah,

The indications are very strong that we shall move in a few days, perhaps tomorrow. Lest I should not be able to write you again, I feel impelled to write a few lines that may fall under your eye when I shall be no more.

I have no misgivings about or lack of confidence in the cause in which I am engaged, and my courage does not halt or falter. I know how strongly American civilization now leans on the triumph of the government, and how great a debt we owe to those who went before us through the blood and suffering of the Revolution. And I am willing— perfectly willing—to lay down all my joys in this life to help maintain this government and to pay that debt.