Love...In Honor of Valentine's Day

"Love asks us that we be a little braver than is comfortable for us, a little more generous, a little more flexible. It means living on the edge more than we care to.” Norman Mailer

This morning a little after 4:00 I was awakened by the sound of my husband checking to see if he still had laryngitis. “I DO sound normal. My voice DOES sound normal.” Part affirmation, part sound check. From behind the bathroom door he (loudly) tried out his voice. The dogs sat up and cocked their heads as if to say, “Has he totally lost his mind?” A few minutes later he returned to bed. Seeing that I was awake he asked, “How does my voice sound?” I just groaned and turned my back to him. So did the dogs. It isn’t like he is a singer or a yodeler or a broadcaster or an auctioneer…but he is a hypochondriac. Unable to get back to sleep, after 30 minutes of tossing about in the bed I was sharing with a Samoyed and Dalmatian and a now soundly sleeping husband, at 4:30 I got up and wandered about doing chores. I actually enjoyed my hour of domesticity. The sun rising over the winter wonderland that was my front yard. The muted (I kept the volume down so I wouldn’t disturb John) reports from yesterday’s Olympics. The first cup of coffee. Morning stretching. A little writing. At 5:30 John came into the kitchen. “Why did you get up so early?” I just smiled.

Learning to Drive

I didn’t learn to drive until Steve told me he was leaving me for another woman. We were living in West Palm Beach in a two room apartment over Mercedes Gomez’ garage. We slept on a mattress – no frame, no box spring, just a mattress. We were lying on that mattress when he told me he was leaving. Nothing between me and the floor but a thin mattress. Nothing between me and loneliness but Steve. And I didn’t even know how to drive. The next morning as soon as I got to work I called Aunt Gladys. “Aunt Gladys, Steve is leaving me and I don’t know how to drive. I’m almost twenty-four years old. My marriage is over. And I don’t even know how to drive.” The next day she picked me up in her gold colored 1972 Chrysler and drove me to a remote part of Martin County where Paul had taught her to fire a gun. She put the car in park, got out and told me to scoot over behind the wheel. When she had settled herself in the passenger seat, fluffed her hair and checked her lipstick she took a deep breath. “Okay. Drive.” I drove. If she hadn’t injured anyone with Uncle Paul’s pistol then I probably couldn’t do much damage with a Chrysler. “Ten o’clock and two o’clock.” I realized she was telling me where my hands should rest on the steering wheel. This was before airbags. Hell, it was before seatbelts. “When you turn, turn like this.” She demonstrated the way the steering wheel should move through my hands. “Don’t cross one hand over the other when you turn.” I was getting the hang of it, but there were no other cars within five miles of us. Aunt Gladys helped me study for the written test. I only missed one question. (When do pedestrians have the right-of way? The correct answer is all the time, not just when they are in the crosswalk like I said.) I passed the driving test in spite of the fact that I had learned to drive barefooted and had a really hard time driving with shoes on – still do. And Steve didn’t leave me after all – not then at least. He waited until four years later and by then I didn’t need him anymore.