Gifted

 

         Men and women do not react to happiness the same way. Women cry over things that make them happy. Men don't do that. A movie with a happy ending will make a woman cry. So will a graduation, hers or someone else's. A gift card, with no money in it? Oh, yes. A wedding? Holy mackerel. The list is practically endless.

        Once I became aware of this significant difference (I was maybe eighteen, thereabouts) I began to employ it to my benefit, and never looked back.

        When my wife and I married (Wewoka First Baptist), older women all over the sanctuary, older women she had known for years, broke into tears, recalling no doubt her earlier promise (substantial), and, now, right in front of them, the reality of the fine catch she had made. There it was, me, standing up there beside her for all of them to see. At some point during the ceremony, I heard a sob or two behind me and turned to look and see what seemed like a roomful of white handkerchiefs fluttering about a sea of faces, like people standing on a dock waving goodbye to someone they love on a disappearing ship. The earliest version of the “Titanic” I had seen as a kid in the fifties had a scene like that in it.

        We hadn't been married very long, maybe the second year, when I saw an ad in the paper produced by White's Sewing Machine Center in Tulsa for a brand new sewing machine plus a Remington .870, 12 gauge pump shotgun if you bought the sewing machine. Pam is a homeworker deluxe, and I knew immediately that the sewing machine would make her happy, and it did. I'm thinking it was pretty close to Valentine's Day, but that's been a long time ago, now. I remember most of the conversation we had over it.

        “Well how do you like it,” I asked.

        “You mean the sewing machine?”

        “It's more than a sewing machine. It's your Valentine's gift.”

        “Are you serious?”

        “Yes, I am. It's the least I could do for all that you do for me.”

        That's when the tears welled, not quite spilling over, I assume in disbelief for the affection I showed for her. She has never sewn a stitch with it, telling me one time she was keeping the machine as a “keepsake”, a reminder of an important event in our lives together.

        I shot tons of game with the Remington 12 gauge before eventually giving it to my grandson Lane's dad, Adam Webster, who in a like manner counted much coup with the excellent gun before retiring it also as a keepsake, fond memories being preserved being important in all of our lives.

        Time flies by in a happy marriage, as does a joyous life of any sort for that matter, and over the years, fifty-five, now, coming up on fifty-six, I have matched or topped the excellent gifts I have given my wife for Valentine's. One year I gave her a brand new all white apron (for the sanctity of marriage). So profuse were the tears, I topped it the next year with an all-white apron (keeping the sentiment of the theme) with a beautifully embroidered heart about where her own would be located. The tears flowed, accompanied to out and out sobs. This, I thought, has to be the topper. I was wrong.

        Six or seven years ago, realizing the importance of the girl in my life, and the importance of the safety of that girl's life, I bought her a storm cellar for Valentine’s Day. When she understood the reason for the storm shelter, she stood there beside me a moment looking at it, and then a different look came into her face, one I had never seen. She was simply awestruck with joy at the magnificence of the deed I had done for her. For her. It was a touching moment for her, and for me as well.

        She turned and walked quietly into the house closing the door quietly behind her. Solemn acts are often accompanied with solemnity.

        So, that's the way I see it. If you're a young man yet unmarried, you need to find a way to make your girl cry with happiness, it's what they like to do, but it's not as easy as it looks. I'm still thinking of a way to top that last one.

        Maybe a shot gun? Of her own?

© 2021 Conrad M. Vollertsen