Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10
URBANNA — Two dinosaurs living in Middlesex County celebrated a 61st wedding anniversary in August. Not very exciting news, but we two dinosaurs are very proud of our long-term marriage.
We celebrated by sharing rich memories from our past. My favorite memory happened before we were married. My congregational minister in Vermilion, Ohio, recommended counseling before we married to make sure we shared common values. I met with him, but Chip was in the Navy and out at sea, so I mailed him his worksheet to fill out and return to ensure we were compatible.
Chip received the worksheet, read it, made a paper airplane out of it and sailed it off the fantail of the USS Antares. I had to tell my minister that Chip was Episcopalian and would not fill out his worksheet. My minister suggested that could be an indication of future problems.
Chip and I laughed about that incident for many years as wiser words had never been spoken. Chip was not changing his church so I agreed to join his, but as it turned out I was just as stubborn as he was.
One year I planted beets in my garden determined to learn how to grow my own food but no one in my family would eat them. Furiously, I boiled six of them and ate every one, just to prove to them how delicious they were.
The next day Chip rushed me to the doctor’s office. I was apparently experiencing internal bleeding. The doctor checked but found the red fluid was not blood. “Have you taken any foods or chemicals with red dye in it?” he asked. I could think of none.
“Beats me what this substance is!” the doctor said scratching his head. (He actually said those very words!) It took only a few seconds for me to realize what had happened and I quit growing beets.
Another time as we were preparing to leave the dock in the “Queen Mary,” it was my job to throw off the lines. Chip tooted the horn to announce our boat was backing out of the dock but the boat never moved. Impatient, he gunned her motor. The Queen leapt out on Urbanna Creek under full power. She carried a 10-foot pole pulled out of the mud on her starboard side. I had forgotten to let off the spring line.
One year I promised Flo Dize that Chip would be Santa Claus at the Urbanna United Methodist Church’s annual Christmas family dinner.
Flo was a dandy lady from New York who married Urbanna resident Carl Dize, who had been born and raised on Tangier Island. Why Flo thought that Chip’s lawyerly ambiance would make a good Santa Claus I will never know and indeed, when I told Chip the happy news that he would be Santa Claus at the Methodist Church Christmas party he did not look pleased. However, he did not flatly refuse to serve in such a position so I had hopes it would go well.
The night of the big event arrived and the plan was we would join the Methodists for dinner and then slip over to Flo’s house across the street where Santa would jump into his red suit and then return entering through the front doors of the parish house (fellowship hall), have a jolly “Ho, Ho, Ho” walk through the tables talking to the children, settle down on his throne near the Christmas tree, and then see each child to hear what he or she wanted for Christmas while handing out a package of goodies.
Sound simple? Tell it to the lawyer. As I explained the plan Chip’s face changed into an exceedingly un-Santa Claus expression. I just hoped the white beard we pasted on his face would hide his chagrin. He did not “jump into his red suit.”
He especially struggled with the black boots, which were too small. But the beard was the worst. It kept falling off. Finally, we were ready for our grand entrance.
I flung open the double doors of the parish house to announce Santa Claus had just arrived from the North Pole and the audience burst into shouts of joy. The children ran to him like hunting dogs let loose from their pen. I feared the sudden onslaught of dozens of screaming children running toward us would cause Santa to turn back and run for his life.
Santa, however, headed in a beeline toward the throne with the throng of shrieking children in hot pursuit. I raced after them, concerned because he was not saying his “Ho, Ho, Hos” that he was supposed to say. Santa was a silent Santa, more like a stealth bomber moving as fast as possible toward shelter.
I realized if there were to be any “Ho, Ho, Hos,” I would have to say them. So, in a man’s voice I “ho, ho, hoed” over and over again hoping no one would notice I was speaking for Santa.
Santa finally made it to his throne and threw himself down as the children leapt upon him, each trying to get a position on his lap. The sight was so comical I collapsed in an empty chair engulfed in uncontrollable laughter. A word to the wise. Never call on a lawyer to play Santa Claus. It’s just not a good fit.
Chip is a serious fellow, which translates for me as entertaining. Like the time he couldn’t open the garage door. After a few futile hammers and kicks to the door he decided on a plan. He would break a window, climb up a ladder, let himself in through the window headfirst, grab the center bar, swing himself to the floor and merely open the door from the inside.
It was 90 degrees. He climbed up the ladder and disappeared. I heard a bloodcurdling shriek and a crashing sound. The center bar had come off. Thankfully, he had not been hurt. But he was angry. The door still would not open.
The heat was unbearable. “Don’t worry dear,” I called to him. “I’ll call the rescue squad and they will get you out.”
A shout containing words this writer neither speaks nor writes came forth. Apparently, he didn’t want me to call the rescue squad. Men are strange.
Eventually the lawyer was able to get the garage door open. Shortly afterwards, a new garage door was installed.
One thing is for sure. Long-term marriage is highly entertaining.
Happy anniversary, dear!
(Continued next week.)
© 2024.
