|
Publication Date 4-1-10 I could get in big trouble this week. My wife is always my final editor, fixing my grammar and trying to keep me from saying anything too rude. She's also the only censor I've ever had. Several of my best columns have never seen the light of day, nipped in the bud, because she looked at me and said, “Everyone who reads your column doesn't need to know this, buster.” Yeah, like another nine people in the world knowing our family secrets will make the slightest difference. I'm going to try and sneak around that rule this week, but since my track record for successfully fooling my wife is fairly sparse, I'm not completely confident I can pull it off. And, even if I do, I'm certain there will be a price to be paid further down the line. Thirty-seven years ago this week I saw a small woman in a long grey coat walk down her parent's sidewalk towards me. She had blue eyes, a dimple when she smiled, and a gentle and mischievous heart. You know, I belong to a local writer's group. Once a month we get together and do various exercises trying to get better at our craft. The exercise last week was to write our own obituary. It actually was not nearly as creepy as it sounds. In fact, I should probably hang onto the one I wrote because let's face it, no one else is going to have nearly as many nice things to say about me. I spent some time looking back over my life, trying to decide what mattered. The task was not very hard – I don't have any Nobel Prizes to brag about and much of what I have accomplished didn't, (after I gave it some real thought), merit including in an obituary. But something that became apparent to me was that I am a lucky man. Not everyone would think so. Here I am, bald, chubby, and middle aged. I still throw away the letters in the mail that come from the AARP, but that won't last forever. I drive around wearing stained jeans in a dirty pickup with 102,000 miles on it. I have bad knees, hairy ears, and I can't thread a needle without a magnifying glass. I'm not rich or famous and I never will be. But 37 years ago this week I saw a small woman wearing a long grey coat walk down her parent's sidewalk towards me. She had blue eyes, a dimple when she smiled, and a gentle and mischievous heart. Over the years I've told our children hundreds of stories about that first date. Sadly, they were all lies – even the one about how their mother got a tattoo of a squid with the words “I only have arms for you” written underneath. Still, something must have gone right because two years to the day after our first date we were married, and we still are. Anyone who knows me thinks better of me simply because I've been able to hang onto her for three and a half decades. Everything good that has happened to me in my life comes from that moment. And that's as much luck as I need. Copyright 2010 Brent Olson Brent Olson |
