15 Years

Tags

a plot for pridemore, anniversary, kansas city, marriage, sept. 11, Stephen Roth, tortola, wedding

Fifteen years ago, my wife and I got married in a little chapel in the heart of Kansas City. My uncle officiated, five of my best friends were groomsmen and, as my soon-to-be bride entered the building, the double doors swung open and the late afternoon sun embraced her in a heavenly glow.

The next day, we flew to Tortola in the British Virgin Islands, went snorkeling, got sun-burned, drank rum punch, and relaxed most afternoons in a hammock below our beachfront cabana. After a week of honeymoon bliss, we flew back to the city to start real life as a newly married husband and wife.

Ten days later, two planes hit the World Trade Center. The country was paralyzed. To paraphrase Humphrey Bogart, it didn’t take much to see that two little people didn’t add up to a hill of beans in a crazy, frightening new world.

I sometimes wonder what would have happened if my wife and I had scheduled our wedding and honeymoon a little later than we did. The shut-down of U.S. airlines and airports would have forced us to spend a few extra days in the Caribbean. Would we have decided to just stay down in Tortola and never come home? It would have been tempting to do so.

Staying in the tropics would have been romantic, but not very realistic. After all, we had a house, jobs, and three cats in Kansas City. What would we do for employment? Not many people in Tortola seemed to work, so maybe we could have just fished and slept on the beach?

At any rate, we decided to put down our roots in Kansas City, and I am glad that we did. There have been many magical moments like that trip to Tortola in our 15 years of marriage. There have also been doses of cruel reality, some which I dearly wish we never had to experience.

Through it all, though, we have stuck it out together. My wife has been so much more than just someone I share a home and a bank account with. She is my friend, ally, collaborator and confidant. You need that in a marriage, I think. Just being in love is not enough. You need someone you can laugh with and suffer with, and you especially need someone who can laugh with you even when you both are suffering.

A few days before our wedding, my wife did something that I felt spoke to her commitment as a partner and companion. I mentioned it in my toast at our wedding rehearsal dinner.

My wife and I had tickets to a Kansas City Chiefs preseason game, and we were trying to find a parking space near where our friends were tailgating. The journey in our Honda Accord took us off-road and onto a grassy ridge where fans had parked and were barbecuing. At one point, to get through all the cars and tailgaters, I had to drive along what felt like a 45-degree slope. It really seemed like the car might tip over at any second as we drove through the crowd. My wife, who sat in the elevated side of the car, opened her passenger door and leaned out as far as she could, both hands clutching the roof like a windsurfer hanging onto a sail. Instead of just bailing out, she thought her quick action might help keep the car from flipping down the hill.

We and our Honda survived, of course. I knew then—if I had any doubts before—that I had found a partner who would be with me all the way, even during times of potential bodily harm.

Fifteen years on, she is still with me, and I am so grateful for that.

A Dog Named Keiko

Tags

birthday, children, dogs, english shepherd, family, free willy, kansas city, keiko, marriage

On July 31, 2005, my wife and I adopted a dog. It was not an easy decision. We had two cats at the time, and adding a dog to the mix was certain to cause some domestic unrest.

“I’ve had dogs before,” I told my wife. “They need a lot of attention and can be a lot of trouble.”

We were not planning on getting a dog in the summer of 2005. One evening after work, we got a phone call from my wife’s cousin. He told us about this dog he had rescued from a co-worker who could no longer care for it. The dog’s name was D.J., and it was some kind of a border collie mix.

“You should come look at her,” he suggested. “She’s really pretty.”

The cousin lived near our house, so we went over that night. It had been raining earlier in the day, and we found D.J. running around the backyard with our cousin’s Siberian Husky. Both dogs were covered in mud but were friendly and wanted to put their paws all over us. The dog we came to see looked to be a tri-color, but it was hard to tell because of the muck on her coat. Our cousin told us he thought that D.J. was about six months old, and had been chained to a tree most of her life.

“What do you think?” the cousin asked. “You want her?”

“We’re going to have to think about it,” I said.

The cousin stroked his Van Dyke beard and nodded. “You’ve got ‘til tomorrow. After that, she goes to the pound.”

Later that night, my wife and I talked about the dog. One thing we agreed on was that D.J. was a horrible name. We couldn’t agree on anything else, however. My wife wanted the dog. I said I didn’t think that this would be a good time to add another pet. “Dogs take a lot of work,” I said.

The next day around lunchtime, I got a call at work. It was my wife.

“I had a dream last night about that dog,” she said. “I really don’t want her to go to the pound. I think we should take her.”

“Your cousin isn’t going to take her to the pound. That’s just a bluff,” I said. I have to admit now that I did not know my wife’s cousin as well as she did.

“Can we please get her?” she said. “I just can’t stop thinking about that dog.”

I agreed. How could I say no? That night after work, we took the dog, gave her a bath and bought all the necessary dog things–two bowls, a leash, dog food, squeaky toys, and a big rubber ball that we tied to a low-hanging branch in our backyard. As it turned out, the dog’s coat was a beautiful white, black and tan mix. She also had different-colored eyes–one brown and one very light blue.

“Isn’t that unusual? Is she blind in one eye?” we asked the veterinarian a few days later.

“I don’t really know,” he said.

“She’s really pretty, isn’t she? What kind of dog is she?” we asked.

“I’m not really sure,” the vet replied.

We soon learned that she was not blind in her blue eye, and we eventually discovered that she was an English Shepherd, which is a fancy name for a border collie/Australian Shepherd mix. After a few days of trying out names, we decided on “Keiko,” which means “blessed child” in Japanese and was also the name of the whale in the movie, Free Willy. My wife picked Keiko, however, because she liked how it sounded. The dog seemed to respond to the name as well. At the very least, she liked it better than being called “D.J.”

Nine years later, Keiko is still going strong. The photos above were taken earlier this month after a recent grooming appointment. Keiko has been everything we could have wanted in a dog: smart, happy, fun, energetic, sometimes mischievous, always hungry for a treat. We worried about having a high-energy dog around little kids, but Keiko turned out to be a wonderful companion for our children–always gentle and patient, and very often protective.

July 31 is not the date of Keiko’s birth, but we remember it as the day her life began with us. She has brought us so much joy and helped us to navigate life’s ups and downs. She has always been there for our family. For me, she has been a regular walking companion, a reliable playmate, and the only dog I could ever teach to catch a Frisbee.

So, happy 9th birthday, Keiko! We love you so very much.

They Always Bring Food

Tags

author, casseroles, death, family, fiction, food, insurance, marriage, mourning, plot for pridemore, Stephen Roth

Cynthia had been gone less than a week when the casserole ladies starting showing up at Frank’s door.

Deborah Rhinehart was the first one. Frank had just dropped the last batch of relatives off at the airport and was looking forward to spending some time alone. Pulling onto the gravel drive, he spotted Deborah’s beige Chrysler New Yorker parked in front of his house. He thought about shifting into reverse and heading back into town, but it was too late. Deborah was already trotting toward his pickup, a deep glass dish brimming with chicken enchilada casserole in her hands.

“Frank, I am so sorry,” she said as he stepped out of the truck. “This was so sudden.”

Frank nodded, not knowing what to say. Cynthia had battled cancer for two long years. That didn’t seem very sudden to him. He knew Deborah meant well. She was a portly woman in her early 60s with a quick, gleaming smile. Her husband, Emmett, died of a heart attack six years ago. He collapsed behind the register of that liquor store his family had run for more than 60 years. A hell of a way to go.

“If you ever need someone to talk to about it, you know I’m a pretty good listener,” she said, offering up a cautious smile. “I don’t know exactly what you’re going through, but I think I have an idea.”

“Thanks, Deborah. I really appreciate it.” He took the casserole, which was still warm, and gave her a half-hug with his free arm. He had no idea where he would put the dish. The refrigerator was crammed with food from four days of eating, drinking and reminiscing with family members after Cynthia’s funeral. He might just eat the casserole tonight. Enchiladas were not his favorite, but they smelled good.

His next visitor appeared the following day, a Wednesday. Sandy Richardson was a slender, emotional woman who did a lot of communicating with her hands. Frank knew the minute he opened his front screen door that Sandy would insist on coming into the house and having a chat. Frank took her green bean casserole, which he had sampled many times at church picnics and other gatherings, and set it on the kitchen countertop. He returned to the living room with two cups of Folger’s Black Silk Blend.

“Shit, Frank. I don’t know what to say,” Sandy said, already tearing up. “Cynthia was a great woman. A great woman. The service last week was just beautiful. She would have been so happy. She was so happy.”

Frank smiled and looked down at his coffee. He knew Sandy well. They even dated for a short while in high school until Sandy caught him at the Highway 65 Drive-In with Tamara Brewer and kicked out one of the tail lights on his Pontiac. That was a long time ago and it was a story both of them enjoyed retelling every once in a while. Still, Sandy was crazy as bat shit. Both Frank and Cynthia knew it, as did Sandy’s longtime husband Trent. He put up with her antics for four decades before finally keeling over a couple of years ago while changing a car tire. Folks said the massive stroke was due to Trent’s chain smoking, which was probably a symptom of his turbulent, up-and-down marriage.

“I just want you to know,” Sandy Richardson said, placing a well-manicured hand firmly on Frank’s knee (it almost looked like a claw). “I’m here for you. Always have been. Always will be.”

After 30 more minutes of tears and sudden, unnerving laughter, Frank ushered Sandy out the door and returned to his newspaper. He had barely gotten through the business section where there was another knock on the door.

“Are you home, Frank?” He recognized the voice. He could curse himself for not shutting the front door.

“Hello, Brenda,” he said, smiling and lifting the massive dish of three-cheese lasagna from her hands. “You are too kind.”

She walked into the house without being asked, which was Brenda Fink’s typical way of operating.

“God, Frank, it is so dark in here,” she said.

“Well, Brenda,” he said, “I am in mourning.”

She cocked her head and fashioned a concerned look. “Oh honey, I know. I know she meant the world to you. I am so, so very sorry.”

“Thank you,” Frank said. “Can I get you some coffee?”

“That would be wonderful,” Brenda turned on a couple of lamps and picked up the scattered newspaper to make herself a place on the couch. She was a tall, athletic woman who liked to wear bright-colored lipstick and pencil skirts that accentuated her legs. Everyone at Frank’s insurance agency was a little bit afraid of Brenda Fink, who was the office manager. She was twice-divorced and childless, yet Frank and the staff often called Brenda “Mother” because that’s the role she played at the agency. She kept the books, hired and fired, maintained Frank’s calendar and led all other administrative functions while her boss spent time with his clients. She planned the office Christmas party, remembered everyone’s birthday, and brought in donuts and pulp-free orange juice every Friday.

When Frank returned with the coffees, Brenda pulled a fat manila envelope from her pocketbook and plopped it on the coffee table.

“Sympathy cards,” she said. “I have another bag full of them at the office. I sorted through all of them and brought you the best ones.”

“Thanks,” Frank said, pulling out a greeting card with a water-colored rose on it.

“So when do you think you’ll be coming back?” she asked.

Frank tipped back his cup and took a sip. He had been thinking about that. Frank was 62 and didn’t want to run the agency much longer. He had always planned on retiring at 65, but Cynthia’s painful decline made him wonder if he wanted to wait even that long.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe a week from now?”

“Brenda smiled. She was sitting across from Frank, cup and saucer balanced on her well-sculpted knees. She moved the coffee to a side table and leaned toward her boss, the little gold crucifix on her necklace dangling over her freckled chest.

“Frank, you take as long as you need.” She clasped both of her man-sized hands around one of his. “You know I’ll keep things ship-shape and in good working order while you’re gone.”

She rose, brushing lint from her skirt. “I take good care of you, don’t I, Frank?”

He picked up her cup and saucer, and shuffled into the kitchen. It was 3 o’clock in the afternoon and he was still in his pajamas.

“You do, Brenda,” he said, dumping the cups into the sink with a considerable clank. “You’re top-notch.”

She smiled and nodded at Frank, turned on her orthopedic wedge heel and headed out the door.

He watched her cross the yard, rev up her car and speed off, a cloud of gravel dust in her wake. He closed the front door, locked it, then returned to the couch and his business section.

The Tossed Angel, Part 2

Tags

humor, marriage, Stephen Roth, stories, tossed angel, yard ornaments

Alert readers of my humble blog may remember a story I shared a few months ago about how I accidentally “tossed” my wife’s favorite concrete angel yard ornament over our fence, and broke it. If you don’t remember this heart-wrenching tale, you can read it here.

Today I am pleased to report that there is a happy ending to the Tossed Angel saga. A couple of weeks ago, we visited our friend, who was getting ready to have a garage sale. We were chatting on her back deck when my wife happened to look out on the neighbor’s backyard. There, hanging from an iron hook was a concrete angel, exactly like the one I had defiled more than two years ago. My wife stared at that angel, knowing it belonged to the now-divorced wife of the disgraced concrete sculptor.

Meet the new angel…

“How much does she want for it?” she asked.

“Oh, that thing?” said our friend, taking a long drag from her Marlboro Red. “Hell, she’ll pay you to take it.”

My wife gazed longingly at the angel.

“Just go get it,” our friend said.

Without another word, my wife walked over to the neighboring yard and plucked that cherub off his hook.

“Shouldn’t we at least tell the lady that we’re taking it?” I asked, but my dear wife was already headed toward the car, the angel looking at me over her shoulder with a hollowed-eyed, vacant stare.

…same as the old angel.

I still don’t know what she sees in that thing, but I did get a few laughs today as I read my Tossed Angel story to a gathering of Hallmarkers at the company’s annual “Word Week Coffeehouse Readings.” I am lucky to have a spouse who not only allowed me to read the piece, but was actually quite enthusiastic about it. I don’t know what that says about our marriage, but I hope it’s mostly positive.

The Tossed Angel

Tags

angels, fatherhood, humor, jailbreak, marriage, scultures, storytelling, thin lizzy

As I recall, we paid about $45 for the concrete angel. My wife’s best friend had a neighbor who liked to mold sculptures out of cheap concrete. He was a shaggy, middle-aged guy with a nose full of burst capillaries who showed us a few of his sculptures and said he could mold an angel for my wife in about two weeks.

“It’s not as simple as it looks,” he said as we eyed the concrete gnomes, mushrooms and forest animals lining the walls of his garage. “It takes time to do it right.”

The guy made good on his promise and, two weeks later, my wife took home a very realistic depiction of a cherub in flight, one arm held high so that you could hook him to anything sturdy enough to bear his 15-some-odd pounds. We later learned from our friend that her neighbor was a chronic womanizer who practiced his concrete-molding skills on some of his favorite female subjects. His wife found those particular sculptures in a garage closet behind all the smiling gnomes and woodland creatures.

That wasn’t important. What was important is that my wife liked the angel. She hung him from a metal arbor that we put in our backyard, a place where he could keep watch over the starlings, finches and cardinals that frequented our feeders, and where my wife could watch over him through our second-story living room window. She did that sometimes on quiet weekend mornings, drinking coffee and staring out at the birds and the angel and the clematis hanging from the arbor. There were other angels she began collecting soon after we moved into our new home in the northern part of the city. We moved up there after enduring a family tragedy and, in a way, my wife felt the angels might stand guard and keep misfortune from following us to our new home.

One early evening in June, I was spreading black velvet mulch in the garden bed beneath our backyard arbor. It was the end of a long, hot day of watching our one-year-old son, then mowing the lawn, then doing some more yardwork that I’d put off for a few weeks. I had on my ear buds and my iPhone was cranking out Thin Lizzy’s Jailbreak album. Everything was peachy: mulch, sweat, bumblebees, The Cowboy Song and occasional sips of water from my giant St. Luke’s Hospital & Women’s Clinic bottle. The only annoying thing, other than the bees, was my tendency to rise up from my work and bump my head against the concrete angel hanging from the arbor. This happened enough times that I started to get a little testy. “Next time I hit my head against that stupid angel, I am going to grab it and throw it as far as I can,” I thought. I might have even said it.

A few minutes later, with “The Boys Are Back in Town” blaring in my cranium, I gathered myself into an upright position and, bam! hit my damn head on that angel again! I knew what I had to do. I picked that cherub up by his wings and tossed him over our picket fence. I took no pleasure in the act. I had told that angel I was going to do it, and damnit, how dare he test me like that! I calmly returned to my work with the mulch.

A few seconds later, I felt a pop on my head. Then another one against my arm. I pulled off my ear buds and looked up at our backyard deck, where my wife and son stood, staring down at me. My wife took another piece of ice from the drink she was holding and threw it at me.

“I saw the whole thing!” she yelled.

“What?”

“Don’t tell me ‘what.’ You know what I’m talking about.”

“Hi, Daddy!” my son squealed, waving a burp towel at me.

“The angel was hitting me on the head,” I explained. “I had to get it out of the way.”

“Oh, the angel hit you in the head and so you threw it.”

“I tossed it.”

“Hi, Daddy!” my son squealed.

She took our boy inside and returned to finish our conversation.

“You have no idea,” my wife hissed, “What an asshole you looked like.”

“Oh, c’mon.”

“It’s broken.”

“It’s not broken. I just tossed it.”

She went back inside the house and, after a few minutes, I walked around the fence and into the tall grass to retrieve the angel. Sure enough, his little arm, the one that had held him aloft, had broken off from the impact of the fall. I took a deep breath and walked into the house to give my wife the news.

“You were right. It’s broken.”

“I told you it was.”

“I’m really sorry,” I said. “I know how much you like it.”

“That’s okay,” she said in a way that clearly meant it wasn’t.

“I’ll buy you a new one,” I said.

“Good luck finding the guy who made it.”

“I’m not buying it from him. God knows what he was doing with that concrete.”

“It’s really okay,” she said.

I, of course, did eventually get another concrete angel that we could hang from our arbor, though not one nearly as big and majestic as the old one, which now sits grounded in our garden bed as a reminder that I am not perfect and, yes, sometimes an asshole.

The angel, after the fall.