My topic this week is thanks to one of my hubby’s friends who called up and asked why I’m always picking on John. This is for you, Gus.
Where in the world would any of us be without men?
I know the same can be said for women, but every so often I like to remind myself about how lucky I am to have such wonderful men in my life. I’ve been surrounded by great guys — not counting a few jerks in university. All in all, I’ve been very fortunate.
My grandfather was quiet and extremely well read. He was a machinist with a brilliant mind and a gentle manner. He was tall, had big hands, a bald head and wore round, rimless glasses. He let me sit on his lap while he read the paper and I loved the smell of his pipe. Nothing bad could possibly happen when Grampy was around.
My father was a completely different kettle of fish. He could swear with the best of them and was always dropping bottles downstairs, tripping over rugs, shaking his fist at other drivers and muttering about boneheads and meatheads. He, too, was extremely intelligent, a self-taught man who became a writer, editor and publisher. He smoked cigarettes and we weren’t allowed in his study when he was writing. (This apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.) He had a temper and we walked on eggshells sometimes, but he was also kind and generous and would do anything for us.
Hubby came into my life a week after my 19th birthday. I was completely stupid about most things and he could’ve been a serial killer, but my mother liked him and that was enough for me. He asked me to marry him down in my dad’s study. I happened to be wearing a flannel shirt at the time. I bounded upstairs to tell Mom. She was at the kitchen table with curlers in her hair. I whipped out my hand and she dropped the hairdryer. “Oh, Lesley! Look at your shirt! And my hair!”
John has dug wells for me, fixed my flat tires, driven for days to get to me, written me 15-page love letters, fixed the bungalow, saved our septic bed, mopped up floods, fixed the roof, shovelled 10 tons of snow, mowed grass, scrubbed floors, walked with babies on his chest outside at night to get them to stop crying, bought me a new engagement ring when someone stole mine, whisked me away for an anniversary weekend, told me to go to Paris with a girlfriend, told me to go to New York with the same friend, dragged me to the British Isles three times, helped our kids financially when they needed it and drives me to every writing gig I have and loves our pets more than me, which is nigh on impossible.
He cleans the house better than I do. He makes his own meals and always comes home with a watermelon if he sees a nice one, even though he doesn’t like watermelon.
I remember once I had to go to someone’s house to catch a train early the next morning. It was a stormy winter day. The man who lived there walked out the door and got in his car. I stood there with my suitcases and kept looking at him. It never occurred to me that he wasn’t going to help me outside with my bags. I had to struggle through four feet of snow and make two trips to the car to get my luggage inside. I fought back tears on the way to the train station, not because I had to carry the bags, but because not all women are treated the way I’m used to being treated.
There’s nothing nicer than being embraced by a son who is much taller than you are. You feel like a little kid. You’re safe with him. I love seeing big burly cops walk down the street. Most men know what to do with propane tanks, barbecues, oil tanks and electrical units. Stuff I could care less about because I don’t have to care. I have someone who knows the ropes. And I know there are women who are more than capable of doing all of the above. I just don’t happen to be one of them.
Men get stuck with the lousiest jobs. They are the ones who push cars out of ditches and clean leaves out of eaves. They fix chimneys, floorboards, do the plumbing and put cribs together. When I’m running around freaking out about something and Hubby says, “Don’t worry, I’ve got this,” I immediately calm down.
Thanks, fellas, for all you do.
Lesley Crewe is a writer living in, and loving, Cape Breton. These are the meandering musings of a bored housewife whose ungrateful kids left her alone with a retired husband and two fat cats who couldn’t care less. Her 10th novel, Beholden, is being released this fall.
