April is a very important month, a very very important month. It’s the birth month of my husband as well as our anniversary month. We’ve been married for twenty-two years, I’m proud to say. Now, I would love to say that all that time together didn’t take work, but that simply just would not be the truth. And like my mama always told me, “I named you Ruth so you would always grow up honest. Ruth, rhymes with truth, Baby Doll.” So I tell the truth and the truth is, marriage is hard.
Now, I like to dedicate the longevity of our marriage to a few things: my good cooking, Angus’s patience, and communication. Seems like those things are pretty simple, but I assure they each present complications in their own respect.
I know you must be wondering to yourself, “Ruth, how can cookin’, patience, and communication be complicated?”
Well, honeybunch, allow me to explain and let me preface this with acknowledging that all marriages are different. Each marriage is going to have a different set of trials and tribulations. I’m just gonna explain the situation of my experience with my husband. So, take what I say with a grain of salt, Sugar.
I’ll be startin’ with cooking. I have been cooking since I was a little girl, ever since my Daddy first taught me how to make my first pan of cornbread, (he used to run a restaurant, my Daddy). Cooking was our special thing, you see. Mama and I did almost everything together, but cooking was something exclusive to me and my Daddy. Even after he passed away, God rest his soul, I’ve carried on the traditions and techniques he bestowed upon me. The most important of these traditions is having dinner every night at the table at exactly six o’clock.
So, every night, I have a hot meal ready for my Angus by six o’clock. The problem with this, ya see, is that Angus isn’t very good at keepin’ track of time. He gets home mighty late, way past six. Now, I know these ain’t just late nights he’s spending at the office. The bank, (he works at the bank), closes at five sharp every evening and we only live a few leaps down the road.
This may not seem like a big deal to most ladies, but to me it’s the entire world. It’s like spittin’ on my Daddy’s grave and giving me the side while he’s at it.
I asked him, “Angus, darlin’, why have you been gettin’ home so late?”
He answers with, “Oh, Ruth, I’ve been helping Miss Alice with some of her finances down at the bank since her husband passed away. You know it’s been hard for her, Honey Bee. I’m just tryin’ to do a good deed for her ‘til she can get back on her feet.”
It was true that Miss Alice was struggling. She had two youngins and a whole lot of debt from that no-good husband of hers. So, I let the soft side of my womanly heart take the wheel from my mind.
“Alright, but try to get home earlier,” I said and that night we had supper and went to bed just like we always did.
We’re gonna move on from cooking to Angus’s patience. I’m sure you understand where I’m coming from with my first problem. I mean, I really don’t ask for much, just a little punctuality to honor my Daddy’s memory, but I’m gettin’ off track.
Angus was a kind, sweet, patient man. He could put up with just about anything from me or anybody else and trust me, I threw a whole lotta grief his way. He never raised his voice at me, let alone a hand. When it came to everyone else, he was the same way. When every Tom, Joe, and Tracy came to lay it on him for havin’ to be the one to tell him their house was being foreclosed, he just sat in his quiet, patient way.
He was especially patient with people who needed him. He tutored a few of the local kiddos with their math in his free time and like I mentioned before, he gave plenty of time to people like Miss Alice.
Now, the problem with my husband’s patience wasn’t that he was patient, it was that he let it come before our relationship. He gave his patience to everyone, which meant coming home late for supper and being too tired to spend his time with me. He didn’t really take me as a priority. I realize that makes me sound mighty selfish, but I feel like there should be a little priority to your wife.
I loved that he was such a good man, but I just wanted to have a stronger role in his story. I wanted to be the one he came to talk to after a hard day at work. I wanted to be the reason he had to just say, “no” to helping someone. That’s pretty hard when every bad experience was drowned by his kind heart and his spine was melted away with every request.
So, I guess you could say I’m a little jealous of Angus’s time. And that’s a fair point, so don’t you go feelin’ guilty about it sweety pie. Jealousy is a weakness of time. I was always especially jealous of the extra attention Miss Alice was gettin’...
I think that’s enough of his patience for now. I’m gonna move on to our communication.
Me and Angus were always good at talkin’ to each other. I’m a very outspoken woman and he is a very soft spoken man. We balance each other out, ya see. He could get me to cool down with a few simple statements and I could get him fired up with a few statements of my own. I mean fired up in a good way, of course. I could get him motivated, yes, that’s a better way of putin’ it. I could get him motivated.
All that aside, he and I could talk to each other and we did. We talked all the time. We used to stay up until sunrise just talkin’. Sometimes we would just talk about nothin’ at all and sometimes we would talk about everything under the sun. Words were never in a shortage when it came to me and Angus. I think it’s the reason we fell in love.
Conversation was the foundation of our relationship. So imagine how I felt when my husband, my best friend, would come home late for supper every night too tired to exchange more than a few words. He wouldn’t even tell me how his day was and him askin’ me about my day was out of the question. It breaks my heart thinkin’ about it even now.
Do you remember when I mentioned that April was an important month? Well, this up and coming April is especially important because ya see, Darlin’, last April I had done something particularly wonderful for Angus and me.
Angus’s favorite thing for me to make was my famous blueberry pie with two scoops of vanilla ice cream. He said it was almost as sweet as me. Ain’t that just precious?
Well, I decided I was going to make him a slice and surprise him with it at the bank for his lunch. I even called in beforehand to make sure he wouldn’t get in trouble for takin’ a little break for his special treat. Once I got the okay, I wasted no time in gettin’ to the bank. When I got there though, I saw a rather interestin’ sight.
Angus, my Angus. Was gettin’ out of his car, with a wrinkled shirt. He never had a wrinkle on a single item of clothing he ever owned. Not more than two seconds later, Miss Alice was climbin’ out of the passenger’s side, adjustin’ her shirt and pattin’ down her hair.
Needless to say, I was madder than a wet hen. I went home after that and threw the pie to the neighbor’s dogs while I was at it. After one of the ugliest cries I’ve ever had in all my life, I decided it was time to make Angus’s supper.
Another favorite of his, chicken and dumplin’s. I figured I would add a little something special though, just for him.
That evening’ when he got home I was just pullin’ the pot from the oven, (I like to bake it a little so that the dumplings can cook a little faster), and setting the table. He sat down at his end. Must have been an especially long day at work.
“Well, Honey, the boys at work said you were supposed to come by, but you never did.”
“I’m sorry, Darlin’, I got caught up with Martha across the way. She was having a bit of a crisis with one of her kid’s toys. Needed a sewing lesson.”
“That’s alright. What’d ya make for supper tonight?”
“Your favorite.”
“Chicken n’ dumplin’s.”
“Mhm. Lemme put some in your bowl. Be careful, it’s hot.”
I poured him up his bowl and he ate. I neve really noticed before, but Angus ate like a pig. Like he had never seen a meal in his entire life. Maybe before that day I would have found it cute and teased him about it, but all I saw was a hulking, spineless, animal gorging on a portion too big for anybody with good sense. I sat in silence and watched him finish every sloppy bite.
Only when he had finished did he say, “Um, sweetheart, have you been tryin’ out a new recipe? This tastes a little different than usual.”
“It’s got dishwashing detergent in it.”
He coughed, choked up. He pounded his fat fist against his chest. “Wh-what?”
“You heard me, Stupid. It’s got soap in it.”
“I don’t understand.. Wh-why did you put soap in it?” He began to sweat, panic filling him. “We need to get to a hospital.”
“We ain’t goin’ to the hospital and it’s because you need a little spring cleanin’ after doing such nasty, awful things with that woman.”
His eyes went the size of dinner plates after I said that. The rest of the night was filled with pleas to go to the hospital and several I’m sorry’s. None of that really matters though, none of it worked. I never took him to see a doctor. Not until after he died.
Of course, they found me out, but I can’t say I really care. I got what I wanted that night: he came home on time to eat his special supper, he gave me his precious time, and we talked all night. Now, I’m celebrating a third occasion in the month of April and I’ve got my twenty-two years of marriage to thank for that.