Choices made, decisions to make
There were a few comments on my recent 'February' attempt encouraging a stand-alone story - possibly a companion. I had a few ideas already started, so here's one. Others, based on some of the most popular stories (you know, hubby blindsided at the bosses' cabin, strange junker car in the driveway, and planting trees/ family traditions) created in the Loving Wives category, I'll put the name of a particular month in the title.
Relax; it's just a story, people...
I slide very unglamorously into the middle seat: 27B. The very large woman next to me is, thank God, sitting at the window, not the aisle. That gives me at least some comfort, although the way this trip had turned out, the only comfort I need right now has the word 'Southern' in front of it. A thinner male college grad sits on my right. At least I'll have room to breathe.
The events of the last twenty-four - or was it forty-eight? hours have been so life altering, I can barely collect my thoughts, let alone decide what to do about it. My tormented mind drifts back to the very beginning, probably in defense of itself. The present is too painful.
Barb and I - I'm Robert Stanton - rounding out the introductions, met during our junior year at Michigan State, in our required liberal arts class: Basic Drawing I. As we got to talking, over occasional cups of java after class, I discovered her hometown was a small rural village east of South Bend, Indiana. I hail from a Cincinnati suburb. At first, I didn't see our relationship going very far. Sure, we got along enough to be friends, perhaps even good ones. However, Barb was, especially in those days, a person with conservative values. Growing up in a small farming community can have that effect, I guess.
My parents, in contrast, were big union folk. They voted blue, straight ticket without cause or reason, never even looking over the voter's guide. In their minds, if there was ever a politician in it for the little guy, then they automatically had a (D) after their name. I was fed a steady dose of social justice by my Mother early on, even though it wasn't called that back then. Dad was a lot meeker, and seemed to let Mom do her thing. "Happy wife, happy life," he would proudly recite often. I would have to say that, a lot of my own personality must have come from my Dad. If laid back and easy going was your thing, I was your man.
Maybe my easy-going nature helped our relationship blossom. Whatever it was, Barb was falling hard for me, and while I didn't jump in with both feet, I'd had to admit that, she was growing on me too. We dated, partied a bit, studied together, and always looked for something fun and exciting to do. The one thing we didn't do was live together. Our interests were varied, but again, my laid back attitude allowed me to try things she liked, that until then I'd never done. That seemed to cause Barb to be more accommodating towards things I liked. We both kind of grew into that. There was very little arguing and full-blown fights were rare.
As we were coming upon graduation, Barb and I started to have serious conversations about our future. We professed our love and desire to marry. The bigger question was where we would live. I had started college interested in a business degree, but found it extremely boring. I had an uncle, that I'd always looked up to, who was a volunteer firefighter. So after my first two semesters, I changed my major to Fire Science. That major included EMT training and fire administration, so even if I had to start out fighting fires, I was already qualified for a variety of promotions."
.Barb had had a similar curriculum experience. Her original major was in computer science. Some time, during that first year, she'd decided she wasn't cut out to sit in a cubicle eight hours per day. She'd changed her major to graphic arts, thinking it would be easier to start her own independent business at some point. But during her second year, Barb had fallen in love with American Literature, and had minored in that.
We married, and moved to a decent area of Columbus, Ohio. The payoff was two-fold; first, a job in the fire department was available, and I was hired. Second, our new house was almost halfway between our hometowns. That made it easier to visit family, or they us. Barb worked part time at a big box copy store, until we got pregnant.
Mark our son, came along fifteen months after we wed, and, Desiree a year and a half after that.
Mark is a strapping lad who I think took after my grandfather, on Dad's side. He's strong and athletic, excelling in baseball, football and hockey. Over the years, Barb and I were literally running to get him from one thing to another, and several years he played all three sports in season. That boy is restless, though. He's always on the move, almost like it's a sin to be idle. He's also not much of a conversationalist, although we don't consider him shy.
Desi is a free spirit, and most resembles my Mom. I'd swear, she was a 1970's hippie, if that sort of thing still existed. She's been a social media junkie since she got her first phone at thirteen. I've tried talking to her about some of the realities of life; I really have. She gives me a look of pity or consternation and then off she goes. I don't push, because she's a 'Daddy's girl.' We are very close, and she doted over me after my accident.
Five years ago, and in my last six months as a front line firefighter, I fell from an extension ladder, trying to dodge some burning debris. My C7 was fractured, but not irreparably. The worst injury was a section of my spinal cord that partially fused between lumbar 2 and 3. That required two different surgeries and eighteen months of physical therapy. I was elated to be able to walk again - but a nagging limp slowed me down.
I had lost the ability to play with my son - to throw a ball or even think about getting into a pair of skates. That's a hard pill to swallow; most fathers can relate, I'm sure. It absolutely cost us in the relationship department. Since he knew what we could do had become limited, Mark spent more time with school mates and with his personal device.
Desi was constantly offering to help me with, well, everything, to the point of annoyance. While I'd convalesced, Barb had taken another part time job in a local print shop. Most importantly, though, she'd started writing her own stuff, and, she was damn good. She'd started with political themed books, but this was during the very early Obama years, and publishers were making a concerted effort to steer clear of anything they deemed too conservative. Barb, not to be deterred, began writing romance novels. She was signed by a major publisher for a three-year, five-book deal, and she finally gave up the part time job, to stay home and write full time.
Had it not been for Barb's relentless commitment and hours of hard work, I don't think our family would have been as healthy as we are now. In fact, I'm sure of it. Barb worked, wrote, cooked, cleaned, enlisted the kids, and even assigned me whatever chores I could still complete. She was a trooper - without playing battle sergeant - and my love and respect for her grew immensely during that time. Everything was scheduled, but without any sort of dictating or bossiness.
As my therapy came to a close, I was given a Captain's position and a desk job.
It was during that time, something happened that I'd never really considered or even though possible. Without seeing it, I became much more conservative. Was that even the right word? I didn't know. Too many labels on people these days had really muddied those waters. It started with our finances, and that was mostly out of necessity. Things were tight and the bank I'd used for years was suddenly piling on the fees and charges for the silliest things. Then there were medical bills and insurance issues. I had been constantly trying to make my case with people who cared less. Somewhere along the line, I realized that these businesses and institutions, no longer looked at people as customers. It didn't matter what your circumstances were.
I would talk occasionally with some of the guys at the station about it. They would laugh and nod, claiming what I suppose was an old adage. "In order to become a conservative, you must first obtain wisdom, and to do that requires getting older." I wasn't necessarily in agreement and I wasn't voting any different, but I could see myself becoming my grandparents, and that scared me. Many of the things that once were grey, or of little concern, had now becoming more often black and white. I'd never felt the need to subscribe to a whole ideological package, and so changing my mind about this or that issue didn't bother me. It wasn't just one issue, though. It was a sea change.
Simultaneously, my sweet Barbara was changing as well. Early on, I put it down to her shedding her small town farming roots. As time went on, though, I realized that she was being influenced by other people in her new field. After all, writers are considered artists, and it's called 'liberal arts' for a reason. Editors, executives, marketing media, and even some of her close friends had views I never would have expected Barb to gravitate towards. I can't really say for sure she did, either, because we rarely discussed stuff like that. Still, I noticed some of the changes when she described something she read in a magazine, or saw on the nightly news.
If in fact Barb and I underwent a role reversal of sorts, it didn't affect our family or relationship. First off, we were both very busy. She was busier even than when I was laid up. She wasn't writing for herself any longer; she had deadlines and pressure to produce marketable stories. Meanwhile, my new job was much more involved than I'd ever imagined. I'd always thought I knew exactly what the desk jockeys did, but boy was I wrong. The county red tape and paperwork could give a sloth a migraine. I needed a cheat sheet, just to know which form was appropriate for which administrative crisis.
Secondly, as our lives together progressed, so did our feelings for each other. With both of us having friends that had marital problems or even divorced, we were grateful for all that we had. I can't speak for anyone else, but for me, love is, in large part, about gratitude and contentment. We were both 'all in' on each other, and both of us knew it. The children did, too, and it made me smile that we'd been able to have that special closeness, so they could model their future relationships after it - or at least know what some version of good looks like.
As for our sex life, well, if anything, it had gotten better over the years. It wasn't more frequent, but it was definitely more satisfying. Even during the darker days following my injury, Barb and I found inventive ways to connect in the bedroom. Barb hadn't been a virgin when we'd met. The most she'd ever offered was to point out there'd been very little to do in her small town, and I'd never pressed for more information. Most of my experience had come in college before I'd met Barb. I was what would be considered a late bloomer, but I think I made up for it.
Without hesitation, I'd say I loved my wife more than on our wedding day. I'm pretty sure she felt the same. At least that's what I felt when I was around her.
Just three weeks ago, I'd heard Barb screaming and going wild on our front lawn. She'd sounded happy - elated even - so I was more curious than worried. Mark, now sixteen, and Desi, fourteen, were running out the front door to find out what all the commotion was about. I was curious too. I figured I should follow the kids outside. By the time I got out to where the celebration was taking place, they were jumping up and down, hugging their Mom. Some neighbors, who were already out and about on this brisk-but-sunny 1
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