Color me mistaken.
With Smurfs on the brain, I entered into a weekend worth of social
engagement on a mission. Sharing the
company of old and new friends alike, I was certain I would unravel the
mysteries of the Schtroumpf. I was not
disappointed and I must now eat crow a bit in printing a slight
retraction. It would indeed seem that the Smurfs, as I have always known them, are
in reality Schtroumpfs. They are the
brain child of a Belgian cartoonist and the strip was originally written in
French. The term “Smurf” is actually a
Dutch translation which we Americans picked up to presumptively not confuse the
shit out of our children. Cowards. Sometimes reading the entire book isn’t
enough if you forget the last page.
Should have done my research before running my mouth. So, as it turns out, Belgium has provided us
with tasty waffle treats, “The muscles from Brussels”, and SMURFS! THANKS BELGIUM!
With that colossal weight off of my mind, I can shift my
focus and share our latest misadventure overseas. Despite a very vigilant watch being kept on
our dwindling propane supply, it seems we miscalculated a bit and find
ourselves beyond our reserves. Now, with
the coldest part of winter upon us, we are living without heat, a stove to cook
on, or hot water to bathe our smelly flesh.
Yes, the dawning of Valentine’s Day did not find the wife and I sharing
our hearts, but rather sharing our body heat in a single King Sized bed filled
with our two young children. How is that
for romantic? Actually, the wife was the
only one sharing the warmth of our plush sleeping quarters. Being the last to tend the fire and shut down
the cold and dormant lower floor, I came to bed last night to find it well
tended by three snuggled intruders in varying states of sleeping sprawl. Old dad was relegated to a twin mattress on
the cold hard floor. Waking this morning
with aching back and frozen extremities, I completely lost sight of any romantic
gesture that needed to be offered to my loving wife of 12 years.
That is the way of things, I suppose. As you become more and more settled into life
with your partner, you become less and less concerned with complications
arising from an annual flair up of VD (as a good friend of mine so eloquently
referred to it). Over the years, our VD
has been well tended. We have applied
liberal salves and ointments by way of greeting cards, chocolates and the occasional
bouquet of roses. I have written poems,
made dinner reservations and arranged weekend retreats, all in the name of
curing our VD. Having young children to
raise and a lifetime worth of trials to face, you quickly realize that a
singular day in the middle of February is not nearly enough to convey what your
partner means to you. VD comes and it
goes. Perhaps a day or so before and
after you still feel the itching and burning, but eventually it is gone, and
you go back to taking each other for granted.
A truly happy marriage requires one to treat the disease with much more
frequency. While not afforded an entire
day throughout the course of the year, the cumulative nature of the moment or
two stolen will amount to much more still.
We have always done that, she and I. I keep her close to my soul with every moment
that passes and she knows that a heart shaped trinket is not needed to know the
depth of my love and affection. An occasional
moment holding hands as we walk down a city street, a momentary glance into each
other’s eyes from across the room at a crowded dinner party, the words spoken
without uttering a sound . . . these are the moments that make Saint Valentine
willing to bless our union and that has NOTHING to do with February 14th. For now, we will be content to tend to the
fire in our hearth rather than our hearts and dream of warmer days when we can
once again steal a romantic walk by the ocean or candlelit feast in the
park. I wish you all a Joyeuse Saint
Valentin and promise to write again soon.
“Until then, remember, we’re all in this together. Schooner Tuna
. . . the tuna with a HEART.” R.
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