I quietly told Kristin’s dad, Ed, about my nagging suspicions. Fellow men of action, we walked straight into that bathroom and started emptying both trash bins of their paper towels—gently unfolding each nasty, damp towel. The bins were filled to the top, so it took a while, but as soon as we approached the bottom, there was a plink sound from Ed’s bin. We froze and gave each other a quick glance as Ed reached in and pulled my ring from the bin.
I wanted to cry.
Like so many times in our marriage, what seemed lost was found again with an instinct toward just a little more care and effort.
We have known each other for nineteen years now. In too many ways, a “successful” marriage between us still seems improbable. We’re both fiercely independent, with vastly different tastes and temperaments, and nothing about our lives together has ever been routine. Neither of us is certain that we’re reflective of a “strong” marriage. But our very survival of the difficulties of army life, infertility, deployments, and cancer must be an indication that we’ve done something worthy of taking note.
* * *
To understand the depth of my feelings for Kristin, it is helpful to know the order-loving personality who fell in love with her.
By the time I finally took an interest in women, around age nineteen—I was curious during my teenage years, but repelled by the work and drama girls seemed to entail—my ideas on romance could arguably be described as fussy and excessively respectable. Of course, I prefer the words romantic and old-fashioned, but let’s not split hairs.
I didn’t believe in kissing on the first date, and I disapproved of one-night stands. I was overly sentimental in my affections, and I had a deep conviction about commitment that would find few harbors in the under-twenty-five crowd—then or now.
My first kiss came from a random girl on a dance floor at a club that my brother Mike dragged me to when I came home for a visit from college. She had had too much to drink and reeked of cigarettes. So much for “excessively respectable.”
Jenny, my first real date, kiss, and relationship, happened a year later, when I was twenty. After a brief romance of maybe a month or two, she told me something I would get used to hearing from all my female friends, including the three girls I dated between her and Kristin: “You’re a guy that girls marry, not date.”
Peggy was pretty and had an amazing body, but her personality was way too fast and loose for me, and it must have shown in my behavior. She once asked, “Are you gay or something?”
A year later, I met Kari. She was a dream of a woman—flawless complexion, striking blue eyes, incredibly toned legs and arms, and an easygoing personality. Three months into that relationship, I passed up an opportunity to have sex, because I thought she’d had too much to drink.
Hours later, she whispered into my ear what was by then an old and familiar tune, “You are a good and decent man, Mark, and you’re going to make the best husband someday.” She dumped me within a week for being too serious, but she said something that night I still feel good about: “Thank you for what you did … for me.”
Of course, the next morning when my roommates heard what had not happened, they weighed in on Peggy’s question about my sexual orientation.
I don’t even remember the name of the next girl I dated. I was still reeling from being rejected—three times—for being a gentleman.
* * *
I met Kristin Coughlin in my fourth year of college, in late September 1992. My roommates—all varsity basketball players—returned to our apartment from a local bar one night with women in tow. One of those women was wearing a dark purple leather jacket. It was hideous. But the face and figure of that hazel-eyed brunette made me sit up and take notice. The guys pulled out a deck of cards and began playing.
The girl in purple was clearly not versed in cards, and she was too shy to speak up. I moved up next to her on the couch and shyly asked if she wanted some help. I was immediately taken with her personality. Reserved but sassy and playful, and she was ready with a candid answer to a direct question.
Our interaction that first night was as common as street traffic on a busy road, and I can’t say there were romantic sparks.
But something had happened, because over the next days and weeks, we frequently noticed each other in common areas and talked like old friends. Despite a clear connection and real affection, there was no hugging, kissing, or even long looks.
After a frustrating month of confusion on my part, she finally made it clear she had a boyfriend. As upset as this made me, I was impressed then and still today that she meant to keep her declared commitment to him as “girlfriend” until they broke up, despite her acknowledged incompatibility with him at the time.
Mr. Prissy, meet Ms. Krissy.
It wasn’t long—but it seemed long to a lovesick boy—before Kristin “officially” broke up with her boyfriend and began dating me. Almost immediately, she invited me to her family’s home in Hastings, Minnesota, during the Christmas break for dinner with her parents.
When I pulled up to their residence, it was dusk, which made it easy to see into their house. In the kitchen window, I could see a big, burly figure that appeared to be her dad—not wearing a shirt. Did I mention it was December in Minnesota?
When we entered the kitchen, a very hairy-chested Ed Coughlin was standing in front of the sink with a huge smile on his face, sharpening knives in dramatic fashion. I’m certain the look on my face betrayed my shock, and I’m equally certain that shock was the reaction he was going for.
After dinner, Kristin asked me to drive her around Hastings to look at the Christmas lights. The conversation during our hour-long tour was disjointed. We were both distracted and uneasy. We caught sight of a hilariously tacky nature scene painted across the width of a two-car garage door. We laughed so hard that we had to park the car. Then suddenly there was silence and tension again.
“Kristin,” I brought myself to say, “would it be all right if I kissed you right now?”
“Sure,” she replied with a smile.
My heart doubled its pace. I slowly leaned over, paused to look her straight in the eyes, and then, as gently as I could, pressed my lips to hers. It was a long, passionate kiss that felt well past due.
Two months into our courtship, Kristin turned to me in a start, looked straight into my eyes, and said, “You know … I think I could live with you forever.”
You’re a guy that girls marry was no longer a curse. I told her I felt the same way.
Our love wasn’t blind. We both saw a clash of tastes, interests, and personalities. Though we shared a passion for work and school, she liked eighties, alternative, and new-wave music; I liked classic rock and modern pop. She liked schmaltzy Hallmark movies; I liked tough, gritty, action-packed movies. To make decisions, I insisted on deep thought and long reflection; she preferred gut instinct.
I had concerns about how she was going to do with army life. And she worried a lot about how involved my mom was going to be in our lives.
We argued a lot, even in the beginning. But we had ideals in common.
In a hundred little ways, she demonstrated integrity, loyalty, trust, dependability, and a sound work ethic. She was honest and fair about her opinions and apologies. She was slow to make friendships, but loath to break them. At work she didn’t think it was right to chatter with friends, and she never called in “sick” when her schedule got too full. And she knew how to say “I’m sorry” without conditions or “buts.”
Whatever our disagreements, she had a strong moral character, and that overruled any concern I could imagine.
I had always envisioned kneeling and proposing marriage in grand fashion and in some clever way. Instead, I popped the question over lunch and in between college classes while at the River Hills Mall in Mankato. Then we went and looked at rings together. The only deliberate “romance” on my part was that I did it on Memorial Day.
We settled on a wedding date fifteen months into the future and decide
d to live with each other until then. Grandpa Garofalo approved: “Better to try the shoes on before you buy them.”
But there was an elephant in the honeymoon. It was the army.
Despite my explanations, I knew she had little idea what it would be like. And neither of us could predict what life would look like six years down the road when my contractual obligation ended.
* * *
Few things seem more important to a bride than the particulars of her wedding ceremony, but the army quickly reminded us we would have control over very little. Right up to my commissioning, army life was little more than a topic of idle chatter. Now it was real. I was ordered to my initial training as an officer in Alabama, and the dates overlapped with our wedding.
As we scrambled to explore new options for the wedding, we discovered that the army compensated separated spouses—to the tune of about two thousand dollars for the duration of my schooling. We decided to elope, with the army providing our first wedding gift. In that decision, I saw another opportunity.
With my orders set for April 10, I proposed to Kristin that we marry on April 7—an intentional gesture on my part to communicate to her that I would, whenever I could, put her before the army.
It felt strange standing up at the altar with just our priest, two witnesses, and God. No room for pretense or family approvals and disagreements. No pomp or circumstance.
The scene provided an unanticipated level of intimacy and sincerity that told us a truth we would learn and relearn in the army: we were alone with our decisions and the outcomes, and we would face an imposing life together, without the families that had carried us so far.
* * *
Our “official” wedding event—still scheduled for its original weekend—was another foreshadowing of how unpredictable our lives would be.
Kristin planned most of the details while I was in training, and when I flew into the Twin Cities one day before the big ceremony, it was like being dropped into a “hot” combat landing zone. There was no bachelor party, I missed the rehearsal, and I was late for dinner. Add months of pent-up sexual tension, and we had the makings for a nice bonfire in the middle of the living room.
The next morning, as three of the bridesmaids were making their way to the church, a drunken off-duty cop ran a red light and T-boned their vehicle.
The accident was so bad that the bridesmaids were put in neck braces and taken to the ER. We later learned that the first responders hiked their dresses up over their heads while they were being strapped to the gurneys because they pleaded not to have their dresses wrecked. They were late to the wedding and pretty banged up, but they made it.
There was no honeymoon. No long looks. I was on a plane the next day to return to army training.
We laughed when we later found out our wedding would be one of the last held at Saint Boniface Church, which was slated for demolition. We hoped our marriage would fare better.
My failure at Ranger School a few months later resulted in an unexpected early return to Minnesota from Georgia, and I had new army orders in hand for an immediate report date to Virginia. Unexpected, and unwelcome, because it meant Thanksgiving and Christmas with her family would be scrapped. It also meant the dramatic change she long feared was upon her.
Emotions flared.
With six days to pack up and say our goodbyes so we could report to Virginia by the date on my new orders, Kristin was beside herself with grief and anxiety. Things were suddenly moving way too fast. Adding to the stress, we opted to take advantage of an army financial incentive to pack up and move ourselves across the country.
The conversations that took place during those six days are hazy, but I know they included a lot of cursing and very raw emotions.
I remember yelling at her, “Why in the world did you marry me? You knew this was coming! You’ve known for a year this was coming! This is the army!”
She yelled just as loud in reply that none of it was fair.
The time and distance of the past five months had left our relationship littered with bits of miscommunication, and the recent frustrations had us both wondering if we had made a big mistake.
Before we knew it, we were standing in her parents’ driveway with nothing left to say except goodbye.
To help ease the transition, Kristin had hastily adopted two kittens, and Ed found her a used Mitsubishi Starion sports car in pristine condition. But she was still inconsolable. I remember thinking the only time I’d ever seen someone this sad was at a funeral, and the slow procession down the road only added to the effect. Kristin drove my new car, and I drove the moving truck, towing the Mitsubishi on a two-wheeled dolly.
About fifteen miles from Hastings, I passed a driver heading in the opposite direction, frantically pointing to the rear of my truck. I could only hold my head in my hands as smoke poured from under the hood of the Mitsubishi. When Ed and Kristin had loaded it onto the tow dolly, they missed two important facts about the Mitsubishi: it had a rear-wheel manual transmission, and it had been left in second gear.
We stopped for the night at the Dollar Inn just south of Chicago. Kristin balked at the cues about the quality of the place—a $19.99 room, a front desk enclosed by Plexiglas, and a sign that read “No refunds after five minutes of check-in”—but it was 11:00 p.m., so I insisted we stay.
When we opened the door to our room, we were transported back in time to the set of a 1970s porno movie. The carpet was a deep shag of reddish orange, the bed was sunken and had a visible piece of plywood under the mattress, and the air was filled with an undeniable smell of funk.
All the emotion of the day—of the week—was released in a torrent. Curse words flew, and the scene ended with me childishly throwing my wedding band at her as she stormed out the door. Kristin’s mom, Karen, still recalls the phone call that came that night: “Mom, I think I made a mistake … I want you to come get me.” She didn’t come.
Kristin returned to the room an hour later, her eyes still red from crying. We made peace, but it felt more like a temporary truce meant only to allow the battlefield to be cleared of dead bodies before the next fight.
The night brought no relief. She insisted on bringing her two kittens into the room, then let them roam instead of keeping them in their carrier. They meowed incessantly, climbed up onto the bed to play, and twisted themselves into Kristin’s hair and my face. By 3:00 a.m., they were being tossed across the room like obscenities and wedding rings.
The next morning, we got ready and loaded our things without saying a word. Within minutes of being on the road, we hit an obstacle that was nowhere in our planning for the trip: toll roads. I had no cash. It was long before mobile phones, and Kristin was too far ahead for me to signal for her help.
“Honey,” the attendant told me with a mixture of pity and contempt, “we don’t take no checks.”
“Well,” I replied, “a check is all I’ve got. Ya see, I’m a moron, and I don’t have any cash.”
Uncharmed, she took my one-dollar check. The same scene would play out twice more before we finally stopped for gas.
In hopes of changing our luck, I pointed at the car we had destroyed the day before. “Want to see if she still runs?” I asked.
Kristin smiled, for the first time in two days. It took me a while to figure out how to unhook everything, but we finally got the Mitsubishi off the dolly, and it seemed to run okay. (We would find out later that the engine was blown, but that didn’t matter in the moment.) Encouraged, we loaded it back up and drove across the freeway overpass to “Grandma’s Kitchen.”
We had a breakfast so cheerful that I actually strutted out into the parking lot to get back on the road.
But then my hands moved from pocket to pocket on coat and pants in search of the keys. My heart sank as I approached the cab of our locked moving truck. From the ignition the keys hung, glimmering in the early-afternoon sun.
I found a metal hanger in my trunk and popped the lock open, but the victory was short-lived.
>
As we departed the parking lot, I checked my side mirror while entering the highway on-ramp and saw a shower of sparks flying from the rear of my truck. I had failed to tighten down the safety latch on the hitch, and it had popped off the truck. The only thing that kept the dolly and Mitsubishi from careening into the ditch was the safety chains.
By some miracle, we finally made it to Fort Lee, Virginia, utterly exhausted.
At 6:00 a.m. on our first morning in the army together, we were jolted awake by the sound of a cannon blast, followed by a trumpet echo of “Reveille” booming through Fort Lee’s loudspeakers. I leaned over to Kristin, kissed her on the cheek, and whispered, “Welcome to the army, honey.”
“Hmmph,” she snorted. “I ain’t puttin’ up with that bull every morning,” she said as she snuggled in closer to me.
She would end up putting up with a lot worse than that during our life together—but we’d always become closer in the end.
* * *
Kristin’s birth into army life was a hard labor, but she quickly established who she was going to be and what she was going to do. She had no interest in rank or position and no patience for pomp among army spouses, so she quickly ran afoul of those spouses who possessed those things.
She was not “the lieutenant’s wife.”
“I have a name,” she’d say. “It’s Kristin.”
Military functions were something she begrudgingly attended. One of her common refrains was, “Loving you does not mean I need to love or even like the army.”
For Kristin, the army was something to be tolerated for about five years until we returned to Minnesota. And if her antipathy toward army life upset the lifers’ spouses, it drew younger soldiers’ wives to her, because so many of them felt the same way.
One issue we weren’t conflicted about was having kids. “What do you think? Time for a baby?” went the conversation. “Sure, let’s have a baby.”
It was that easy. Matthew, you were born exactly nine months later—one year into our first army tour.
Tell My Sons: A Father's Last Letters Page 10