When they found out we weren’t real waiters, people refilled their own drinks; a teenage boy bussed tables; customers experienced in food services joined our sides. Before long an excited spirit filled the 78 Diner. We were all in this ice storm together.
At the height of the frenzy, the servers yelled for their breakfast platters. My order had been in for forty minutes and I found myself frying bacon beside the frazzled cook. Luke was having a hard time getting food to his tables. He felt sorry for the other servers and kept giving his customers’ meals to them. Meanwhile no one in his section had food.
He asked if I could get their orders filled. I looked at him and thought only of the three orders I was about to place.
Then something inside me said, What’s his is yours. The two of you are one. If it’s important to him it should be important to you.
The reality sunk deep into my heart. For our marriage to thrive, I would have to begin putting Luke’s needs on the same level of importance as my own. His request widened my heart and melted away the “single” mentality that said my desires took precedence. Another first.
I sighed and placed my order booklet in my front pocket. “Here, let me have your orders. You entertain all of our tables and make sure their drinks don’t run out.”
“Sounds great.” I heard the relief in his voice. “I appreciate you.”
I headed back into the kitchen to work on Luke’s orders and check on the beleaguered cook. There was a lot of pancake and hash brown making to be done.
Hours later, with the crowds gone and the tables wiped clean, Luke and I exited the 78 Diner where a brilliant winter sun greeted us. What an unexpected adventure, I thought to myself. Not so much waiting tables, but learning to serve my new husband with an open and willing heart.
We held hands and smiled. The Georgia Ice Storm of 2000 and the lesson I learned about marriage would not soon be forgotten.
Paige M. Kolb
Dot-to-Dot
Live to learn and you will learn to live.
Portuguese Proverb
I fell head over heels in love with the perfect guy. My Prince Charming had no faults. Of course, it’s easy for a girl of twelve to overlook imperfections. Three years later we started dating. We were young, carefree and totally oblivious to any problems that could arise in our relationship.
By age nineteen, we announced our engagement and set a wedding date. Ours was a fairy-tale romance and I looked forward to happily-ever-after.
Then we went to our pastor for premarital counseling. On a large piece of white paper, he drew a tiny black dot the size of a period at the end of a sentence.
“What do you see?” he asked.
“A spot,” we answered without hesitation.
He smiled. “What else do you see?”
The two of us looked at each other in confusion. What else could there possibly be?
“You see only the spot,” he said. “A tiny black dot I drew to represent all the troubles that could lie ahead in your marriage.” Smiling again, the pastor pointed out what we obviously overlooked: the white space that made up the rest of the page.
“The good things are so obvious they can easily be ignored. Don’t forget to look beyond the spots.”
Our married life certainly hasn’t been stress-free. There have been lots of tiny black dots. We’ve been laid off, changed jobs, moved six times, disagreed about money and housework, and—nine months and twenty-six days after our wedding—welcomed a daughter into our life.
But we look beyond to the white space. We have the love we shared as teenagers, countless blessings and three beautiful children. We really are living happily ever after!
Pamela Doerksen
Advice from the Groom’s Dad
Try praising your wife, even if it does frighten her at first.
Billy Sunday
I have the most useless job in the world: father of the groom.
Our Stephen is getting married this weekend and, as father of the groom, I’m expected to do absolutely nothing.
Okay, I have to show up. But that’s all. I have no duties. I don’t have to hire a string quartet, arrange for flowers, select a modest but saucy little wine or walk down any aisle. I could nod off and no one would care. Or notice.
Well, not for me the role of nonparticipant, I want to get in my two cents’ worth.
So, as my contribution to the wedding, I offer Stephen and his bride, Rhea, this advice on marriage:
Always eat a good breakfast. A good marriage requires lots of energy and you shouldn’t start the day on an empty stomach.
Always put the other person first.
Never leave home without a kiss. It’s nice. If you can work in a little pat, I’m all for that, too.
Have fun. If you don’t make each other laugh, there is something wrong.
Accept early in marriage that there are some things you’ll never agree on—the proper room temperature, station wagons, Capri pants, the three Stooges. Don’t panic. This is normal.
Don’t try to win every argument. Compromise with dignity. And no gloating.
Live within your means. Money management is a lot more important than you may think in marital bliss. Don’t be afraid to do without. Things won’t keep you together. When you look back, it isn’t things you remember.
Surprises. You need lots of them. Just the other morning, I found a little poem left by my place at the table. That’s why I think I have the finest life partner in the galaxy.
Don’t sulk, whine or leave things in your pockets on washday.
Don’t save your best smiles for strangers, people at the office, clients. Get your priorities straight.
Talk to each other. I’m a big believer in this.
Have a nice, big, cozy bed where you can start and end each day with a cuddle. If you’re too busy to cuddle, you are probably suffering from a bad case of self-importance— fatal in a marriage.
Don’t take each other for granted even if you’re celebrating your golden anniversary.
Be faithful.
Don’t figure romance is over once you’re married. It’s just started, if you play it right.
Have dinners at night with everyone around the table discussing the day’s events. Don’t have the TV on. Don’t read the newspaper. Don’t complain. It’s time to lighten up and relax.
Serve whipped cream now and then. Whipped cream puts everybody in a good mood.
A little lace never hurt a marriage.
Have children. And when you have them, take care of them. Love them, enjoy them, spend time with them, say “no” to them, play with them, hug them. Children are probably the most important contribution you’ll make to the world, so don’t treat them like a hobby or leave them to strangers to raise.
Have a porch as soon as you can. And a couple of nice chairs. Sit out on summer evenings and watch sunsets. You don’t always have to be on the go.
Be around when things go right, but also when they go wrong.
Listen, listen, listen. You’ll be surprised what you learn.
No double standards.
Early in the morning, when you’re still just half-awake, reach over and touch your partner to reassure yourself that he or she is there, and that things are all right. Tenderness is legal.
Gary Lautens
Reprinted from The Best of Gary Lautens
Time for a Tune-Up
In every house of marriage there’s room for an interpreter.
Stanley Kunitz
I’ve lost quite a few points, enough for them to take away my license—my marriage license, that is. Communication is stalled. Sex drive is running on neutral. To be honest, most areas are at pretty low levels.
If I was my car, someone from Saturn would send me a “friendly tune up reminder,” quite a few of them by now. They would have called, left messages, sent e-mails. But after ten years of marriage we have yet to receive an “important marriage reminder.”
Not one call, one message, not even
a mass-mailed postcard saying:
Dear Spouses,
The marriage installed in your life could be due for its annual inspection, major tune up and cleaning. A properly maintained marriage operates more efficiently and lasts longer.
Come to think of it, I don’t know why they even bother giving out licenses for marriages. We didn’t have to study. We didn’t have to pass a test. There was no temporary permit allowing us to be married as long as we operated it in the presence of a qualified spouse and refrained from marriage after dark.
We just had to show up, spend a ton of money and throw a big party.
But I nearly forgot; we did take a marriage course. We spent a hundred bucks to sit in a school gym with thirty other couples and cram all of what they thought there is to know about marriage into one afternoon. Issues like financial planning, effective communication and getting-to-know-each-other exercises.
What a waste. What about the big issues like the proper way to squeeze toothpaste? (How was I to know I had been doing it wrong all my life?)
We needed help with the big questions. Not, “Do you want to have a baby?” We already talked about that. What about answers to things like, “Who pulls hair clogs from the bath drain—the spouse who cleans the tub or the spouse with the longest hair?” “Who changes the vacuum bag?” “Who cleans the fish tank?” (Thanks for nothing, guys, our fish died.)
They could have prevented many arguments by clearly stating that the first person in bed automatically claims all blanket rights. That doing the laundry includes putting it away. Ten years later, we still argue over the right way to load the dishwasher, butter toast and hang a roll of toilet paper. A little training would have gone a long way.
We weren’t warned about the dangers of decorating together. And people wonder why divorce statistics are so high. If you want to educate people about making marriages work, don’t belabor the miracles of two becoming one. Tell me what I can shove up his nose to stop him from snoring.
Yet, somehow—despite a lack of preparation, training and maintenance—our marriage still chugs along. Sure, it could use a tune up. It’s had its dings and its fender benders. With two more passengers on board, my bumper’s a little bigger (no comments, please).
But it runs. And it hasn’t depreciated since we drove off the church lot those ten years past. In fact, it’s worth even more.
It must be a classic.
Caroline Pignat
“I can’t wait to get out of this sweaty shirt so you can wash it!”
Reprinted by permission of Dan Rosandich.
Someday My Prince Will
—Bring Coffee
Listen to me, Mister. You’re my knight in shining armor . . . don’t you forget it.
Ethel Thayer to Norman Thayer
in On Golden Pond
The prince rode up on a white horse, in full costume complete with plumed hat.
He leaped from the horse and strode up to his future bride who waited for him in princess costume complete with tiara. He knelt before her on one knee and presented her with a diamond. The home video wobbled slightly as he asked, “Will you marry me?” Her tearful “yes” misted the eyes of every woman in the room.
For us, it was the high point of this week’s couples meeting at our church. We all smiled dreamily at this intuitive young man who had rented costumes to make the day perfect for his future bride.
Meanwhile, a chorus of groans erupted from the men in the room, my husband among them. They turned to the “prince” and started ribbing him, unanimously agreeing that he was banned from their “guy movie nights.”
The video reminded me how, back in our college days, my husband Don had been quite prince-like on occasion. When we were engaged, he and members of his service club stood under my dorm window and serenaded me on a crisp September evening. As the years passed, he definitely reverted to street clothes. But I don’t mind. One thing I know for sure: the costume doesn’t make the prince.
Don’s faithfulness and devotion in the midst of day-today living keeps him my champion.
He comforted me through ten childless years, three miscarriages and two births, and then stepped in to help when postpartum depression overwhelmed me.
He mourned my father’s death with me and helped me through that first painful Christmas three weeks later.
He held my hand at the news of my cancer, cried with me as we faced our uncertain future and nursed my scarred body after surgery.
He saw my round, bald scalp and lashless eyes after weeks of chemo, and did all he could to cheer me up.
He traded golf for Little League, steak for pizza and Schwarzenegger for Disney. He discreetly wiped away tears of pride when his kids performed and when caught, chuckled with embarrassment.
He spoke up when a waitress miscalculated in his favor. He gave a carton of milk and box of doughnuts to a homeless man in front of the grocery store.
Just last night I was working away at my desk when Don came in with a cup of coffee, black, one sugar, the way I like it. I smiled like a besotted newlywed and clutched his hand.
“Honey,” I said, “you’re wearing your prince costume again.”
Deborah Thomas
A Husband for June Cleaver
Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.
Mark Twain
My mother was the most conservative person I knew. She was my dearest friend, but if there were ever conflicts between mother and daughter it usually had to do with her conservatism versus my free spirit. Once she was flabbergasted when she met me for lunch and I walked through the lobby of the St. Louis Marriott wearing shorts.
“Honey, you should have long pants on inside of a hotel,” she whispered worriedly to me. “Mom, I don’t think anyone will faint over it,” I teased.
She put June Cleaver to shame. When I was small, my mother wore white gloves and a dress to her doctor’s appointments. Even at seventy-four, she was the epitome of class and etiquette. So you can understand my surprise by her phone call that morning.
“You’re going where, Mom?”
“China Garden Buffet,” she answered nonchalantly.
“You mean, a date?”
“Well, I think so, sweetie. Bill said he wanted to take me for Chinese and I told him I’d love to, but I insisted that we go Dutch, because since your dad died, I don’t expect people to be taking care of me.”
“Right.”
“Well, he said no,” she explained. “He said he was going to pay insisting that it was a date.”
“A date?!” I shouted in shock.
“Well, that’s what he said,” she giggled.
I hadn’t heard this kind of giddiness in my mother in twenty years.
My husband never understood why I worried about my mom after my dad died. “Honey, your mother went down the water slide at Water World. She’s not an old lady, you know.”
I knew that. But I still worried that being without my dad would destroy her unless I intervened. The responsibility of her widowhood weighed on me like a boulder that I couldn’t lift off my shoulders. I was terrified that loneliness would eventually do her in.
“There’s a condo development right near us. We could move her here to Colorado,” I explained. “My grandmother started drinking when her husband died. I just can’t leave her all alone.”
The next morning my mom called to tell me about her date. Suddenly she had to go answer her ringing doorbell. I could hear her talking to someone, thanking them and laughing.
“Oh, sweetie, I just got the most beautiful bouquet of flowers.”
“From who?”
“From Bill. He’s right here.”
“He came over this morning?” I couldn’t believe my ears.
“Yes! He picked them for me on his walk.”
The following week an
envelope of photos arrived: pictures of Mom at the Botanical Garden and sitting hand-in-hand with Bill on a riverboat beneath the St. Louis Arch. Then came the last picture.
“Oh my God, she’s sitting on a giant turtle!” I exclaimed.
“A turtle? Let me see,” my husband said, grabbing the photo. “It’s a statue. I guess they went to the children’s zoo. She looks like a little girl.”
“I know,” I said rolling my eyes.
I realized that Bill was the opposite of my father who had been the company president and former ROTC sergeant. Bill had been a chaplain in the war and didn’t think twice about joining his men by jumping out of an airplane behind enemy lines.
“. . . to give them moral support,” he said humbly.
He played the guitar, worked on houses for Habitat for Humanity and volunteered for six other organizations.
“We’re going on a hike,” my mom announced one day on the phone. “Bill needs my help because we’re taking along four mentally retarded adults and we have to make sure they can stay on the trail.”
I was so proud of her but I had to suppress my laughter. Was this really my mother doing all this?
Then she told me something that seemed to make the Earth move.
“Bill asked me to marry him and I said yes,” she gushed. “We thought we’d have a small, private ceremony the day after Christmas so you kids could all be here.”
I flew in a month before the wedding to help with the arrangements and to help mom find a dress.
“May I help you?” the middle-aged saleswoman asked.
“We need a wedding dress,” I smiled.
“And will you be needing a mother-of-the-bride dress also?” she asked my mom.
“No, she is the bride,” I said.
“Oh, how simply marvelous!”
My mother became the hit of Lord & Taylor. Every saleswoman over the age of sixty wanted to meet this septuagenarian who had beaten the odds and found true love again.
The day of her wedding, mom was getting dressed. “Look, new underwear!” she said holding up a pink and white striped bag.
Chicken Soup for the Bride's Soul Page 22