Breeding Like Rabbits

by Ardyce C. Whalen

  Cooped up for hours in a car with Andy, eating unsalted sunflower seeds and reading to him from a book she’d borrowed from Sara (it was a novel about hunting, so she thought he’d like it), she became conscious of a smell. It was sweat. October can be crisp and cool, but it is also a sunny month, and it can get warm, especially if you are riding in a car without air-conditioning, as Britt and Andy were.

  I’d forgotten how much I liked the smell of his sweat. Sounds crazy, but I’ve since read that the pheromones in sweat can be a sexual turn-on. I used to go to his baseball games when we were teenagers. After a strenuous game of baseball, he was irresistible. I married him, and he quit playing baseball and started using deodorant—darn!

  They went up north to Winnipeg, Canada. While there, they decided to see some of the sights. Andy wanted to go to the Assiniboine Downs, the live racetrack, and try his luck betting on the horses, but he changed his mind—he didn’t want to become short of money at the start of their trip. Britt wanted to see the Assiniboine Park Zoo.

  “Let’s go to the zoo. My parents went there when William and Owen were six years old. When my dad was looking over the llama enclosure, he bent his head to look at a baby llama, and his glasses fell off.”

  “Did he go to the zoo manager, or whoever, to see if he could get them back?”

  “No. You know how he is—the quiet, don’t-bother-anyone type. He bought new glasses when they got back home. I want to see if there’s a llama wearing black-rimmed glasses.” Britt started giggling at the thought.

  Britt’s giggles were infectious, and Andy grinned and poked her in the ribs, which only increased her giggling. “Yeah, sure—a llama with glasses. That I’d like to see. Let’s go.”

  They saw the llamas—none were wearing glasses, but they were interesting. They saw live polar bears and even a snow leopard, the first time they had seen either species. They passed “Aunt Sally’s Farm,” a children’s petting zoo, but didn’t go in. They had left their children at home.

  Leaving Winnipeg, they drove cross-country headed for Banff, Alberta. Driving through Saskatchewan, Britt saw a machine that looked like a huge prehistoric bird; it constantly bent down to drink and then looked up to swallow. It was an oil rig.

  Other than the oil rig, the trip to Banff was a blur of campgrounds, with two important exceptions that Britt will explain later. Their days were spent marveling at the passing scenery. The towering pines and snowcapped mountains took their breath away—not surprising, as they were used to land as flat as a pancake. They took turns driving, so both would have time to read and later talk about the book, and they ate the ever-present unsalted sunflower seeds.

  Reaching their destination, they pitched their tent at a camping area in Banff National Park. To get a really good look at the area, they rode the ski lift up to its top and gazed down at magnificent Lake Louise—a giant emerald held in place by the sharp, snowcapped peaks of the Canadian Rockies.

  The next day, they walked on a glacier. Britt had expected something grander than a slab of dirty snow and ice, but at least now she could say, “I walked on a glacier!” Banff is a pretty town full of shops designed to attract tourists, and they enjoyed being touristy and looking around at all it had to offer but agreed that the surrounding natural beauty completely upstaged anything they’d seen in any of the shops. Next stop: the basin and its hot springs. Soaking in the hot water, smelling the rotten-egg odor of sulfur, relaxed all aching muscles. They emerged from the springs feeling like well-cooked egg noodles.

  Their last night at the Banff campground turned out to be the first of the exceptional campground experiences mentioned earlier. They sat close together in front of their tent, holding hands and gazing into a fire. Britt welcomed its warmth in the evening chill. She began to feel toasty and then lusty! Every inch of her skin burned and zinged with desire. She turned her head and gazed at Andy’s profile. He must have felt her gaze on him, because he turned his head to look into her eyes—a long look. Britt, borrowing some moves from a long-ago romance novel, stuck out the tip of her tongue and in slow motion moistened her top lip and then her bottom lip. Still gazing into his brown eyes, she lifted her right eyebrow, and before she could lower it, he grabbed her. She melted against him. They rose as one and stumbled into their tent.

  Britt’s hands were shaking, and she struggled to get out of her clothes—she was too hot! Andy, naked, helped her undress, and they embraced, hot skin on hot skin. They dived into their sleeping bag, kissing and touching. A dog barked, and someone yelled “Shut up, Bruno!” They’d forgotten all about the other people in the campground. Their lovemaking became more urgent—a need for speed kicked in for Andy, and soon—too soon—it was all over for him, but the touching continued for a short while, and then sleep descended on a satisfied couple.

  Andy told her once that he always felt the need to hurry. As a teenager, he would masturbate. He knew the Catholic church considered masturbation a sin, but sometimes he just couldn’t help it—he felt such pressure that he just had to.

  Once when he and his father were sitting in a freezing cold duck blind, waiting for the ducks to fly in, he brought up the subject, hoping the white plume of his exhaled breath would partly hide his face. “Dad, is masturbation a bad sin?”

  “Self-abuse,” said his father, not wanting to say the other word, “is a sin, but if it came to a choice between doing that or using some girl for your own selfish purpose—which is abuse of the girl—than self-abuse is the better choice.”

  Andy knew his father would not want him to go to hell, so self-abuse must not be a mortal sin. But when he did it, he always felt that he should do it fast and get it over with.

  The next day, after a lazy breakfast, they packed up their things and headed for home. They drove and camped, drove and camped, passing though towns with great names: Crowsnest Pass, Medicine Hat, Swift Current, Moose Jaw, Portage la Prairie, and Winnipeg, all the while getting closer to home.

  As they rode along, Britt’s thoughts turned back to their night of burning love. I lusted after him. What made me feel that way? Was it the sunflower seeds we munched all the way from Minnesota to Alberta? Was it the togetherness we enjoyed while exploring Banff? We were also together in the car, no air-conditioning, and even Canada can get quite warm. Could the pheromones in his sweat have produced my sexual excitement? It could have been my hormones. I may be premenopausal. Has my brain suddenly flooded my body with super sexy hormones? Will I ever feel that way again?

  The night before they were to reach home, they camped in Winnipeg, Manitoba. That night proved to be the second exceptional experience during their campground honeymoon.

  As soon as their tent was up, Andy started meal preparations on the portable camp stove. Britt sat on a picnic table with her feet on the bench, watching a neighboring camper start a fire in his fire pit. It was chilly, so she didn’t mind it when the warm smoke from his fire bathed the left side of her sleeveless T-shirt and shorts-clad body. She thought over all they’d seen and done. And she wondered about her unexpected flood of passion in the Banff campground.

  “Beans and hot dogs—come and get it!”

  She jumped off the table. “Thank goodness. This smoke is making my eyes burn.” What are the words to that song? “When your heart’s on fire, you must realize, smoke gets in your eyes.” Yes, that’s it. She and Jesse had danced to that song.

  Jumping off the table and turning around solved the smoke-in-eyes problem. No smoke in my eyes now, but my heart is definitely on fire. Britt took one look at her husband—it must have been a burning, yearning look, for they went to bed hungry that night. It’s a good thing they had pitched the tent as soon as they pulled in.

  Their lovemaking proved to be a replay of the night in Banff, Alberta. It was just too much for Andy to have his wife, a woman who was seldom interested in sex—it took a lot of foreplay—turn into this hot and horny babe. It blew his
mind. He could not contain his excitement or himself. He came too soon again, but so what? Britt loved the closeness, the hugging and kissing, his need for her.

  The final stretch of their journey was the homestretch from Winnipeg to their Minnesota home. Britt was happy to be home. She was also itchy, and she noticed small blisters popping up on her arms and legs. Her left ear itched, and when she looked in the mirror, she saw that it had swelled to almost twice its size. It’s a large, cauliflower ear like some wrestlers have, only it’s red. I have poison ivy!

  Ever since she was little, she’d dreaded camping trips because of poison ivy. Britt learned to be very careful, always watching out and avoiding those plants with leaves in groups of three. How did I fail to spot the enemy? It was the smoke at the Winnipeg campground. The camper making a fire must have been burning some old, dried poison ivy vines mixed with the wood. The smoke drifted right over to where I was sitting. Mystery solved: misery in full force. Even my scalp has itchy blisters on the left side. I can’t stand it!

  The only thing that kept the misery at bay for a while was to take a ten-minute shower, as hot as she could stand it. Something about the hot water made her body produce antihistamines, or so she’d read, and it must be true. The itch stopped, and she could sleep. This went on for days. She started to think she’d never look normal again, and she dreaded the arrival of the utility bill.

  School! She had to go back to school, and she looked awful. She went to see Principal Hart. He took one look at her and gave her two weeks off.

  Once she was clear of poison ivy, Britt again thought about their vacation of exploration. Why, during my marriage, have I enjoyed only two nights of overwhelming passion? A premenopausal hormone surge is the logical explanation, considering my age—forty-something. But could old “mommy tapes” have been doing a number on my brain? That day in the woods, so many years ago—I was ten, and Hannah eight years old. We were riding our broken-off and leaning over, burlap-saddled, tree-stump “broncs.” Mother heard us having a good time and came out to check on us. She said that day, “Girls, if that starts to feel good, stop!” I got away twice with not stopping: once in the Banff National Park and then again in Winnipeg. Wait! Did I really get away? Was my terrible case of poison ivy my punishment for disobedience—for not stopping? Ridiculous!

  Yet it’s not ridiculous if my mind now links passion and poison ivy. The punishment could serve to get my sexuality out of high speed and put me back into normal mode, which for me is a slow, dial-up sexuality.

  I can understand now how people can be swept off their feet by passion. I can even understand crimes of passion, because I’ve experienced a lust that is a burning fire—a fire that not only blinds the eyes but invades and consumes the heart.

  Britt and Andy did find out that they could again be friends. Their friendship was based on a solid foundation of shared values. They both believed in God, though with some differences in how to show it. Promises were meant to be kept, especially when they were formalized by the term “vows.”

  They were both born during the Great Depression. Andy’s parents lost their farm, and they had to move in with relatives. Britt’s parents lost all their savings. In both families, money was scarce, and Andy and Britt probably learned the meaning of frugality through the air they breathed. In particular, Andy could never really believe that he and Britt had enough money.

  In marriage, their relationship was one of equality—they honored each other—but blind obedience? No. They did believe in a division of labor. A mother’s job was to raise the children, and a father’s was to provide for them. Together they produced and raised five children—all of whom grew up to be good people, the kind that form the backbone of a country. They did the best they could and were proud of the results.

  Even when they were bringing home similar paychecks, Andy provided the necessities, and Britt provided the extra money to maintain and improve their property, to see that Laura got the braces for her teeth that she needed, and to put money aside for emergencies. Their respect for money also served to keep them together. Married people who divorced almost always ended up poorer.

  They trusted each other even in the times when they didn’t particularly like each other. Complete trust in another human being is a “Pearl of Great Price” (Matthew 13:46).

  They weren’t soul mates, the kindred spirits people talk about, but with their shared values and trust in each other, they could live together in contentment. Britt had always felt that the third human right in the Declaration of Independence, the right to pursue happiness, was too giddy, too exhausting. Much better would be the right to pursue contentment.

  A contented life allows for differences. Andy would follow every sport, except tennis, which he didn’t care for, and he’d golf regularly. Britt would paint, read, and become a seeker of her spiritual truth—a truth that rang true in her soul. She wanted to revisit that place of utter love and security that had enfolded her in a soft, orangey cocoon when she was eight years old. She had wanted to stay there forever. Perhaps meditation and prayer would get her to that place again. She could just hear what her parents would say to that! “We’re put on this earth to work. You’re just sitting around doing nothing.” Nothing, my foot! I’m listening.

  Together they would dote on their grandchildren but not to the extent that children would again become the be-all and end-all of their existence. They would care for each other, make time for each other—watch movies and go out to dinner and tell each other about what was going on in their individual lives. They could also be lovers if they’d just get the timing right—figure out how to be more in sync.

  And that would be their marriage. It sounds good to me, and I know Andy, and he would agree.

  EPILOGUE

  The sun streams through the east window, filling the room with warmth and the people with contentment. Britt and Andy finish breakfast—waffles, Andy’s specialty—and are lingering over coffee while reading the Arizona Star. Andy concentrates on the sports page while Britt skims the local news.

  Andy seldom reads more than the sports page these days. In 1985, he read the June 7 issue of the National Catholic Reporter (NCR), the issue that reported on the sexual crimes of Father Gauthe and the concealment of same by clerical authorities in Father Gauthe’s diocese. The account sickened Andy in body and soul. How could his Catholic church protect a pedophile, someone who preys on children? An editorial in the NCR accused the Catholic bishops in America of inaction and silence. He would not, could not, go to such a church. Every time he sees a priest, he wonders, Is this one a pedophile? Have my boys been touched by one in a bad way? He needs a change, needs new surroundings, in the hope that he can shut his mind up and stop thinking about the NCR report on sexual crime.

  Andy decides to sell his barbershop and retire to a warm place and stay away from church—any church. “Holy” men abusing children and not even punished for it! He feels betrayed. Britt’s heart aches for him; she knows what it feels like to have your trust in a belief turn to ashes. Her college textbook, Catholic Marriage and Family Life, gave instructions as to how to use the rhythm method, the only method of birth control allowed by the Catholic church, other than abstinence, but it kept failing them. Britt felt betrayed then, and their marriage suffered. Trust in each other kept them together; it was a constant. Complete trust shared with another human being is a rare and precious treasure beyond measure.

  Andy’s barbershop sells, and they put their Cherry Street house on the market. They figure they might as well; their children are grown up and living their own lives in other places. The empty nesters opt for a new nest all their own. Britt and Andy migrate to the sunny Southwest without regrets; they’ve been responsible parents and are proud of their adult children.

  Now Andy golfs in the winter—no more blizzards with the resulting snow to shovel, no more black ice roads or temperatures dipping down to thirty below or more. He has a
part-time job that he enjoys—it’s his social outlet. Britt paints, gardens, and reads whatever and whenever she wants. Through the years, their love has been like Elton John’s “Candle in the Wind,” wavering when bad times hit but coming back stronger and brighter than ever. They are content in their love for each other; it is their one true thing. Wasn’t it the Beatles that sang “Love Is All You Need”?

  They keep up with the “kids” by e-mail and telephone, and now they have grandkids too, so the children are married and breeding but not like rabbits—they only have nine grandchildren among the five couples.

  Laura, the daughter who urged her mother to eat her vegetables, is now a nutritionist, and she and her husband have a darling baby girl, Rebecca.

  Sara and Zack are still survivalists. They grow and sell organic vegetables on their little farm—a healthy environment for their two children, Mathieu and Chloe. After Chloe started first grade, Sara resumed her college education—a case of the nut not falling far from the tree. She made her long-ago dream come true; she is a veterinarian, caring for dogs, cats, and goats.

  Daniel, who some would call a computer geek (but that’s fine with him), likes his job and is good at it. And he’s good in the kitchen too, cooking and baking when his wife needs help. Their active trio, two boys and one girl, keep their parents on their toes.

  No, Father Felix, Tony did not become a priest. He played college hockey and went on to be the athletic director of the college. He and his wife have a daughter.

  Amy is the glue that keeps the family together by informing all of what’s going on and putting on reunions from time to time. She is also the loving mother of two children.

  “Andy, look! Hannah, my dear sister, has been selected Architect of the Year by the Southwest School of Design—her dream came true.” Britt hands the article over to Andy.