To paraphrase a John Denver song, the dearest thing I know is just spending time with her. But on occasion. . . .
Well, take the other evening.
I was reading when she looked at me from the next chair. Her baby browns had that extra soft hue, the way they get when she is about to say something kissy-wissy. What she said was:
”What was the name of the sergeant Phil Silvers played on television?”
”Excuse me?”
”The sergeant, you ninny, what was his name? Was it Sargeant Guido?”
”No, it was Bilko.” I laughed. ”Sergeant Guido?”
”Thank you,” she said icily.
Five minutes passed. Again she looked up. The warmth had returned. This time there was even a throaty, Lauren Bacall catch to her voice as she sort of whispered:
”Who was King Lear`s daughter?”
”I dunno. I think he had several.”
”Seven letters.”
”Peggy Sue Lear. Leave me alone.”
”Peggy Sue is eight letters.”
”Well, then, Mary Ann Lear. What`s going on here anyway?”
What was going on was this: Seventy-six years after they were invented, the woman I love has discovered crossword puzzles. This sort of thing has happened before in our marriage. About every fifth year, she latches onto something new.
Once, as some of you may recall, the something new was another man-Julio Iglesias, the Spanish singer. For a time, we had more Iglesias records in our house than Julio probably has in his.
Night after night, noon after noon, sunset after sunset, she sat enraptured as this Madrid home-wrecker (voice strongly enhanced, I suspect, by echo chambers) warbled the Spanish equivalents of ”moon,” ”June,”
”croon,” ”spoon.”
It was awful, but somehow our marriage survived.
Before Julio, it was Irish history. We would go out to dinner and I would start to tell her what a terrible day I had. Before I had spoken six words, she was saying, ”I bet it wasn`t as bad as the day the Irish had when they discovered the potato crop had failed.”
In time, she became, possibly, the only American of Chinese extraction who could sing four verses of Kevin Barry. Try watching ”The McNeil-Lehrer Report” when the person who shares your living room is singing, off-key, ”In Mountjoy jail, one Monday morning, high upon the gallows tree. . . .”
Before Irish history, it was the Civil War. Before the Civil War, it was pro football. I once concluded that the most meaningful experience of her life would be to see Julio Iglesias, dressed like Ulysses Grant, singing Kevin Barry during halftime of the Super Bowl.
Now it is crossword puzzles.
For two weeks, we have hardly conversed about buying a house, the family budget, the kids, the grandkids, or the car that needs a new headlight. Instead, we talk about glacial ridges, three-toed sloths, Tuesday in Toulouse, and Philippine mahoghany trees.
Conversations, such as the one I initiated after we retired the other night, begin and die along these lines:
Me: ”Don`t you think the liberalization in Eastern Europe could eventually impact on the industrial-military complex in America?”
She: ”Who was Maxwell Smart`s foe?”
Me: ”I dunno. If the Russians pull their troops out of. . . .”
She: ”What was Mr. Magoo`s malady?”
Me: ”I dunno. Maybe it was Mrs. Magoo.”
She (with sarcasm): ”Goodnight, you sorry font of knowledge.”
Me: ”Goodnight Sergeant Guido.”
