Monday, May 15, 2017
Today I am grateful for things I can count on. I wish I was writing about the current government administration, but I’m not. In my opinion it is all just a house-o-cards ready to come tumbling down. I can’t count on them at all so I need a diversion.
I’m talking about Himself and things I can count on from him. If we watch a British movie he will garble his speaking and insert a bunch of “What-What’s” and “Lovelies” and “I’ll leave you to its”. I can count on it.
Every morning we have a brief, but animated argument about the temperature in the house. We set it back at night or I’m miserable. If I don’t turn on the heat in the morning he’s miserable. He’ll spend ten minutes explaining to me the concept of thermostatically controlled temperatures and I’ll nod and not even pretend to care. He thinks we live in the tundra. I think we live in the tropics. I can count on it.
Every time we go somewhere together I drive. And even though I’m driving he always, always brings his keys. Because once, a very long time ago, I locked my keys in the car. And while I’m on the subject of the car whenever I get out and he gets out, he is sure I’m not locking the doors because I do it on the actual door. He has keys in hand. . .just in case I forget. I can count on it.
Whenever he goes into the medicine cabinet or bathroom cabinet, he will leave them open. He didn’t believe he did this because I would naturally close the cabinets in his wake. Now I don’t and he wonders why I’m opening HIS cabinets when I don’t have any of my stuff in there. While he leaves inside cabinets open, he locks us in every single time we come home. I have to be careful to check so I’m not locked out when I step out the door to water plants or get something from my car. Yet every night he walks through the house, turning off lights and checking that the doors are locked. I can count on it.
These are all the foibles of a long life of cohabitating together. But my favorite certainty with him happens when we watch the old movie, “Casablanca”. Does he talk like Rick? Nope. Does he pretend to be the piano player? Nope. Does he speak German. Uh uh. He waits, then rewinds and plays over and over the scene where the French woman who is chummy with German soldiers, sings La Marseilles, the French National Anthem. Then he stands in a perfect European salute until it’s over. I can count on it. And it’s the best!