Letter to Marcie-Halloween

It's another little gift you gave me. In 1993, I had not celebrated Halloween for 10 years. I just didn't see the sense in it. But you prevailed upon me to take another look at the holiday.

"So I was thinking we shoul do something for Halloween," you said.

'Hmm... dinner, dancing and gymnastics?' I thought. 'Maybe in costume for the last two? Helllloooooo nurse!'

"Well, what do you have in mind, Miss Stoddard?" I asked, trying to be suave.

"Let's go to Ralph's and get pumpkins to carve!" you blurted out. "We'll have some dinner and then we'll hand out candy. It'll be great. We get a few kids and all of my crazy neighbors come every year for candy. It'll be so fun!"

I guess the silence on the other end of the line tipped my hand. I was a bit taken aback, certainly. "I don't really do that on Halloween, usually," I said.

"Well, what do you do?" you asked, the edge of pre-annoyance (my name for that 'why didn't you just agree with me like you are supposed to' tone you had) definitely there.

"Well, usually I just hang out with friends and maybe go dancing or drinking or hit the beach for a bonfire," I offered. The truth was, I just used it as an excuse to party. I hadn't worn a costume in a decade.

"Well, I love Halloween and I would really like it if you would come over and carve a pumpkin with me, but I understand if you want to go out and get drunk with your friends," you said, matter-of-factly. "Some people need to do that."

Oh, it did sting, but it was effective. "No, that does sound fun," I said. "I'll tell you in class tomorrow. Maybe we can go to a party after trick or treaters stop coming by?"

"I work the next day," you said flatly. "Listen, I've gotta go, but I'll see you tomorrow. You know, you really don't have to if you don't want to. I understand and I won't be mad if you want to do your own thing."

It stung for sure. You would have been hurt, I could tell.

"You know what, let's get pumpkins tomorrow," I said. "Even if I don't hand out candy, we can have some fun and hang out making a mess."

"OKAY! OKay, we'll take the 7 after class," you said. "Oh, I am so excited! I can't wait to see what you carve."

And the die was cast. I read three articles on pumpkin carving that night and decided I had to make this a good Halloween. We carved them that night and yours was a wonderful one-tooth with a pointy grin and evil eyes.

I somewhat missed the mark. I made the theater faces in pumpkin but they lacked menace. "They look very nice," you said. "But they are not very Halloween, are they."

I guess vindication came in the form of your gay neighbors' exclamation. "Oh, my god, I want to take these home. These are the coolest. Can I have them?"

You shrugged and pointed at me, saying "Ask him, he made them."

Two days later I had a fittingly menacing and imperfect pumpkin to put next to yours as the stream of patrons began. I remember your black hat and gown, and the huge witch nose from CVS.

You were otherwise so cute... but that green nose...

It was my first Halloween in ten years. Last year, just two days after you left us, I handed out candy to the neighborhood kids. You were so happy at the anumber of them we got at our little house.

I knew you were there with me, and even if I had a very hard time doing it, I learned from you well, and I took a guess at each child's costume. This year, tyhe hulk, Darth Vader and devils were prominent.

Thank you for helping me understand the joy of the whole thing. This was a special holiday for you since you learned about it. For me, it was a special holiday for us because we got to be kids together, and simply play.

It was a sweet time of year for us, Marcie.

Of course, I noticed the perennial favorite... all the little witches in their regalia. There were plenty of those, but I could have used one more.

Love,

F

Scullery Maid

Marcie was particular about her house. She might let things, say dusting the bookshelf, go. But others, like the kiycjen floor, she had to have clean.

She did not wear her sweats to do her housework. "Too hot," she said when I asked.

She wore her older long skirts, her worn out tank tops and her tight t-shirts that had faded or were stained. She looked very domestic, in a cute way. To add to the effect, she often tied her hair up in a mass on her head to keep it out of her way,

This was intriguing to me. She looked awfully cute down there, scrubbing the floor.

Apparently, though, she didn't feel cute. And as important as cleaning was, she didn't like humor to be injected into her routine.

So when I stood behind her and growled, "Yar, ye fine scullery wench, I've come for your booty," it is not surprising that she took some small offense.

She turned and looked at me from the kitchen floor, slowly, her face beet red and covered in sweat, the little sponge she insisted in using in place of a mop in her hand. She looked at me incredulously, then bit her lower lip and narrowed her eyes.

I suddenly understood very clearly that this might not end well.

"Scull-a what?" she asked, tossing the sponge onto the ground and standing up. "What did you just call me? And you've for my BOOTY? My sweaty, unhappy, housecleaning, mad at you for not helping booty?"

I nodded and tried the cheeky approach. "Yar, I jave."

She gritted her teeth and pointed. "Get out. Now. Out, Frank."

She took my arm by the bicep and led me to the door, practically shoving me out. I stepped on the porch and she closed the door.

Then she locked it, and latched it, and then she bolted the window closed, too.

From inside I heard her say, "Why don't you go play pirate with your friends at the coffee shop and come back when you want to help out around here?"

I looked down at my jockeys and socks. No shoes, no pants, and a Soft Cell t-shirt. I knocked.

Twenty minutes later, we started the Domestic Duties and Roles war.

Morning

She sat on the couch with her feet propped on the table and a gigantic mug of coffee carefully nestled in her lap, supported by the folds of her kimono. She smiled as I came into the room and gently rocked her legs at the knees as her eyes followed me. I blushed and she sipped, and no one said, "good morning," because it was understood.

Mischief from an earlier time

"So what's up, Mr. Francis Stanley Pruett?" it read, her soft, elegant cursive out of place on the carefully folded notebook paper.

I looked over at her and listened as Ken Norton, our speech professor, droned on about persuasive and forensic speaking and the subtle difference between snooze and bore. I smiled as he scanned the class's eyes, including mine, then took my pen.

I scribbled as he took the chalk and turned his back.

"You know what's up," I replied, replicating her secret triangle perfectly and tossing it, letting it skip off her book and bounce off the wall into her lap.

She took it and read, then rolled her, eyes, looking at me and shrugging as if to say, "No I don't."

It grabbed my crotch and made a pained expression, then, making sure Ken was busy, let my tongue hang out of my mouth as I stared blankly at her and rocked my hips.

Her eyes went wide, her ears reddened with her cheeks and she bit her lower lip, glaring as if to say "stop" as I fluttered my eyelids in mock ecstasy. I heard the chalk hit the tray and returned to my note-taking posture.

"And Frank, if I were to say that enthymemes were employed..." he asked, his hands on his hips.

"We would be talking about a forensic speech in which certain key elements were left implied," I said.

He smiled, and I realized he was just asking his go-to student, not really after me, but Marcie smiled when he turned away again and pointed, mouthing, "ha ha," and squinting with her tongue at her teeth as if having a little laugh.

I smiled and listened to Kenn for a bit, then started to fold a piece of paper when the original hit me in the head.

"Everyone was watching you," she wrote. "Do something else."

I smiled and wrote back, "Sure," then folded it all back together.

I also finished my own little magic triangle and wrote, "So, what's up, Miss Marcelyn Ann Stoddard?" I tossed it back to her when he turned for a bare second, then waited. Ken started writing on the board and I stood, looked at her and thrust my hips before sitting down.

The classroom rustled a bit and Marcie hid her head in her book, her ears beet red. Ken stopped and turned. The chuckles subsided and he smiled as I adjusted interestedly in my desk.

My own came back and read.

"I have a bottle of wine for our picnic tonight... or not," she had written.

We drank it at the break, sharing only a few sips with out classmate, a Texan who had given us all a harrowing story of eating pork and developing worms in her brain.

How do you not give someone like that something to drink? Even if you're a bastard, she is bound to tell you something amusing.

It didn't matter at the time. We decided to finish class drunk after downing the whole bottle in 30 minutes.

It was the best day in speech class... ever.

A little tiny moment

NOTE: Reference to fooling around (brief).

There was a muggy summer day in Humboldt County. Marcie had been to Wildberries, leaving without me and coming back in the misty heat. She slipped into the room as I toiled at the computer, pulling together a piece on The Dunes.

"Honey, are you hungry?" she asked.

I had heard her come in and kept working. But I stopped and considered the question. As was usual when I was working, my mind over-thought everything. Would this be a menu request afterward? Does she want to go have breakfast?

Her hand slid over my neck cool and soft and she began to massage me. I took a deep breath and enjoyed the sensation of her touch on me, the smell of her hair as she leaned down to read my work, and the smell of blueberries.

I saw in her other hand a little plate of blueberries, strawberries and bananas. A "donut stick," an unhealthful favorite of mine, was there, too. I smiled and licked my lips. She turned and kissed me, smiling.

It was a good, content, quiet kiss. Seamus did not even stir in my lap. Afterward, the story seemed clearer and I rushed through it with ease.

"You need to eat, Mr. Reporter," she said. She fed me the fruit and the donut playfully whenever I paused.

When I was done, she smiled as I saved and shook her head. I looked up quizzically.

"Oh, honey," she said. "It was a great story, I'm sure they'll like it. You're really good at this."

I was very proud, because she was a discerning reader. We fooled around, then bathed each other in cool water, and lounged the rest of the day in front of fans, watching television. It was just a simple, good day.

I miss those. I cherish that one in particular.

Reviving The Birthday Spirit (Conclusion)

I knew Marcie would not settle for an ice cream cake on my birthday, but I also knew that, since she had talked them up so much, she might wait before she pressed. Wait, she did. In the mean time, I decided on the cake I really wanted.

As was typical between us, an impasse meant that we both waited for an advantageous moment before we upset the apple cart. Marcie had one planned.

The week before my birthday saw her tip her hand. Not that she had a choice. Her gift to me arrived with a harried-looking Barbara in tow.

"Oh, honey!" she said. "I didn't know you were home. Well, happy birthday!"

And there he was, a little puff of fur, half asleep and clinging to her dress. Under the closest of observation I took him from her and he mewed in protest.

He was tiny and soft, and as I held him, cupped in my hands, he stood, arched his back and stretched, his little needlenails poking into my palm.

All that Marcie knew was that he fit in one of my hands. "Oh my god, he fits in one hand. How precious is that?" she asked her mother.

Barbara nodded and "mmhmm'd" a little neutrally. I would find out later that Seamus had been in her house for a week, terrorizing Samantha, their older cat, and driving her insane.

"Well, happy birthday ahead of time, Frank," she said, taking her keys and walking back to her little Sprint.

"Thanks, Barbara," I said, smiling at the yet-unnamed and deceptively calm furball in my hands.

"So what is your name?" I asked him.

He looked at me sedately and made a silent meow. His striped chunks of fur and white belly told me little about him, except some possible Maine Coon lineage. But his green eyes were a clue.

Marcie wanted to name her male cats Angus and Fergus, girls would be Talulah Belle and (as was one of her nicknames) Tink. I liked the idea of a good Irish name.

"He doesn't have a name," Marcie said. "You have to name him."

"I think he's a Seamus," I said.

"Seamus," she said. "Oh, honey. I like that name. Like Seamus Heaney, the writer?"

I nodded and Seamus decided to look to the ground. I caught him and we went inside.

We played to his exhaustion with him that afternoon, then Marcie cooked some dinner. She wandered out and smiled, pleased with herself, hands on her hips. Her gift had been a big success. Seamus slept on my shoulder.

"So I have to order you ice cream birthday cake tomorrow," she said. "I hope you like it, honey."

I looked up and smiled. "Well, it's like having cake and ice cream all at once, I guess. Do they have German Chocolate cake versions? That's what I really want."

Her eyes lit up and she shook her head. "Oh, no, honey. They have pretty basic, set recipes with ice cream. It's not really even cake, really."

I feigned thought and then some disappointment. "That's a bummer. I have a craving for some German Chocolate cake with pecans..."

"Oh, I can make you that!" she said, plopping down next to me. "Then we can just buy some ice cream and eat a normal birthday dessert. What do you think?"

She set her hand on my forearm and bit her lower lip. She was stoked.

"That sounds good," I said. "We'll do that instead. I wanted to try your baking, anyways. We can get an ice cream cake some other time."

She clapped her hands a few times and then slapped her thighs as she got up. "I am very excited to bake for you," she said. "I think you're going to love your cake."

She brought dinner, and Seamus woke to wander about begging by our feet. Pieces of chicken slipped off my plate to him "accidentally." It is a continued tradition, of course.

Marcie shook her head as a piece fell from my plate. "So, honey, I am glad you want to celebrate your birthday, and it was sweet of you to say I was the reason you had to celebrate, but why are you so anti-birthday?"

I shrugged and I let it all out. "I will be 24 and I am just finishing my first year of college," I said. "I will be six years behind most of my peers from high school."

She looked at me as if I were insane.

"I am barely on my feet and don't have a solid job, I have to scrape a lot to get by, and some of my friends are already in their careers," I continued. "I just don't feel like I have anything to celebrate, accomplishment-wise. I'm behind."

She looked at me with a look of near-disgust on her face and rolled her eyes. Her fork clattered on her plate.

"That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard," she started. "You're a straight-A student, you have two jobs at the college, you are respected, you are a member of student government and you work on the side, too."

She picked at her sun-dried tomatoes and bread, then looked over, shaking her head, "You saw a lot of the world and you have lived and struggled and overcome more crap than almost anyone who goes straight to college ever will."

"I don't care who graduates before me," she added. "Ive been to Europe twice, had a lot of fun and worked and paid my own way through. Nobody gets any credit but me. And when you finish, you'll be able to say the same thing."

I leaned over and I kissed her as she turned to continue after gnoshing a bit on her dinner. "Thank you," I said.

I had heard a lot of the ideas of my being behind from a generation of people who thought door closed at certain times. Some of those gems I remember still, like "No college degree by 22? It's too late to go back..." and "Still in school at 23? You must be a professional student..."

Luckily I was with a woman with a sense of adventure, a lust for life and a disdain for convention and conservatism. Her opinion was that the quality of the life lived mattered more than the pace at which it accumulated goods or achieved milestones.

That next week, she made me a delicious dinner of steak and broccoli, rice and a grand salad. We ate a German Chocolate cake chock full of pecans. We enjoyed feeding a little puff of personality-laced fur teriyaki beef.

She came up with more gifts for me first birthday, but she had already given me the greatest one in that little bit of sage observation, annoyed as she was in delivering it. Of course, Seamus was a close second, but I digress.

She fit a lot into her life because she was never in a rush to do what everyone else wanted her to or decided was important. Doing it your own way was what made something special, not some arbitrary right way.

And if, as Marcie observed, people were impatient with you about how long you took, then make them wait a little longer and enjoy that, too.

Of course, she eventually taught me how to do that with bacon.

Reviving the birthday spirit

Marcie loved birthdays. If it was her own, she had a mixed view, loving the attention and the opportunity to celebrate but loathing the passage of years (despite her defiance of age). But in others', she took a great and pure joy.

Marcie was invigorated by the celebration of the birth of people she loved so much that I simply had to ask directly. She was humming to herself as she decorated a cake for her friend Kathleen at work.

"Honey?" I asked. "Can I ask you a question?"

She turned and looked at me with her half-open-mouth smile and wide eyes lit in the kitchen's indirect sunlight.

"Are you going to ask me what I put in the icing?" she asked excitedly.

Whether a work fellow, a close friend or a family member, Marcie could be counted on for a cake. Marcie did not make just any cake, though. Her recipes created cakes of unparalleled moistness, flavor and density.

She also improvised to suit particular preferences among her favored recipients, carefully considering the balance of flavors before assembling them. She was truly a maestro of tasteful baking and great confection-making.

I knew her question meant, "Ask what I want to answer first then I will answer what you want to ask." I complied.

"Oooh, yes," I said. "What did you put in Kathleen's cake?"

"Well," she said, turning to the counter and putting one hand on her hip. She enunciated each word. "Let me just tell you."

She held up the wreckage of a Scharffen Berger "Cacao Bittersweet" slab for me to inspect. "This is in the cake itself," she said. "Some I melted and added coconut."

She turned her nose up smugly and spun to the counter again, grabbing a container of half and half. "This you can use for your coffee, because I used it to replace the milk in the recipe."

She turned again and showed me some almonds, crushed in a small bowl. "These will be sprinkled on top of the frosting after I am done."

She smiled and I juggled the three to hold all at once. She turned and helpd up a little bag of Dove dark chocolate hearts.

"These will go around the outside of the cake and one in the middle," she said. "On top of the coconut and almonds."

"Wow," I said. "That is pretty deluxe."

I set the items aside and asked. "So you just love making birthday cakes, don't you?"

She wrinkled her nose. "Sometimes," she said. "Especially if it's for someone who I enjoy talking to. I like even more if they let me do what I want and make something of my own for them, or if it's something new."

"So what kind of cake is that?" I queried, nodding at it with my own half-smile.

"It's a deluxe dark chocolate cake with coconut and almonds that I used espresso for," she said. "It's delicious."

I nodded. She handed me a small bit from the center of the cake she had removed to make the final product sit flat. I took a bite.

I tasted the very moist cake first, then some bittersweet chocolate with a tinge of cocount. With no icing, it was already wonderful. The espresso was invisible in it.

"Wow," I said. "That is riiich!"

"I know," Marcie said. "Kathleen is going to love it. I made it to reflect what I think of her and her antics."

"So what you are saying is, 'Kathleen, you are a nutty, hyperactive woman with a sweet front, chunky middle and smooth exterior who goes down well with milk?" I watched her as she began her silent laugh.

She stop laughing as her breath came back, "Yes," she squeaked. "And I don't mind helping you get fatter, so have... a... cake..."

She took her breath in in deep, gasping breaths between chortles and cackles. she gave me a hug. "She totally lvoes my cakes and refuses to share them, which I completely understand."

"So you give her a cake you know she will eat all by herself?" I asked.

"No," Marcie said. "Oh, no no no. I give her a cake big enough to eat with [people at work and still have half left, which she tells everyone is for her family."

I nodded and she started cracking up. "Then she hides it and eats it all by herself until it's gone."

She took a few seconds then added,"Frank, I love her but she will eat ALL of it. I don't know how she can stand it, but she looooves my cake."

"So that is why you like her birthday so much?" I asked.

Marcie looked more pensive for a second. "I think I like to celebrate birthdays for people that have that lust for living. I like people whose appetites are as large as their personalities."

"I understand," I said.

"Kathleen can be annoying, but she's her own persona and I love that about her," she said. "So a cake for that kind of endless entertainment is nothing, let me tell you, honey."

She gave me a hug and looked up in my eyes. "Do you remember your first birthday with me? How you told me not to celebrate it?"

I certainly did.

Birthdays like mine

It's my birthday today. Marcie was not only a huge fan of birthdays in general, but someone who reintroduced me to celebrating them for myself. She was also my biggest fan, and therefore my most ebullient celebrant. I miss that.

I am going to try and enjoy my time today, but I will share more about my birthdays and Marcie in later posts. This week, I mean.

Have a good weekend, folks.

The blouse

I remember what you said that night
in a dim-lit coffee house.
Your cigarette cherry glowed red light
and smoke rolled up your blouse

"I hope you'll take it slow with me,
I've been in quite a state.
I'll give it time and then we'll see,
If we still want to date."

You puffed again and I drank a bit
and nodded, acted cool.
The cherry glowed, your face was lit
I stared, a happy fool.

"That's fine with me, I'll take my time,
and learn what makes you tick.
And after all, we're in our prime.
We need not be so quick."

You rolled your eyes and took a drink
as night slipped over day.
You looked at me and paused to think,
I wondered what you'd say.

"But don't dare drag your feet with me,
I have my pick of men.
I've many places I must see,
And some to see again."

I smiled and took your cigarette.
I puffed and blew a ring.
I smiled and said, "On that I'd bet,
the men and everything."

You took it back and pulled a drag,
then turned and put it down.
You took my hand, picked up your bag,
Smiling behind a frown.

"I'm serious you know," you said.
"You may not have a chance."
"So if you want then go ahead,
and show me some romance."

For seven years we wined and dined,
and loved and laughed and fought.
To wed me you were "not inclined."
"Never," or so you thought.

Then after one more coffee cup
that morning in the fall,
You gave your one-time "never" up,
and said we'd change it all.

For seven more we lived a life
as one made out of two,
For me, you were a loving wife,
and I, a mate for you.

I remember what you said that day,
the glow of dusk's last light.
You took your time, as was your way,
and spoke into the night.

"I'm glad you took it slow with me,
I've been in quite a state.
And soon my soul will have to flee,
I'm sorry, it can't wait."

"So many places I did see
and some I saw again.
You didn't drag your feet with me,
said, 'Now,' when I asked, 'When?"

"I'm meant it back then when I said
you may not have a chance.
But I'm so glad you went ahead.
It was such sweet romance."

The night you left I saw your face
inside the coffee house.
Your smile behind a knowing frown,
above your pretty blouse.

Marcie and Rainy Days (2) (R rating)

We were lulled to sleep by the steady little drumbeat of rain on our window and the street outside. Marcie curled tightly into me and was lightly snoring long before I stopped stroking her, turned out the light and fell into dreams myself.

I woke to delicious smells after several "attempted awakenings."

The scent of cinnamon and butter filled the bedroom. I looked groggily at the clock. It was only 7 a.m., but we had fallen asleep at 9, so I had been knocked out for 10 hours. I noted the blinds were down and the curtains were drawn, making the room a dark, cozy cocoon.

Then I noticed it. There was a plate on a tray next to the bed on Marcie's old wicker chest. On it sat two steaming cinnamon rolls, two cups of coffee, two grapefruit halves and a slab of ham, some of it cut up.

Marcie came in with a pitcher of orange juice and set it down, then jumped on the bed, sliding up and getting my hands in hers, kissing me down. My hand went by instinct to her ass, and she broke the kiss.

"Ah ah ah, noooo," she said. "You're going to sit up and have breakfast with me, then we are going for a walk. Then, maybe we will have some fun. And you need to brush your teeth like, right after breakfast. It's nasty."

She crawled to the end of the bed and sat, using the chest as a table of sorts, the raised tray just right on it, height-wise. We munched in contented silence.

"Thank you for breakfast in bed," I said, kissing her cheek. "That was very nice of you. God, I slept a long time."

She nodded and mopped some crusted cinnamon and icing off her plate with a bit of ham, something I could never do. I kissed a little halo of the spices and sweets off her lips in gratitude.

"You needed your sleep," she said. "You've been studying hard and you have been working a lot."

The happy silence was near-perfect. Something was amiss.

"Where's the bubbin?" I asked, referring to Seamus by a very early nickname.

"I trapped Seamus in the kitchen so we can eat in peace," she said.

As if on cue, a clatter of wooden dowels and the clap of a child gate hitting linoleum resounded from the kitchen.

"Oh, great, now we get a side order of fur with our breakfast," she said, laughing. "Speak of the devil..."

Seamus sauntered in casually, not really looking at us, then meowed as he slowly turned to face the food and peer at us over the edge of the service. I chuckled. We locked him in the room and ate in the front room instead.

We took our walk, up sixth to Balboa Park and through a place we both called "Squirrel Canyon," feeding the little beasties a very solid meal of peanuts and dried apricots. We languished on a bench that no longer exists there, kissing and groping, then made our way home.

We stomped every puddle we came to into oblivion gleefully.

We had just gotten in the door when Marcie turned to me and kissed me. "Let's go get some movies from Ken Video," she said.

I smiled and nodded, and the rain, as if on cue, began to pour outside. She grabbed an umbrella and, bundled in her big, down-stuffed parka, pulled me into a wintry, plush kiss under it.

We journeyed to First and Beech to catch the 11. Locals drove by, nervous and clumsy in the unfamiliar wetness around them. We walked the mid-day streets alone.

No transplants dared brave our storm, lest their vapid delusions of permanent sun be dashed.
The act of ownership of an umbrella was tantamount to sacrilege, it being the first sacrifice paid to the Sun God, San Diego. Owed on arrival, it was paid in haste and regretted in time.

The bus was abandoned and no passengers waited for it until well into Hillcrest. We sat in the back, her in my lap whispering her week's conversations and tidbits we forgot to cover the Friday night before, me staring happily and dazedly at the streetscape as it scrolled by.

We only made it to University and Richmond. Marcie simply pulled the cord and said "Let's go."

"I held her hand as we crossed over to the Ralph's lot. "What's up?" I asked, a little annoyed.

"We're going to get a movie at the Wherehouse and some groceries instead, is that okay?" she asked, looking at me very faux-angrily.

"Okay, baby," I said.

"Good, now shut up and follow me like a good puppy," she said, tugging me along by my hand. I slapped her ass and she cackled. I chased her into the Wherehouse. She rented "Tacones Lejanos" (High Heels), an Almodóvar film with Victoria Abril.

At Ralph's She bought three different cheeses, a block of feta, crackers, tomatoes and olives, tapenade and spinach greens, grapes, croutons and a number of seemingly random items, then two bottles of wine. We checked out and off we went.

I played grab-ass with my free hand and chased her out to wait for the bus, which pulled up just as the sky opened. She curled up in my lap and actually napped a little, then it was time to get off.

We packed everything away in the house and let Seamus out when the rain lulled a bit, watching him deal with the unfamiliar sensation of soggy ground, his paws shaking as he sniffed the alien smells of a less dusty neighborhood.

We were driven inside when a thunderclap scared Seamus back into the house at top speed and the rain came down in giant spattering blobs of water. We dried him and he parked himself in front of the heater.

We showered and warmed ourselves, but Marcie cut off any thought of play beyond the bathing and caressing.

"Go get the VCR set up when you get out. I'm going to start cooking and making our hors d'oeuvre," she said, slipping out of my grip and the shower.

"Moooovies and Caaaaaandlessssss!" I hooted in my falsetto.

She squealed, "You're so crazy, I love when you are like this," she said.

I peeked out from the shower at her as she dressed, holding myself and biting my lower lip, catching her eye and licking my lips, pretending to hide.

"You're a dirty man," she said, playfully. "Filthy pervert!"

I snaked a hand out and groped her as tried to slide her bra up. She squealed and left.

When I had dried off, I set up the VCR, carefully disassembling the rabbit ears and connecting the adapter. I checked everything and it looked good. The tape was rewound.

Marcie came out, hanging up her pink phone as smells began to waft from the kitchen. "Go to Kashou's and get some Amaretto Disaronno, okay? I want coffee drinks with dessert."

I did, wandering in the rain and returning after a 15-minute discussion of Middle Eastern politics. Marcie was upset. "Ah, I told him to keep you there for a while," she said.

"What?" I asked. "You told Mr. Kashou to spring a conversation on me? I thought I was late..."

"It's okay. Do you smell the stuff?" she asked, her smile belying that she knew I was salivating over her work already. "I wanted it all to be ready when you came home."

"Yes, but I have no idea what you made," I said. "I can't wait."

We feasted on baguette with tapenade and bruschetta and a topping of melted Parmesan, innumerable crackers and olives and cheeses, glass after glass of wine, a wonderful array of stuffed mushrooms and a Greek salad with feta tomatoes,a few red onion slivers, and spinach.

The movie was crazy. We both loved it and took turn stuffing grapes into each others' mouths when we laughed or chortled at the action on the screen.

By the time I had made Marcie a decaf Amaretto latte and myself a Crown Royal-Amaretto cream, she had baked a plate of cookies and set them out. It was well past 10 o'clock.

"Choc-o-late chiiiip!" I coyoted. "Cooooo-kieeees!"

"Ha HA! Hah!" she laughed, stuffing one in my mouth, which I ate messily as I stood there, letting chunks fall out onto the floor like a wild man.

I handed her the drink and set my own down. She sipped it as she giggled at me.

"Li-quor and seeeeex!" I howled, making her spew latte from her nose.

I helped her clean up, but her memory was jogged.

"I was so embarrassed yesterday," she said, coughing as she recovered. "The mailman totally heard us."

I sipped my coffee and shrugged. "He heard everything," I said. "That means he sat outside for a good few minutes listening."

"I gathered that, uh- huh," she said. She moved close, looking at me in her Harriet the Spy way, whispering, "Do you think he's a pervert?"

I kissed her and whispered, "Only if he stayed after he dropped off the package."

We finished the drinks, blew out the candles, put away the cookies, rewound the movie, and left the uneaten to Seamus's not-so-tender mercies, then went to the bedroom and finished the list of rainy day to-dos in fine form.

Times Apart That Were Just In Time-Paris in Winter (End)

The week before she would have left, and in which I assumed she had canceled everything in a fit of pique, was hell. I tiptoed around her, feeling guilty and wondering what to do.

Every offer to help her set it all back up was met with "Don't worry about it, Frank," or, "Just drop it," or "Would you leave me alone?"

Two night before her original departure date, I asked her to let me buy her a ticket I had found on the web and offered to let he ruse my Discover card for anything else she needed.

"I said I didn't want your help, and you still gave me shit about how much it cost, why would I want your help now? So you can make me feel guilty? Forget it," she said. "You don't want me to go anyways."

We argued for a half an hour and I finally gave up. "If you don't go, this will be between us forever and I will to be able to handle it," I said. "You overreacted and you canceled the trip because we argued, and I have felt guilty ever since."

She glared and I continued.

"You have to go on your trip, because I think if you don't, we'll break up," I said. I felt deep sadness, but kept my tears in check.

Her face melted. "Oh, honey, no wonder you've been upset. I just canceled that hotel. I booked a new one at work the next day."

She took my hands as a lump grew in my throat, my relief washing over me with her hands' strokes of my shoulders and her hugs. "I didn't cancel the flight or anything. I'm sorry, I forgot I told you i was canceling the whole thing. Oh, baby."

She chuckled and kissed my neck. We retired to the bedroom and made for the evening. The next day, she packed and I went to the bank. When I got home, I gave her a card and $500 in AMEX traveler's checks.

"Because I want to," I said. "Not because you need me to, okay?"

She left the next day after a long morning of bonding and last-minute preparations. Within a week, she called. "I am coming home early," she said. "I miss you, I wish you'd have some with me."

Absence, as usual, made her heart grow fonder. That was fine by me.

Times Apart That Were Just In Time-Paris in Winter (2)

When Marcie told me she was going to Paris, I smiled and stood up. She hugged me but she was a bit stiff. I pushed her gently so I could look in her eyes.

"What's the matter?" I asked.

"You're going to be mad, Frank," she said. "I know you. You're going to be pissed off that you're not going to be with me."

I shrugged and decided to hold my tongue, then surprised myself with my own words. "I'll get over it," I said. "I want you to be happy."

She gave me a very smug look and shook her head, then shrugged and looked in my eyes matter-of-factly. "I wouldn't be too sure of that," she said.

"Why?" I asked, suddenly a little worried. "What's going on?"

She watched me closely and I knew i was about to be tested. I steeled myself. She spoke and I waited for her words to sink in.

"I am using my credit cards," she said.

I gulped down some bile and nodded somewhat insincerely, but took a deep breath and looked into her eyes. "Maybe you won't have to charge too much. I'm sure we'll be okay."

She looked at me stubbornly and leaned to the other side. "I am going to have a good time. I am not going on a tight budget. I am going shopping and I am going to stay in a nice hotel."

I nodded and breathed. "Well, whatever you want. Maybe i can give you some cash to help out, too."

"I don't want you money," she said. "This is something I will pay for myself. We live together, we sleep together, we love each other, but this is for me, it's not for you at all, so you won't be paying for it."

I looked up a little hurt at her words and nodded, losing my patience. "Why? What's wrong with wanting you to be happy?"

She shrugged. "Maybe I wouldn't pay for you to go traipsing around in another country, either. Did you ever think of that?"

"So you're going traipsing around?" I asked, now pretty much ready to fight. "What are you trying to say?"

She shrugged and crossed her arms, stepping back. "Do you trust me?"

I nodded. "Yes, I do. But why are you trying to test that trust?"

"You just need to trust me," she said. "I am not going to say anything more about it."

The weeks passed and her departure date came. I saw the bill for the ticket. it was small, a few hundred dollars. The hotel took another $300 for reservations and first night's stay. she had two weeks planned.

"Honey, how much will your hotel cost?" I asked. It was a serious error.

"It will cost enough for me to enjoy it," she said. "Why? I thought you said whatever I want? It's my money, right? RIght?"

She marched over and stood in front of me, looking down with her smug look, arms crossed under her breasts.

"Yes, but I saw a bill for $300 dollars for one night... " it was the last thing I remember before the argument began and continued until almost midnight. I simply wanted to know how much it cost. But Marcie, at the peak of her pique, finally called the hotel and canceled in tears.

I was flabbergasted.

"I am canceling the whole fucking thing, Frank," she said. "You are such a bastard! All I wanted to do was go to Paris and have some time to myself and you just shit all over the whole thing. You didn't have to pay for anything."

I could not speak, she had simply refused to let me interfere with her call and now I was being blasted. She ran into the room and moaned over her shoulder as she closed the door. "It was my money! Oh my god, why are you so crazy and stingy?"

I slept on the couch, guilty and bewildered. I just wanted to know how much. It turned out I didn't need to feel guilty, but I didn't know that until a day before she packed. In the mean time, I felt like I should make other plans and get ready to break up. I was heartbroken and thought I had damaged us permanently.

Times Apart That Were Just In Time - Visits to Jane

Marcie's departure for San Francisco was no sudden whim. She had actually long planned it with Jane. But, as was her wont, Marcie did not distinguish random circumstance from those more intentional. However, she had only told me she was going after our long breakfast war, which began before her plans were firmed up.

We did make up somewhat before she left, and by Wednesday afternoon we were healed and things were normal. But the bad weekend morning were taking their toll, an I was glad, I admitted, to have a weekend without the tension.

She slid into my lap and in a smooth motion curled into me, one arm behind my neck and her free hand on my chest. She laid her head against me and kissed my chin, watching my eyes with her mischievous smile. "Will you miss me?" she asked, watching me carefully, her very acute dishonesty sense completely engaged.

"Yes, I said. "But I won't miss fighting over whether bacon should take an hour to cook."

She nodded, tight-lipped, a little miffed, for sure. "I hope you realize when I am gone just how much I do for you, Frank," she said. "Most women would not do half of what i do, or put up with all your shit all the time."
I just listened and nodded, and I was a little miffed now. "I know, honey," I said. "I appreciate what you do, but sometimes you start doing things that just drive me nuts. Let's not talk about it, since you're leaving tomorrow, okay?"

She did not say anything, but curled into my lap again and rested. She soon fell asleep, and I stayed there until a documentary on whale's songs lulled me into sleep with her. We slept on the couch the whole night, a rare treat. But in the morning, the smell of war filled the air. Bacon fried in the kitchen, its intoxicating fumes filling the apartment.

I went in and checked my email, then did some working out, trying to block out the smell and my natural desire to get it on my plate and into my mouth immediately. I Built up a sweat and took my sauna clothes, stopping to ask "When should I come back?" I did so very gently.

"Why do you have to leave?" Marcie asked, biting her lower lip. A test!

"I don't have to," I said. "But I just worked out and I want to take a steam before we eat."

"I don't know," she said. "I'm making coffee cake and I haven't started that, yet."

She had the morning off for her trip, and had decided to test me, knowing I had the whole day off as well. I smiled and kissed her cheek as I left. She did not look me in the ey, but as I left she said, "The coffee cake will be about 45 minutes."

The bacon would cook for a record-shattering 2 hours. I croaked a meek, "Okay," and left.

I came back 40 minutes later and she was putting the coffee cake into the oven. I could swear she had waited on me to put it in. I bit my lip and went to take a shower. I took my time, letting the water soothe away the tension.

It was thirty minutes after I emerged that breakfast was served. I ate it quietly and looked up at her, smiled and leaned across the table, whispering "Thank you" as I kissed her.

"That's all I want, Frank," she said. "Just be sweet and thank me, and don't complain and pressure me because you're hungry. I took my time this morning because I wanted to see if you had the patience to wait. You know you can be patient, so just lay off and we'll be okay."

I was pissed. She admitted to testing me. I put my fork down, and though I was hungry, I walked out and set my plate in the kitchen. "I'm done, honey. Save the rest and I will eat it later, alright? Or I can put it away when I clean the dishes."

She sniped at me the whole way to the airport in her mothers car. "Remember what I said," she cajoled me. "Think of everything I do for you and everything I put up with for you. You're very lucky."

As true as all of that was, I could only think  was lucky at the moment to have her flying away to San Francisco for a weekend.  As we waited and she talked to her mother about what she had planned for her visit, I spoke up. "Well, as long as bacon is not on the menu, there should be plenty of time for all that."

The cold stare and pursed lips told the whole story. Barbara looked confused, a look she seemed to have mastered long ago. Marcie got up, grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the bar at the center of the terminal. I followed. "You had to? Really? You were so close and you just had to shoot your mouth off?" She searched my eyes, her own going back and forth. She slapped my shoulder and then her hand went to her mouth. She was near tears.

I tried to hug her but she wouldn't. Barbara excused herself to get some food. I tried again, and she looked away. Se left me without a kiss when her flight was called to the gate. I did not hear form her when she landed or for three whole days.

I did, however, consider her and all the things she did for me. Barbara called Sunday and said that Marcie was on her way but she wasn't going to pick me up to go get her. My mind went wild with speculation, and I was distraught.

Times Apart That Were Just In Time

Despite our closeness and our passion for each other, Marcie and I did spend time apart now and then. There were my trips with various entertainment companies, my degree completion trip, and various little journeys I embarked on, as well as long and painful stretches in multiple jobs, never seeing each other except in notes.

But there were other times apart that had their basis more in relief and vacation. Generally, Marcie engaged in these alone, and by design.

Sometimes they were just in time. Marcie and I would, when left submerged together in our little close-wrapped world, begin to pick at each other over stupid things.

Usually, we were conscious enough to defuse it, but sometimes a little complaint would become a huge problem. A memorably small but malignant example was my preferences in cooking, memories dredged up by my recall of her breakfast tastes. They drove her insane, and for a little while it was a wedge between us.

But if she was insane, I was simply mad. Our styles were in stark contrast, usually to my deep frustration.

Marcie did not understand my need to fry eggs until the yolks were solid. When I explained a family members' love of breaking my over-easy eggs and cutting them on the same plate as pancakes or waffles, ruining them and creating my distaste, I inspired her derision.

"FRANK!" she said. "You can eat a normal fucking egg, no one is going to soak your plate in yolk. Let me cook for you and just sit down and shut up!"

I simply asked her to scramble them from then on. That, however, was not the end of the Breakfast Wars.

She grated at my desire to fry and gobble up bacon up fast, its awful, wonderful smell driving me insane from the second she began to cook it. She liked to cook bacon painstakingly slowly, the salty pork lusciousness of the bacon wafting about for a half hour, or even 40 minutes or more if she was not hungry yet.

For me, it was hellish. I held my tongue but would come out and look, which drover her batty.

"FRANK! I will call you when it's ready, would you just GO AWAY? I am trying to cook!" she screamed one Sunday.

When one day she brought home the delicious and irresistible Hob Nob Cinnamon Roll, I made the ultimate mistake. After waiting a half hour for her to heat it up, I heated mine up in the microwave. She walked in as I took it out, her lips pursed, glaring.

"You couldn't fucking wait, could you?" she asked, crossing her arms. "You were so impatient that I could not even call a friend before you were in here, ruining your cinnamon roll with a microwave. Fine. Enjoy your cinnamon roll. What a nice breakfast we had together, Frank."

With that, she grabbed the other cinnamon roll, still in the box, and dumped it in the trash with a flourish, adding an entire Tupperware full of fresh fruit salad. She crossed her arms as I continued to eat.

"You don't even care," she accused.

"I care," I said. "But I have to work this morning, and I have twenty minutes to be there, so I went ahead and ate."

She grabbed her purse and slammed the door as she left. I wrote her a note and made it worse. "I'll see you after work," I wrote. "I'll eat with the guys, so save the steaks I see you brought down."

I actually won that one. I came home, forgetting to eat with the boys after our gig, and she gave me a hug and kissed my neck. "I'm sorry I forgot you ha to work, and I walked out because I was embarrassed," she said. "But you really drive me crazy with your impatience at breakfast."

"I know, honey," I said. "I apologize, too. But sometimes I feel like you are testing me, and I hope you're not."

It was far from over. After one morning, in which the bacon simmered for an entire hour in the pan, I walked out and saw that she was reading her People magazine. Ingredients for the rest of breakfast were out, but she had stopped when the mailman came with her gossip rag.

"Honey, can I just have some bacon and go?" I asked. "I want to go surfing, and it's getting late."

She tossed her magazine aside and started cussing under her breath. "I cannot believe how fucking impatient you are," she said. "I don't know why I even cook for you, you are such an asshole. You take the joy out of it for me, I hope you know."

I had had enough. I went into the bedroom and changed into my wet suit, grabbed my body board and gear, and headed out to Pacific beach as she cracked eggs and stirred angrily. She followed me out.

"Frank!? Where are you going?" she screamed, then threw up her hands as I walked down to the bus stop where the 30 awaited.

That night she sat me down. "Frank, the impatience has to stop, it is making me very sad," she said, beginning to sniffle.

I let her hold my hands and watched her closely, a little angry at it all. What kind of bullshit is this? I thought to myself.

We bickered over this even more and the waits got longer. Eventually, as the morning cooking process went past 11 a.m. and one and a half hours, I stopped waiting when I could not any longer, and just left, or ate cereal. The mornings grew ever more quiet and angry. Then, one Sunday, Marcie had an announcement over our sullen faces and  shared breakfast.

"I am going to see Jane next week," she said. "I need to get out and have a little vacation. You are driving me crazy."

I nodded and shrugged. She took her plate and mine and that was that. But things would be looking up, and I would soon be grateful to Jane for the ways in which, though she could not know, she was helping me and my beloved girl.

Thoughts of Food and Marcie (Breakfast Pastries)

Marcie had a special relationship with pastries. Certain pastries, that is. She could eat a few things from a few places, and none others.

Hob Nob Hill Cinnamon Rolls. Yes, she would buy these whenever she could. I will have a review on Yelp later highlighting these. We ate at Hob Nob once in a while, but this... heavenly, and to go!

She loved them, and she would pick them up, bring them home, wrap them in tin foil, add butter to the top and cook them at 400 for about 10 minutes. It was heart-stopping bad for you, heart warming tasty.

Another favorite pastry was, of course, croissants. Any kind would do, but the plain kind was best, or occasionally one stuffed with almond paste and bits was good.

Finally, donuts. "Glazed Raised, Rainbow Sprinkle and Chocolate" was her response to my queries on her wishes. Off I would go to Golden Donut down the street, delivering her precious cargo untouched and whole.

I'm hungry for bad things now...

A Tough Time to Wed (Conclusion-R)

As I had said before, I was ill the whole time during our wedding trip. This did not end with wedding day.

After the wedding, Marcie decided we should walk to the Stratosphere. On the way there, Reverend Paged by His Cellphone pulled over and offered a ride, which we took.

We started toward the doors. "I can't wait to try the ride," Marcie said.

"I can't wait to have a drink and relax," I said, pinching her butt.

"Honey, can we take the ride first?" she asked, pushing up against my arm with one of my favorite parts of her. It was a surefire tactic.

"Yes, we can," I said.

We hit the ride. It was not much of a roller coaster, far too short and not very fast, but it was high above the valley and we saw for miles and miles.

"Oh, that was fun," she said to the attendant. "Thank you."

But as we cleared the door into the Top of The World Lounge, she leaned in close and whispered, "Honey, did you think that ride was kind of short?"

"Yes," I said. "Mercifully short. I'll meet you at the bar?"

"Oh, honey, are you okay?" she said. "Oh, geez. I'll be at the end of the bar."

And so another dash to the restroom ensued, this one without anything but a lot of horrible cramps and loud gas. I felt pretty greenish when it subsided.

We enjoyed our drink and I kissed her as she looked out on the view of the valley. She commented that I felt hot and I made a lame joke.

It was time to go. "Let's do the roller coaster at New York New York next," she said, excitedly charging down Las Vegas Boulevard.

I stopped and she looked at me. I waited for her to put it together. She refused to budge, and I realized that she was working her list. Lists were like inviolable plans from which nothing shall stray in Marcie's world.

"Honey, it will be so fast, and if you get sick, you get sick," she said.

"How about I rest and try to not get sick anymore on my honeymoon?" I asked.

"Fine," she said. "But don't expect to wait on you and baby you. You're sick, you have a little stomach ache. You're not dying."

She worked on me for a half hour. Finally she called, got a reservation and left the room, snarling "Fine, if you want to be such a big fucking baby, I'll go by myself."

When she came back, she brought me some Pepto from the4 Osco or Sav-on down the street. She apologized and then let me cuddle up with her while she described her roller coaster adventure.

"Well, it is totally fun," she said. "You go through loops and barrel-rolls, you're like 150 feet off the ground, and people are screaming the whole time."

She had sat in the front with "a nice young man," as she put it. I knew it was a jab at me, but i just kissed her as she described the roller coaster car, which was a cross between "an old New York cab and a hot rod."

I enjoyed her happy banter as I drifted off a little. She woke me up and kissed me, and after a very sweet first-time-as-a-married-couple lovemaking session, we took a bath.

When she got out and started to dress for later, I closed the doors and rejoiced that my stomach had held out with the pepto, though its disquiet was coming back with a vengeance.

We went out for a nice bite at the Monte Carlo's steakhouse, where I ordered a meal I thought my stomach had settled enough for the next day. It had, until I got back to the room and lost it.

That night, we saw George Carlin at Bally's, and his act became a part of our ritual visits. As a side note, I had to get up four times total from the opener through Carlin's act, so some of it seemed fresh the next year, though Marcie did not think so.

Marcie got home, drunk and happy, and passed out in her evening wear. I was awake until some more pepto kicked in.

I thought the last day of our little elopement would be the best. I awoke with a settled and happy stomach. My fever had broken, leaving a spectacular Frank-shaped, wet dent on the bed. I felt great.

We ordered in for breakfast and Marcie crossed off yet another item from her list. We had a tender morning and wandered down to gamble for an hour or so, then off to her next stop: Mandalay Bay.

Mandalay Bay had hosted the Lennox-Tua fight the night before, and the crowd had not completely dispersed. We enjoyed a little walking tour of the grounds first. I was fine.

Then, after a quick peek of the head into a restaurant, a smell kind of hit the wrong nerve and my stomach rumbled audibly.

"Oh, honey," Marcie asked. "Are you hungry again?"

I was not, and I gave her a grim shake of the head. "No, no. I think I am fine."

We walked past a couple of restaurants more, and watched the pretentious wine tower with its rigged bartenders going up and down on wires. My stomach was more sour by the minute. I chugged some pepto.

By the time Marcie tried a little more gambling, my belly was in full revolt. We made it to the shark encounter, then Marcie said we shoudl give the shark exhibit a visit.

I was dubious, and my stomach agreed with that outlook. "Let me ask if they have restrooms in the tour, okay?"

No restrooms.

"Frank! Come on!" she said.

I was not glad that I skipped it, but shortly after she left on her own, instead of waiting a little for me to be sure all was clear, I went into the restroom. I got out when she returned. but she had already written her little note.

As she tucked it away in her purse, she commented, "You know, you are going to regret not petting the sharks with me and not riding the roller coaster. Mark my words."

I do regret those things, of course. I also regret every moment in which I could have gone with her to a movie I did not really want to see, or taken a walk with her in Point Loma instead of surfed mission beach.

I regret working my job when she was sick, not being able to be there every second, and every lost moment that necessity and society and general life kept us apart.

But they did not seem like important things at the time.And these regrets are far outweighed by the times I took the risks she wanted me to so we could have more life together in the time we did get.

A tough time to wed (Pt. 5)

After our long drive in Marcie's little Tercel, I decided to make every effort I could to show my interest in our wedding. Marcie was, happily, amenable.However, I was till busy and a zombie from my workload.

I wanted a spa or jacuzzi tub, I jotted to her in a note to her about the wedding. "More to slide around in with you than anything because I don't much like to take baths," I wrote.

Done. The Monte Carlo suite, which we previewed online, had a tub for two... couples. It was damned swimming pool.

"Room service at least once," I asked. Agreed, as it meant more time in the sack for us.

Things finally had hit a nice pace of accommodation and the occasional rough spot was soon smoothed over with negotiation and excited planning.

However, I was till busy and a zombie from my workload. When I got home at 10:30 one night and Marcie wanted to talk wedding rings, I snapped. It was not a shining moment, I admit.

"Honey, why the fuck are we even talking about this?" I said, 30 minutes later as the late news came on. "Can't it wait? I don't want a diamond ring, I just want a simple band to show people I am taken."

She nodded and listened, and I stupidly took that to be license to continue.

"What? Do you want us to be paying off rings for the next 10 years?" I asked. I instantly regretted it.

Her face melted into grief and she covered it, wailing through them "I knew you didn't want to get married, Frank. I am such a fool. You just go along with me because you don't want to argue."

She left the catalogs on the kitchen table and ran into the room, closing the door and locking it behind her. I slept on the couch after a half hour of fruitless apologies and admonitions from her to leave her alone.

When we did get the rings, after a tearful reconciliation the next morning, she refused to buy anything but a simple band for herself (of gold) and a silver one for me (as I have always disliked gold).

I have worn my father's gold ring, which she loved when he gave it to me and which includes three small diamond settings. But my simple band, which I still wear, is as beautiful a reminder to me of our love as I need or ever needed.

I would say that Marcie forgave me, but I am not sure that is completely true. She saved the receipt, which I still have, but unlike every other memory from our trip, which have notes for her memoir, it is unadorned by her writing.

In a way, I suppose I did not deserve to be forgiven for that outburst. She, on the other hand, deserved a ring that would take a lifetime to pay off, if that is what she wanted. I wish I had given it to her.

But her pride, nobility, and resolve to never show weakness would have won out over any grand gesture. She would rather carry the wound without comment.

There were other little sins that, in her passing, she noted. These, I know, were long ago resolved and forgiven, or understood to not be sins at all.

But my illness before and during our wedding, because of her fears of my commitment to the event, abounds in her notes, which tear at my heart still when I read them.

A tough time to wed (Pt. 4)

So, having relinquished my say in the venue, it soon became apparent that Marcie was not sure when and where she wanted to marry. She vacillated between Vegas and the chapel in Hillcrest until the last few days.

"Silver Bells," she said one Sunday morning as we enjoyed roasted potatoes and eggs. "Silver Bells wedding chapel is where we will get married."

I nodded and smiled, continuing my morning repast. "So that's up in Hillcrest?" I asked, casually prodding her to let out some of her excitement.

I looked up when the fork clattered on her plate. She folded her arms across her breasts and bit her lower lip, leaning down onto the table.

"No, Frank," she said, shaking her head. "No, this is the chapel in Las Vegas i was telling you about for the last two weeks."

However, for that last two weeks I had been working at a feverish pace, desperately trying to save some money for some gifts, to gamble with, anything. I was essentially a zombie.

"I'm sorry, honey, I'm just really tired," I offered.

She was very sad and upset looking, and she reached across the table and took my hand. "Do you wanty me to cancel everything, honey?" she asked, biting her lip again, shaking her head.

"I don't want to force you, because you'll just end up hating me," she said. "So, if you're not sure about this, or you're not ready, we can wait."

I pulled my hand away and wiped my mouth, then stood up, bewildered. I had no idea where this could go and did not want to know.

"Honey, that is the second time you offered to call it off," I said. What are you trying to tell me? Are YOU having second thoughts?"

She glared.

"I want to marry you, but I cannot keep up with your changing ideas and you don't tell me anything, or you tell me than I say something you don't like."

"You could show some interest, you know," she said. "God, it's like I am dragging you to the altar, Frank. It's totally humiliating."

I did not hug her this time, but took my plate, dumped it in the trash and left the apartment. As I began walking, she drove up and pulled over in front of me.

"Frank, god damn it, get in the car," she said.

I sighed and hopped in, and that was likely the worst mistake to date. She drove us around the neighborhood as she laid into me for every little thing she thought I was doing wrong by not doing them.

I had no doubt I wanted to marry her, but was beginning to dread what married life might end up like for me.

A tough time to wed (Pt. 1)

Everything went off as planned when Marcie and I were married. Except one little element. I was as sick as I think I could ever be. Unfortunately, the run-up to our marriage made this condition completely suspect in Marcie's eyes.

Marcie had always sustained that she would never marry me. I was first to propose, in 1996, before we went to Humboldt for my journalism degree. She immediately rejected me.

"No way, I am not marrying you," she said. "I don't even know if I am ever getting married."

I do not know if I was hurt, offended or both. Whatever the case,  I shot right back at her. I cannot remember exactly accurately so far back, but I can approximate. I may have even had a little acid on my tongue, as well as egg on my face, so to speak.

"You've probably got the right idea," I said. "I don't want to be tied down, either. We're happy how we are. Besides, I promised my dad I wouldn't get married, and I planned on keeping that promise until I at least turned 30."

We did not speak for the rest of the night, and I felt distant from her until we moved into our house in Arcata. In the mean time, still smarting from my rejection, I told my father I wouldn't marry her, as much to prepare him in case I left her for a marrying girl as it was to let him know we would be living in (delicious) sin for some time to come.

Time healed that wound over. I put away the idea of marriage, which had been skeptical of despite my Catholic pedigree, and enjoyed my life with my apparently permanent wonderful live-in lover and all of her domestic talents. I thought the issue of matrimony was off the table forever.

But Marcie didn't forget my words, though we never discussed it again. She held me to them, in fact, in a way I never thought she would.

The day after her birthday in 2000, she came to me crying and sat next to me, holding my hand and looking down as she heaved and sniffled. I was completely baffled. "Honey, what's the matter?" I asked. "Is everything okay? Is your family okay?"

She shook her head "no," then "no" again, and then sniffed and wailed in her hoarse, sad, heartbreaking voice. "You're 30 now, why haven't you asked me to marry you? Don't you love me enough to try again, Frank? I think I deserve it."

"Of course you do," I said, feeling the sting of hot tears on my cheek. "Are you sure? I thought you didn't want to marry me?"

She looked up infuriated and shook her head and squinted as she spoke. "I knew you would mention that, you asshole," she spat. "If you don't want to marry me, just say so. You fucking..."

I cut her off and pulled her into a hug. "Shhh, shhh..." I said. "no, no. I love you, honey. I love you. Will you please marry me? Don't be mad."

And after smacking my back and sobbing for a few minutes, we went to bed. Some time later, as she panted in post-coital-making-up exhaustion, she gasped in my ear, "Yes."

"Huh?" I asked, half adrift already under her.

"I'll marry you, stupid," she said. "I love you, Frank. I want to get married."

""Thank you," I said. "When?"

"I got us tickets to Vegas for November," she said. "Next month."

And so that was that. I was pleased, even though I knew I had been very had in the best possible way.

F.


*I am taking a little break from the posts on Seamus to revisit the story of our wedding trip. We resume Seamus Week Sunday with... film!*

Toughest Post Ever

I finally finished a passable digitization of our wedding tape. It has been nothing but tears working on it. I hope you enjoy it, tears or not.

I'll try to post something substantial on our wedding trip some other time. For now, just know Marcie, who wanted nothing to do with a big wedding, got her wish. No "bridezilla" moments and no outrageous spending or gift collecting. All she wanted were love, privacy, and two in defiant testimony of sentiments they held for each other.

I was sick the whole time with flu, my voice cracked at the ceremony, and I was so very deeply in love I thought I would drown. I had no idea that i would be one of the lucky few who never quite surface. I do now, and I am forlorn even more for it.

I will post another version to the tune of "Hard Sun" sometime after I buy a copy of the soundtrack to "Into the Wild." It's the perfect length to match the video.

Sometimes I don't think I can keep on going. It will be six months on Saturday. I feel as if it was just yesterday that I held her in my arms, or even last night.