okay, I’ll marry you

Smitten

~ paul ~ Leave a comment

by Paul Abbott

November 30, 1959. My family has just moved to Pueblo, Colorado. I am excited, probably anxious, as I walk into Mrs. Bent’s fourth grade classroom. My new teacher looks around the room, rearranges a student or two to make room for me, then offers me a desk midway up the row closest to the door. I take my seat and there in the desk in front of mine sits a redheaded girl, curls spilling down her back. A few weeks later, I surreptitiously copy her phone number from the little ID tag on the book bag beside her desk because I am smitten with this redheaded girl. I never got the nerve to call . . . because what does a nine year old boy say to a girl on the phone?  

But it was the beginning.

Over the next ten years there would be other beginnings: debate team, a growing friendship, a realization that maybe we were more than just friends, dating, breaking up, falling in love, engagement and then on on September 5, 1969, still smitten, I married the redheaded girl. And I still remember that phone number.

Fifty years later, I am more than smitten, I am in awe. Through theatre programs, and storytelling classes and countless events, she has left an indelible mark on scores of young lives, and decades from now, when they recall the golden years of high school, “Mrs. Abbott” will remain a central character in their stories. “She was sort of like God,” one student said, “you really loved her, but you didn’t want to make her mad.”

With love and sacrifice – fierce sacrifices most will never see or know – she has played an integral part in planting three churches, touching hundreds upon hundreds of lives. It has been hard and costly; there are scars. And she’d do it all again.

With that same love and sacrifice, she cares for our family spread across three generations, four states and hundreds of miles, but closer than ever. She listens, for hours in any given week, to the minutiae and the momentous that make up our children’s and grandchildren’s lives. She celebrates them, sharing their joys and carrying their heartaches. She gives our children her time and attention and they take life from her.

And she has made me who I am. Her strength and passion for life have stretched and challenged me. Her words have dismantled my fears so many times they are all but gone. Her friendship has given me the grace to weather unnumbered storms. And the love through which she sees me (there’s a reason we say love is blind) has shaped me, shaped who I am and who I still strive to become. To say it is deep and unconditional is somehow not enough.

Fifty years later, I am still smitten with this redheaded girl.

Mrs. Bent’s 4th grade class – where it began

Looking Back on 50 Years

~ Sharon Abbott ~ 1 Comment

On September 5, 1969, these two kids stood looking out over their future. So, today, looking back over 50 years, what have I learned? 

1. Marriage is hard. It’s easier if you’re married to a good person.

2. Sometimes an argument isn’t worth winning. 

3. Pie makes everything better.

4. The first 47 years of parenting are the hardest.

5. The only way this works is if you take turns taking care of each other.

6. It takes two people to make a great marriage, but one person can pretty much trash it without any help. 

7. If you wait till everyone is happy to be happy, you will never be happy.

8. An introvert and an extrovert can make a good life together. 

9. The empty nest can be a beautiful thing. 

10. You live many lifetimes in half a century.

11. No matter how hard you pray, some things will not turn out the way you had hoped they would.

12. No matter how little you did to deserve it, some things will turn out better than you ever imagined they could.

13. You can, and will, fall in love many times in 50 years; if you’re lucky, it will be with the same person.

14. Just when you think there are no more surprises to be be had…. SURPRISE!!

15. An obsessive/compulsive personality and a “where are my shoes?” personality can live under the same roof . . . most of the time.

16. Called or uncalled, God is present.

With This Ring. . .

~ Sharon Abbott ~ 6 Comments

When Paul proposed in January of 1969, he did it without an engagement ring.  That is another story and one that is told in the story called The Proposal. But this is a different story.  

The day after we graduated from high school, Paul got in a car and drove to Denver where his Dad had moved earlier in the year for a job. He got a job in the same bakery where his dad worked and eventually would land a second job at the Leaning Tower of Pizza (yup, that was really the name of it). The rest of the family stayed in Pueblo to finish out the school year and over the summer, they would all relocate. I stayed in Pueblo for my job. We wrote letters back and forth every day and I penned mine on stationary that I had purchased with some of my graduation money – a box filled with bright neon orange and green and yellow sheets and matching envelopes. He used a yellow legal pad with white envelopes (once a debater, always a debater). They were love letters of sorts and also a daily journal of what we had done that day and whatever it is that eighteen year olds write to one another when they are falling in love. I wish I still had them.

I say all that to say that even after working two jobs all summer and putting in lots and lots of hours because he had nothing else to do really, at the end of the summer he had no money to show for his efforts. Not because he spent it all on himself, but because his family was struggling financially trying to get moved and established in Denver, and Paul signed over his paycheck to them every week. That, with what his dad was bringing home, kept the wolf from the door until they could get on their feet.  

He returned to Pueblo at the end of the summer to start school at the local college where we both had full scholarships and got a job at Sears selling paint to pay for gas to get back and forth to class from the home of a family friend who boarded him for free.  

In December he returned to Denver to spend the holidays with his family and when he came back for the second semester we got engaged.and set the wedding for September.  And yes, I know., We were too young, we were too poor, we were too stupid, we were too. . . . But that’s the way the story goes.

I think it must have been sometime in the spring, maybe over Spring Break, we went to Denver to visit his family. His mother wanted to go to the mall, and usually when Judy made a plan, it was going to happen. So we were walking through the mall, window shopping and visiting and at some point we ended up at the Sear’s jewelry counter. His mother stopped to look – she loved jewelry! I think I wandered off in a different direction to look at sweaters or some such thing and she called me back. She was pointing at engagement rings. “So when you get a ring, what kind do you like?” I hadn’t really thought about it. “Well. . . I like white gold,” I offered. “But what STYLE do you like?” I wasn’t sure what to say. “Do you like that one?” Not really, though I could’t really give her a reason. “What about that one?” Uuummmm. . . it’s okay. “That one?” No. “How about that one?” Yeah. I do sort of like that. She got the sales clerk’s attention, “Can we try that one on?” I put it on my finger. “What do you think?” she wanted to know. I thought it was pretty. “Okay, we’ll take it,” she told the clerk. And just like that, I had picked out my engagement ring. Had I known we were actually going to buy a ring that day, I’m not sure it’s what I would have chosen. But I did like it well enough. Looking back, I know we went to the mall that day to get a ring, and when Judy makes a plan . . .

Over the years, I wore it and the plain matching wedding band without really giving it much thought or notice. I wore it when I kneaded bread and when I bathed babies. When I washed dishes and when I folded laundry. When I slammed the door after a fight about who knows what and when I caressed his face and said, “I’m sorry “. When I taught my little ones to hold a pencil and when I walked down the street holding hands with the one who had put it on my finger at the altar. I wore it when I wiped away tears from little faces and from my own and when I served up ice cream floats to college students as we sat on the front porch on hot summer nights.

And then one day, about 20 years later, I looked down at my hand and the diamond was missing from the ring. It was not a big diamond, but now there seemed to be a huge gaping hole where the stone should have been. I had no idea how long it had been missing or when or where I lost it. I only knew it was gone, and I was devastated. All of a sudden the ring that had not mattered, mattered so much. Money was tight and while Paul wanted to get the stone replaced, I insisted that we should just get plain bands and wait on a diamond . . . so that’s what we did. For twenty years, we wore plain gold bands and I told myself it was way more practical anyway. Paul continued to wear his original band on his right hand and sometimes people would ask him why he wore two wedding rings. “This one is from my first marriage,” he would say. I wore my mother’s engagement ring and wedding band on my right hand which is another story for another day called The Fellowship of the Ring but also worth reading.

And then on September 5, 2009, on our 40th wedding anniversary, Paul had a gift for me. He put a black velvet ring box in my hand. I thought maybe he had bought me an anniversary band. When I opened it, there was my ring. With a new stone in it. And yes, I cried.  He was explaining he had wanted to replace it with a bigger diamond but it would need a new setting to do that and that would have been more expensive. And that he was sorry the diamond was so small, and he wished it were bigger and maybe he should have just gotten a new ring altogether. How could I explain to him everything this ring meant to me after 40 years?  

That this ring told the story of not just his love and his care for me, but for his parents and how he had spent all his summer wages to help them. That I had learned that a man who would care for his parents like that would care for his wife and sacrifice for her which he had done over and over and over again. It told the story of my mother-in-law and her generosity and her love and care for me. It told the story of our marriage: that it had never been built on money or expensive things but on love and commitment and our promise to one another. That ring, which had cost $160 in 1969, held so many stories. It was irreplacable. No, I did not want a different ring.

And now, as our 50th anniversary approaches (but how can we have been married 50 years??!!), Paul made a plan – he is his mother’s son. He wanted to put a bigger, better stone in the ring.  “Because,” he said, “fifty years is a really big deal.”.  I agreed. Fifty years is a big deal.  But only if they could put it in the original setting and make it work. So we took it to a jeweler who helped us to choose the right stone and will repair the crack in the band and give it back better than new. And now this will become part of the story as well.  

Side bar:  A couple of years ago, I had a minor surgery which required general anesthesia. Following the doctor’s directions, I removed all my jewelry and left it on my dresser before I went to the hospital. I got all the typical warnings and instructions before I returned home:  don’t drive, don’t operate heavy machinery, don’t sign any documents or make any major decisions, don’t use the stove. etc.  When we returned home, Paul deposited me on the couch, and went across the street to get me a salad. He was gone maybe 15 minutes. During that time I saw my jewelry on the dresser and decided it needed to be cleaned ( I have NEVER cleaned my jewelry before in my life) so I took it all to the bathroom, plugged and filled the sink, slathered it with jewelry cleaner, washed it all off, dried it off, drained the sink, and put it back on – earrings, necklace, bracelet, etc.  A few minutes later I noticed I was not wearing my wedding ring. I retraced by steps, looked all over the counter, and decided it must have been in the sink when I drained the water. About this time, Paul returned home.  “We have a small problem,” and I explained the situation.  “But all we need to do is take apart the pipe under the sink, and there it will be. Easy peasie.” The problem was, it wasn’t in the pipe. I could feel the panic rising. Paul said maybe he could disconnect the pipe in the basement and find it that way.  Nope.  Full blown panic was setting in. I was in tears and could not be comforted. Paul sat on the bathroom bench next to me: “It’s okay.  It’s just a ring. We can get another ring. It’s just a symbol. We are the real thing. And we still have each other. That’s the important thing.”  By now I was wailing.  “NO!!  THE IMPORTANT THING IS THAT WE FIND THAT RING!  I HAVE  HAD THAT RING FOR ALMOST 50 YEARS AND IT’S IRREPLACEABLE!”  Okay, so maybe the hysteria was coming from the drugs still in my system. . .  but still. . . 

I could hear Paul in the living room calling plumbers, It was after 5:00 so it was hard to get anybody to answer. but he was trying. To calm myself, I stood up and began aimlessly moving things around the bathroom counter. And there, carefully tucked under the soap dish where I had obviously put it for safe keeping but had no memory of doing so, was my ring.  That which had been lost was found and now I cried uncontrollable happy tears (didn’t Jesus tell a story something like this?). 

Like a marriage of 50 years

Two lessons to learn from this chapter of the story: (1) Always follow your doctor’s instructions after anesthesia, though in my defense nobody said anything about not cleaning your jewelry and (2) The worth of an object is not always measured by monetary value but by the stories we attach to it. Some things are irreplaceable.

A Whole New World 

~ Sharon Abbott ~ 2 Comments
Centennial High School, Pueblo, Colo
Centennial High School, Pueblo, Colo

It was September of 1965. I was a high school sophomore, though in those days we had junior high (7th-9th grades) instead of middle school (6th-8th) and so this was to be my first year of high school. A whole new world. We were only into the second or third week of school when a kid I knew from junior high and who was in my fourth period English class approached my desk just before the bell rang. He got down on one knee in the typical proposal pose, “Sharon Fletcher, will you be my debate partner?” Are you kidding me?! Stand up! NO!! You’re embarrassing me! I do not want to be your debate partner. Or anybody’s debate partner. Go away! And Mr. Star said, “Paul, what are you doing?! Take your seat.” But after class he was waiting for me.

He explained that the guidance counselor, Mrs. Murray,  had called him into her office a couple of days before to see what extra-curricular activities he was planning on joining. He had not been quick with an answer. “You would be good in the debate club,” she announced. Take this note to Mr. Hamn and tell him I have signed you up for the debate team.” And so he did. I guess for no other reason than because he was just a dumb sophomore and didn’t know any better. Mr. Hamn told him he would need to find a partner because everyone else was already paired up and he was the odd man out. So he went to the smartest kid in the class, Tom Holloran (who would end up valedictorian), but Tom was too busy and wasn’t interested. His best friend, also named Tom, was heavy into sports and he definitely wouldn’t have the time. I think he tried a couple of others without success which brought him to my desk in fourth period and seeing as how he was desperate, I was exactly what he was looking for (my words not his but one of my favorite lines from Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.)  NO!!!

I thought no more about it until my mother got home from work and asked me how school had gone and I replayed the scene for her, complete with the bended knee. “Weird, right?” I laughed. But clearly she had not taken in the whole cheesiness factor or absurdity of the situation or my insistence that I was NOT interested. She said simply, “Yes. You should do it. You need an activity. This is a good fit. Tell him you’ll do it.”  Two things you should know. My mother was a single, working mom (not very common in those days) and I’m sure she saw this as an opportunity to keep me occupied, engaged in a worthwhile activity, and hence out of trouble since how much trouble could you get into in debate club? She had no idea what went on in the back of the bus on those debate trips. And second, if my mother had made up her mind – there WAS no debate. I was stuck.

In many ways, that year changed my life. I learned that I was smarter than I knew and that I was good at something. As it turned out, that something didn’t happen to be debate. I really hated that – though maybe it was just the topic: Resolved: That the federal government should adopt a program of compulsory arbitration in labor management disputes in basic industries (how do I still remember that?) I liked the friends I made that year and how interesting and funny and curious they were about ideas and about life: John (who pasted a bumper sticker on his bare stomach and then discovered it wouldn’t peel off and so every time he moved there was the sound of crinkling paper) and Eddie, Linda and Ann F. and Connie and Mary and Ann W. and all the ones who came after.

Debate Club. 1968
Debate Club. 1968

I liked staying in the hotels on overnight trips and getting locked out of our room and staying up way too late even though we had to compete the next day. I liked seeing my name on the list of people who had made it to the next round and that every once in a while I got to take home a trophy. I liked Mr. Hamn who became my mentor in speech as well as in life and wasn’t afraid to tell me about the guy I was dating – “he’s a loser”. And I liked that when Mr. Hamn said that nobody could take up a seat on the bus unless they competed in a second event, I discovered what I really loved and could win at:  Drama. But maybe the thing I liked best  about that year (though I wouldn’t know it until later) was all the hours I spent at the library doing research with my debate partner and then drinking cherry limeades at Sambo’s across the street and solving the problems of the world. He was a person of faith and helped me to find my own way to faith and since we were both dating other people that year, the boy-girl thing didn’t get in our way. Which is good because it’s hard to solve the problems of the world or worry too much about a solution to labor-management disputes if you’re distracted by love. However, love would follow within a couple of years and deepen over a lifetime.

We only debated together that one year. After that I spent more time with drama and he found another debate partner. I asked him later why he asked me after his first choices turned him down. “Well, I remember that in 9th grade you gave a speech at the Honor Society Banquet and you weren’t that bad.” For somebody who was good with words, he still had a ways to go.

So today as we celebrate our 46th  wedding anniversary, maybe we will raise a glass to Mrs. Murray who was just doing her job, to Mr. Star’s  fourth period English Class where it all began, to my mother against whom I never won a debate, and to Mr. Hamn and the Centennial Debate Team for some invaluable lessons and great times. Cheers!

And Happy Anniversary to the one I love.

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The Proposal

~ Sharon Abbott ~ 3 Comments

We had known each since the 4th grade. We
were high school debate partners who became friends and then began to date. We fought and broke up and got back together like most high school romances and then we graduated high school and he moved away for the summer and we became pen pals – writing daily letters back and forth between our cities, each envelope containing a window into the other’s soul.

He returned home and we started college and fought like crazy.  But by Christmas, when he left town again, there was no question but that we were in love.

The problem, as I saw it, was that he had made it pretty clear from the beginning that he had no plans to marry me or anybody else really. Ever. He wanted to serve God. I say all of this to explain why then, when he returned from Christmas break and wanted to take me to a really nice restaurant (one where they set the desert on fire right at your table!) and a movie (Bullet starring Steve McQueen – I know, right?) I was not really expecting what came next which is how the whole plan went terribly awry.

This of course, was long before wedding proposals were well choreographed, well scripted, and well planned productions complete with a supporting cast, a film crew, gynormous budgets and an engagement ring in its little black velvet box awaiting the reveal. They were really more like. . . well, like improv.  In hindsight, it might have gone better for him had he made his move during dinner with a little set up:  I’ve been thinking about this and praying about this and over the past six months I realize that serving God and marrying you are not actually mutually exclusive – or something like that only more romantic. At any rate, either because that was not the plan, or he deviated from the plan, that conversation never took place – not until much later. So after a lovely dinner and a car chase through the streets of San Francisco with McQueen, he took me home where we sat outside in the car, saying our goodbyes. And that’s when he said, “Will you marry me?”

There is a reason why the next words out of my mouth have become part of the family lore and legend. 

What I said was, “Go home and sleep on it.  And if you never mention this again, neither will I.”  Granted, if I had had a better script writer I might have said something like, “Are you sure you’re not just caught up in the moment and the romance of the evening – the flaming dessert and Steve McQueen?  This seems contradictory to all our previous conversations about marriage. What changed?”  But it was the best line I could improvise in the moment. And so, while what I was thinking was – you are in love with this moment and this evening and the romance of it all, and tomorrow you will wish you could take it all back and I do not want to have that conversation with you –  what I actually I said was, “Go home and sleep on it. And if you don’t mention it again, neither will I”  and I got out of the car and went in the house.

He called the next day to say he had to run some errands and did I want to come along. Sure. We might as well get this over with sooner than later. I had just “set” my hair.  You may or may not remember using empty orange juice cans for hair rollers. You get the picture. If we were going to have this conversation, it was going to be with the real me.  In the cold light of day. We were driving down 18th Street.

“Well,” he said.
“Well what?”
“Will you marry me?”
 “Okay.”
 “Okay WHAT?!”
  “OKAY!  I’LL MARRY YOU!!”  I type this all in caps because, when he tells the story, he yells this part – in sort of an angry voice. I don’t remember it that way. But who knows?

So that was the proposal. By today’s standards, not a very impressive production. But a great story. And it is our story. One of many.

We have been married 45 years today. Those years have seen their share of incredible joy and gut wrenching heartache. But he is now, as he was then, the love of my life. And had I known him then as well as I know him now, I would have known that that proposal came with great planning and care and intention. That he would never have been swept up in the moment (even if it did include Steve McQueen) and that he always, always acts out of conviction. I would have known that his love for God is what fuels his love for me and that together we would make a pretty good team.  

Had I known then what I know now, I would have said without a moment’s hesitation, “YES!  I’ll marry you!”  But then again, where would the story be in that?