What is This Thing Called Love
01/28/2007 08:21 a.m.

What is this thing called love? Is it really this noble attempt at undying commitment to another human being or a way to get sex on a steady basis? Well, for those unmarried folk out there, let’s set the story straight.

Let me tell you a story my father told me before I got married the first time:

“Son”, he said, put a glass jar on the dresser or the headboard of your bed. Every time the two of you “get it on” (that’s what they called it in the sixties and seventies) put a penny in that jar. Do this for a year from the date of your marriage. From that date on, every time you "get it on" take a penny out. Let me warn you now, you will never empty the jar. That’s marriage!”

That’s also the reason my father was quite the wayward sole when it came to the ladies, he liked filling that jar. But he always came back to mom. If she thought he had been with another woman, as sometimes he just liked to stay out with the boys and play cards and drink, she would threaten him. Now my mom’s threats, in hindsight, were really a bluff. But I saw butcher’s knives, frying pans, or just about anything that was handy she could try to use to threaten him. The only problem was, my father was fearless and he would just laugh. He was also quite the charmer and everything would be OK by the next morning.

Well, there were a couple of exceptions.

We lived in Memphis for a little over a year in ’70 & ’71 (where I actually graduated from high school). Well late one night, as I was sleeping, the night of the terror happened.

This was about eight months after our move to Memphis. I hear my mom charging through the front door madder than a Baptist at a Beerfest. I try to settle down when I hear the knock at the garage door. No, it was more like a pounding. I jump up and my mom shouts out to me “don’t you dare let him in!”But I hear my dad so I grab the door when all of a sudden I turn to see a hand iron coming at me. As I ducked it smashed through the window of the door striking dad harmlessly as it fell to the garage floor.

They yell at each other for about ten minutes when Memphis’ finest shows up. Mom runs out the front door yelling like a banshee at the officers to take my father away. After a few words with my father, in handcuffs, they did just that, and he was smiling that sheepish grin that both my daughter and I have today. I still remember wondering oddly in that moment, "who is going to fix that window?"

Let me give you some background for the next act. We were renting this house in Memphis since we were only there for an assignment. This lady, whose name I remember but won’t say was, our landlord.

So I asked mom what happened and she told me to sit down and she started, “I followed your father tonight night. I have had this feeling for sometime he was up to his old tricks. Where does he wind up, but at the house of our landlady (such and such). So I wait about ten minutes and then, mad as hell, I walk up to the front door and, at first, just listen. What I hear, and I hate that song to this day, is Gentle on My Mind by Glen Campbell (although I still like it, sorry mom). When I heard that, I kicked in the door (my mom was a country girl and strong as an ox), and there they were kissing on the sofa. So I first picked up a metal ashtray and threw it hitting your father knocking him back. Then I punched (such and such) right in the eye, knocking her down on her ass! I then turned around and came home. Then your father came home and this all happened".

“But”, I said, “Why did they arrest dad?”

“Well”, my mom was quite the clever woman, “I told them he had just shattered the window in the garage door, breaking in and then he threw me down. I also know your father, he took his medicine and said he did just that”.

That was their love-hate marriage. They loved each other as deeply as two humans can, but my father liked the company of women and he carried on that way until one day, as 42 years old he gave up drinking and carousing for good.

Four years later he died of a massive heart attack. Those were four of the happiest years of our family's lives. I was a mere 24 and I would give anything to ahve a few more laughs with him. To this day, my mother still talks of him as though he was the most wonderful man who ever lived. My father never hit my mom, but once, and he never did it again. He more often than not would just laugh and laugh whenever she got mad, only to make her even madder until she started laughing. So many times that happened. She hated it, but she loved it and we all miss him terribly. He was one of the most charming people you would ever meet. But I am glad I did grow up to be him although I do appreciate a woman with a sweet soul, a warm heart and at least somewhat nice looking. I guess I got part of my father's genes there. I also inherited a way to charm women as I do find them more fascinating than any of God's creatures.

I am currently Bemused
I am listening to the fireplace