I was proud to sit with Morrie, Dad and Mom at Colt’s games at Ross-Ade Stadium at Purdue. It was cool watching Colt play college ball and it was a thrill seeing the name “Colton” on the back of his Boilermaker jersey.
But nothing was more exciting than high school football, not back in the day and not now. The whole town went to all the home games, even me, Morrie and Colt. All bundled up, drinking hot chocolate with a shared woolly blanket on our knees, I’d sit in the stands shoulder to shoulder with Jessie and Meems and I’d see Colt standing with Morrie and Lore and half a dozen other guys at the chain link fence around the track that surrounded the field. Most of the guys shot the shit and jacked around, only partially watching the game. Not Morrie and Colt, if the ball was in play, their eyes were on the field. Not reliving glory days, no, they were on sacred ground, communing with their brethren.
“Feb, hon, you there?” Delilah called and I tore my eyes from Colt and Morrie and looked at my sister-in-law.
“Yeah, just…” I sighed then said, “Remembering stuff.”
“Good stuff?” she asked quietly and it hit me then.
I was remembering good stuff and for the first time in a long time those memories didn’t come with pain.
“Yeah,” I said quietly back.
She scooted to the side in her swing and reached out a hand. I scooted toward her and took it.
“I like happy endings,” she said, tightening her hand in mine, swinging her swing a bit back and forth, keeping her feet to the ground but coming up on her toes and then going back to her heels.
I squeezed her hand back, doing my own mini-swings, and said, “Me too.”
Then we let go of each others’ hands, lifted our feet, the chains we were suspended from swung us sideways into place and we looked back at our men.
* * * * *
After Colt wupped Morrie, he drove us home while I made a mental note to bring a towel to drape on his seat in the truck. He was drenched. I’d never seen so much sweat and I grew up essentially with three men.
Then for some insane reason, I shared this. “You need a towel for your seat.”
“What?”
“You’re sweaty. You need a towel for your seat.”
“Feb, I own a truck,” was his absurd reply.
“So?”
“You can sweat in a truck.”
“Is that a rule?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he answered. “You can sweat in a truck, certain vans and any car that was built before 1990. That’s the rule. You know what you can’t sweat in?”
I knew where this was heading so I stayed silent and looked out the side window.
He didn’t let it go which wasn’t a surprise. Colt had never been one to let anything go. Back in the day we’d argue, mostly because Colt never let anything go but also because I never let anything out. It wasn’t a good combination but we never argued mean. It was always about exasperation at each other’s understood quirks but it was also always tethered to love. Half the time we’d end an argument laughing our asses off.
The only time he ever let anything go was when he let me go. Then again, that time it was a doozy what I wouldn’t let out.
Therefore not letting it go, Colt said, “A four door sedan.”
“You can’t sweat in a Volkswagen Beetle,” I told him.
“You’re not gettin’ a Beetle.”
“Why not?” I asked, looking back to him and sounding snippy because I liked Beetles.
“Because they’re ridiculous.”
“They are not.”
“No Beetle, Feb.”
“A convertible one?”
“Definitely not.”
I felt my vision narrow mainly because my eyes narrowed.
“Why ‘definitely not’?”
“‘Cause, you got a roof, at least that’s some barrier to the music blastin’ outta your car four seasons in the year. You got a convertible, you’ll get slapped with a moving noise violation.”
I stared at him with what I suspected was horror. “Is there such a thing as a ‘moving noise violation’?”
Colt didn’t answer which I didn’t know whether to take as good or bad.
I decided to ask Sully, or more aptly, to ask Lorraine who would ask Sully which would be more likely to get me a truthful answer.
Then I suggested, “How ‘bout one of those new Minis?”
“How ‘bout a Buick?”
I wasn’t sure but it was almost like I tasted vomit in the back of my throat.
“A Buick?” I whispered.
“They’re safe and they’re American.”
“Minis are English. The English are our allies.”
“The new Mini is made by BMW which is German.”
There it was, proof that he knew more about cars than me.
“Germans are our allies now too,” I told him.
“How ‘bout we talk about this later?” Colt suggested and I stayed quiet because I thought it was a good suggestion.
When we got home Colt went straight to the shower, I went straight to the boxes. I had time to get one unpacked, sheets and towels. My towels would go in his guest bathroom which made our purchases yesterday towel overkill, something I decided I wouldn’t tell Dad. My sheets would fit the bed in the second bedroom. They were feminine but far less flowery than the ones Mom bought. I therefore decided, when Mom and Dad left, to switch out the sheets and comforter in the second bedroom with mine and then put Mom’s back on when she and Dad were in town. I also decided to share this gesture with Colt, thinking it might bring me closer to a convertible Beetle which was the kind of idea I’d never had. I’d never owned a new car or a nice one nor ever really considered such a purchase. Now that the idea was planted in my head, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
I was standing at the dining room table, staring at the half empty box with my journals in it, thoughts of Beetles swept away and thoughts of Denny clogging my brain, when Colt walked out.
I looked at him and saw his hair wet and curling around his neck. He had on what he’d worn earlier that morning, a long-sleeved, heathered blue henley thermal, jeans, a great belt and boots. His eyes were on my journal box.
“I haven’t written in my journal since –”
Colt’s arm came up, his hand sliding under my hair and around the back of my neck, this action cutting off my words before he said, “I know.”
I looked down at the box and muttered, “I don’t think I ever will again.”
But nothing was more exciting than high school football, not back in the day and not now. The whole town went to all the home games, even me, Morrie and Colt. All bundled up, drinking hot chocolate with a shared woolly blanket on our knees, I’d sit in the stands shoulder to shoulder with Jessie and Meems and I’d see Colt standing with Morrie and Lore and half a dozen other guys at the chain link fence around the track that surrounded the field. Most of the guys shot the shit and jacked around, only partially watching the game. Not Morrie and Colt, if the ball was in play, their eyes were on the field. Not reliving glory days, no, they were on sacred ground, communing with their brethren.
“Feb, hon, you there?” Delilah called and I tore my eyes from Colt and Morrie and looked at my sister-in-law.
“Yeah, just…” I sighed then said, “Remembering stuff.”
“Good stuff?” she asked quietly and it hit me then.
I was remembering good stuff and for the first time in a long time those memories didn’t come with pain.
“Yeah,” I said quietly back.
She scooted to the side in her swing and reached out a hand. I scooted toward her and took it.
“I like happy endings,” she said, tightening her hand in mine, swinging her swing a bit back and forth, keeping her feet to the ground but coming up on her toes and then going back to her heels.
I squeezed her hand back, doing my own mini-swings, and said, “Me too.”
Then we let go of each others’ hands, lifted our feet, the chains we were suspended from swung us sideways into place and we looked back at our men.
* * * * *
After Colt wupped Morrie, he drove us home while I made a mental note to bring a towel to drape on his seat in the truck. He was drenched. I’d never seen so much sweat and I grew up essentially with three men.
Then for some insane reason, I shared this. “You need a towel for your seat.”
“What?”
“You’re sweaty. You need a towel for your seat.”
“Feb, I own a truck,” was his absurd reply.
“So?”
“You can sweat in a truck.”
“Is that a rule?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he answered. “You can sweat in a truck, certain vans and any car that was built before 1990. That’s the rule. You know what you can’t sweat in?”
I knew where this was heading so I stayed silent and looked out the side window.
He didn’t let it go which wasn’t a surprise. Colt had never been one to let anything go. Back in the day we’d argue, mostly because Colt never let anything go but also because I never let anything out. It wasn’t a good combination but we never argued mean. It was always about exasperation at each other’s understood quirks but it was also always tethered to love. Half the time we’d end an argument laughing our asses off.
The only time he ever let anything go was when he let me go. Then again, that time it was a doozy what I wouldn’t let out.
Therefore not letting it go, Colt said, “A four door sedan.”
“You can’t sweat in a Volkswagen Beetle,” I told him.
“You’re not gettin’ a Beetle.”
“Why not?” I asked, looking back to him and sounding snippy because I liked Beetles.
“Because they’re ridiculous.”
“They are not.”
“No Beetle, Feb.”
“A convertible one?”
“Definitely not.”
I felt my vision narrow mainly because my eyes narrowed.
“Why ‘definitely not’?”
“‘Cause, you got a roof, at least that’s some barrier to the music blastin’ outta your car four seasons in the year. You got a convertible, you’ll get slapped with a moving noise violation.”
I stared at him with what I suspected was horror. “Is there such a thing as a ‘moving noise violation’?”
Colt didn’t answer which I didn’t know whether to take as good or bad.
I decided to ask Sully, or more aptly, to ask Lorraine who would ask Sully which would be more likely to get me a truthful answer.
Then I suggested, “How ‘bout one of those new Minis?”
“How ‘bout a Buick?”
I wasn’t sure but it was almost like I tasted vomit in the back of my throat.
“A Buick?” I whispered.
“They’re safe and they’re American.”
“Minis are English. The English are our allies.”
“The new Mini is made by BMW which is German.”
There it was, proof that he knew more about cars than me.
“Germans are our allies now too,” I told him.
“How ‘bout we talk about this later?” Colt suggested and I stayed quiet because I thought it was a good suggestion.
When we got home Colt went straight to the shower, I went straight to the boxes. I had time to get one unpacked, sheets and towels. My towels would go in his guest bathroom which made our purchases yesterday towel overkill, something I decided I wouldn’t tell Dad. My sheets would fit the bed in the second bedroom. They were feminine but far less flowery than the ones Mom bought. I therefore decided, when Mom and Dad left, to switch out the sheets and comforter in the second bedroom with mine and then put Mom’s back on when she and Dad were in town. I also decided to share this gesture with Colt, thinking it might bring me closer to a convertible Beetle which was the kind of idea I’d never had. I’d never owned a new car or a nice one nor ever really considered such a purchase. Now that the idea was planted in my head, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
I was standing at the dining room table, staring at the half empty box with my journals in it, thoughts of Beetles swept away and thoughts of Denny clogging my brain, when Colt walked out.
I looked at him and saw his hair wet and curling around his neck. He had on what he’d worn earlier that morning, a long-sleeved, heathered blue henley thermal, jeans, a great belt and boots. His eyes were on my journal box.
“I haven’t written in my journal since –”
Colt’s arm came up, his hand sliding under my hair and around the back of my neck, this action cutting off my words before he said, “I know.”
I looked down at the box and muttered, “I don’t think I ever will again.”
