01 May 2015

Nothing runs like a dear

Stag-Man by Patrik Törnroos, used by permission
Astride the green ogre, Dave appears less than his usual confident self. Omigosh, he is human. Suddenly, I can't wait to get him in bed.

My husband stands out in any crowd. He has all the style and class I never got. My earliest image of him: swimmer's build, tight jeans, cowboy boots, purple jacket, Crocodile Dundee hat. At last year’s Pride parade, divas on floats and sexy men in skanky underwear waved and called out to him, “Love your hat.” He was wearing a straw cowboy hat, hand-shaped to look extra-cool, decorated with black and white polka-dotted feathers from our guineas, and set off with a dangly piece of shiny blue jewelry.

People warm to Dave easily. And no wonder. He’s friendly and good-natured. He was born with a droopy eyelid—it makes him look like he's thoughtfully considering everything you say. He probably is. He's a great listener. He exudes confidence, competence, wisdom and compassion. Dave served as hospice chaplain for 25 years. These traits served him and his patients well. He's the sort you’d trust with dark secrets. With your life.

Say you and he find yourselves in dire straits—you’ve climbed a fire tower to get away from a 60-foot alligator. From here you can see the huge forest fire headed your way from the east and a tornado coming in from the west. Now you notice termites have weakened the tower structure. It sways from side to side. The staircase below crumbles to dust. Deep breath. Dave assesses the situation, calmly explains your options, makes a decision for himself and supports you in crafting your own plan of action. Offers to lend you an extra jet pack and parachute. Betcha.

Do you get the idea I think Dave can do anything? You're right. But here, outside the John Deere farm implement dealership, I’m seeing his vulnerable side.

We've push-mowed our two-acre lawn for 15 years. A twisted ankle last year made us rethink that plan. Back in February we bought an old John Deere 318 garden tractor. It ran fine for two weeks this spring, then not at all. We purchased a utility trailer, manhandled the behemoth onto it, and drug it into that bastion of butch, our local John Deere dealership.

The mower’s been repaired and we’re back now to pick it up. A few minutes ago a manly man in a green farm cap drove it up onto the wagon, grunted, then sauntered back to his man-cave.

Fine, except when he parked it, he rammed the mower into our trailer’s flimsy front rail. The thin wooden board looks ready to snap. Dave puts the tractor in neutral and tries to roll it backwards, but to no avail. The mower won’t budge. We push, pull, push some more. No dice. Dave climbs up on it and starts the thing. Still no luck.

“The brake pedal is stuck in the down position,” he says. “I can’t get it to let up.” (Later we’ll learn the way up is down. To release the brake pedal you have to press it all the way down.)

I suggest Dave go back into the shop and tell ’em we're new at owning a Deere, ask how to unlock the brakes. I myself don’t volunteer; I don't want to look stupid. But I’m sure he can pull it off without looking the fool. He grew up on a farm. Those men in there are his peers.

Dave gives me a pointed look. “We'll wait until we get home and read the manual,” he says.                       

 Suddenly, I see him in a new light and my heart melts. He’s vincible. He’s not as omnipotent as I think. Someday I’ll lose him. All I ever touch is fragile. My hold is tentative, even on those I love most. Time, and with it life itself, darts away, runs like a deer.

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