Remembering Nancy I

Today's my birthday. I woke up before sunrise remembering Nancy.

Three years is a long time. I still miss her. Lotta people do. Not in that sad and painful way we once did, though. Nowadays, our family members and old friends aren't scared to tell me what I've come to call "Nancy-Stories." I like to tell her story, too.

She was so sweetly loving. So smart and clever and funny. Here's an example of the sort of 20-second transaction Nancy was so good at negotiating:


The last time my birthday fell on Thanksgiving, my buddy Paul and I were out in the garage messing around with the battery-powered hand-drill Nancy'd just given me for my birthday.

I hasten to add that 30-plus years of marriage makes a practical present like that seem pretty romantic.

The sun had gone down. We had long-since over-eaten. Everybody'd pitched in: wrapped the left-overs and stuck 'em into the fridge, helped with the dishes, rearranged the dining-room furniture. And like that. Now Paul and I'd escaped the family for a few minutes. We were hunkered down close together in a coupla high-back stools, our elbows resting on the work-bench.

We were just about to begin making a mess, drilling test-holes into a short scrap board. I mean, this was several years ago, and we wondered how powerful these new battery-powered hand-tools really were. Serious Man-Type Business -- No Less.

At the very last minute before experimentation begins, here comes Nancy flouncing in, plopping down into my lap.

"Booby, Boooby, Booooby" With a big sigh, she curls her index finger on my chin and cheek, wraps her other arm around my neck, slips my bulky safety glasses up onto the top of my head, and gives me a quick, soft kiss on the lips: "Happy Birthday, Robby."

"Thanks, Honey. I love this drill. . . ."

"I seeee! You're WELCOME!" She gently lifts the drill outa my hand, sets it into its recess in the handy-carrying-case, and drops one of those wrinkled, rolled-up, big-black trash bags into my hand -- meanwhile delivering three more kisses. These're slower, kinda moist, with loud smacks. Little dabba tongue, too.

Whenever she loves-me-up like this, I kinda get disoriented. I glance wistfully over at my new, now-nearly-put-away drill.

"Paul 'n I're just gonna test it on this board, Honey. Wanna see?"

Blip! She lightly taps the trash bag and simultaneously squeezes my hand: "That's nice. But first: would you guys Pul-LEEEEZ gather up all the torn wrapping paper in the Great Room, empty-out all the other waste-baskets, toss this bag into the garbage can, and roll it out to the curb?" Another smacker. This one real tonguey and not the least bit quick. Then she's up and through the door into the kitchen.

So! Paul & I: we make a quick decision. We close the handy-carrying-case, snap its latches, gather up the drills and board, and stow everything safely away on the shelf beneath the work bench.

Ten minutes won't make all that much difference.

Now -- just you wait ONE little minute! Before you start making funna-me, Stop and Think: five sweet kisses from a beautiful woman, who just sat cosily in your lap twenty seconds?! I say that's a big down-payment on any transaction.

Pretty romantic, too.

Nowadays I gotta take the trash out for FREE.

In Memoriam
Nancy Sue Warner Meadows
2-8-44 -- 11-2-2006