Alright. I admit it. I married my wife because she has big feet.
Now before you get the wrong idea (Fetishism? Instep Envy?) allow me to add the following facts about Connie to the minimalist memoir she has so graciously provided below.
She was a guide dog trainer in the New York metro area for years. The Bronx. The subway system. Helping dogs and blind people. Connie you see can fill a pair of big shoes.
She is the one who on vacation in foreign countries goes parasailing. I just keep track of the beach chairs. Know what I mean?
She's the one who cheerfully talks to poets, whether they're sober or not, even though she grew up smart and yes, understood early that High School English is the tar pit of mentation.
She can clean dog hair off the kitchen floor in less than two minutes with her feet. This is a kind of domestic dancing that even the ancient and labyrinthine Gods and Goddesses of Knossos would take their hats off to, but of course they didn't have hats, which is probably why they died out if you stop and think about it.
She can put up with my facial ticks. Briefly: I have this unfortunate tendency to pull in my lips so that they seem to disappear. I do this unconsciously. Unfortunately the habit makes me look like a very old man who has swallowed his false teeth. If you can see, and if you live with someone who does this all the time, well, you must have solar patience. Imagine living with the old farmer from the famous Grant Wood painting. Of course I like to think that my jokes and extemporaneous songs are better than those offered up by Grant Wood's farmer. Just look at Mrs. Farmer. And although Connie will pretend otherwise, I can actually make her laugh. Why just last night, oh, never mind...
Connie can drive a barge. Yep. She once drove a fully loaded barge across Lake Winnipesaukee on the 4th of July when the famous lake was awash with amateur drunks and weekend sailors. She is a tiny woman. She looked a little like Olive Oyl at the helm of Merrill Fay's borrowed industrial barge. And that's another story: Merrill is the owner and proprietor of Fay's Boat Yard in Gilford, New Hampshire and he's a real Yankee, and trust me, he doesn't let just anybody borrow his barge. Trust me.
I think this is number 8: she can ring handbells in churches and make real music. Even Olive Oyl can't do that.
S.K.
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