How I Met Your Father

I had been single for a while, and didn't seem to be meeting anyone I could date. I had had a disastrous (as in "ending in disaster twice") relationship with a bisexual street hustler, and had no healthy strategies for coping with romance. Even after a decade or more of dating and a sad first marriage. So when the gay dude in the office (the boss was in denial! wow, what a scene) suggested I go to a bar. So, in August 1977, I went to the nearest bar, Harrison's on Peachtree. There was this really drunk guy in a cowboy hat with a gold Mickey Mouse on his lapel. I was able to evade him. In the back I watched the pool game. And when I stepped back (without looking) I trod on someone who was apparently breathing down my neck.
This bald fellow looked into my eyes, and explained that he had been bumming around the country and was now looking to get married and settle down. I thought, well, he fits my criteria: single, white, employed. He had grown up near to my hometown, and gone to high school with my brother, it turned out. My brother got thrown out of our high school for something. So I took his number. I called him the next day.
I had been out with some black fellas, but our worlds were so very different, I felt the difficulties exceeded the attraction. Also, I had really bad judgment.
I had been with some married guys, but it felt really shitty to do that. Even the group marriage guy.
I was employed myself, and didn't really fancy trying to support someone else. Keeping a job was not fun, but it beat begging my parents for money.
I was in therapy, which is where I came up with the criteria. A list of qualities I would like in a romantic partner.
I have begun this story many times. My memories are full of pain. Yet, they are also funny and fun.
We went out on a date. He took me to a restaurant, I think, then we went to a bar where you could play backgammon. That was a craze in those days. We drank and played for hours. He was pretty wasted when we got in his car so he could drive me home. Thanks to the therapy I was in, I had determined not to sleep with him right away. I don't really know what I was waiting for, but I knew it made sense to wait.
The car's headlights only worked on high beam, and the police pulled him over. He got out of the car and spoke with them, and then one of the cops told me that I should drive. So I did. After we got to my parents' house where I was staying, of course he drove off in his car.
I remember the date (second?) where we discussed baby names. He wanted to name a daughter after his dead mother. He asked me what I thought of the name "Ivy" and I made some flippant remark. Looking back, it seems like an ambush question, but it also speaks to my own cluelessness that I would not have sussed this question had hidden meaning. He talked about his mother and his conflicts with her, which sounded pretty serious. I found it fascinating, but felt too guilty myself to analyze any character issues in him.
I remember the date when we went to bed. We had participated with some other "young people" (possibly including some of my siblings) associated with my parents current church. We were going to my parents' house afterwards, but my date felt he needed to upset my mother, I guess. So we went to his place, showered and had sex for the first time, and changed into our clean clothes to go eat with Mom and Dad. Did I want this? Did I even ask myself if I wanted it? I remember being along for the ride, neither enthusiastic nor reluctant. Not very romantic.
Even less when you factor in the story about how one of his other girlfriends was supposed to clean the shower, but she was mad at him, thus the dirty shower. A long dissertation about the piles of clothes on the floor. And an introduction to his true friend, the Colt .45 automatic pistol, wrapped in underwear, which had heroicly survived the fire in Colorado that destroyed all his other belongings. 
I remember going to my therapist and having him go, too. She told me a "story" about a "patient" who simply asked every woman he encountered to have sex. According to the story, about 10 percent said yes.
We talked later about that visit, and he recalled vividly how she had brought him to recognize his focus on alcohol. He delighted in recounting how he, when pressed, could identify every ounce of alcohol in his shared kitchen, from the beers in the fridge to the inch of vodka in a bottle in the back of a cabinet, he knew where all of it was. I was entertained by the story, and untroubled by his professed alcoholism. Had I not grown up with alcoholic drinking? It wasn't so bad. I could live with it.
Fairly quickly my need expressed in frantic phone calls led him to move in. I now believe he had an affair with one of my neighbors during those few months we lived together in my apartment. I do remember breaking the news to my boss, and my second boss calling him a "yardbird." He remembers screaming fights, I've been told. In the house I grew up in, screaming fights were a bonding ritual. It was decades before I recognized my part in this kind of dysfunction.
So we began talking about marriage. I well remember his formal proposal. A Mexican restaurant dinner, an attentive waitress. Very attentive. He didn't "pop the question" inside the restaurant, but waited until we were in the car afterward. Giving me the half-carat diamond ring he had picked out. I was pleased to get this formal step in the right direction. Only later did the waitress' behavior trouble me.
Sadly, I do not remember that astounding "in love" feeling that new romances had brought to me in the past. I remember being fairly comfortable with him, accepting his presence as a decision-maker in my life. Years of therapy had, apparently, not brought me closer to understanding and caring for myself.
The marriage ceremony itself proved to be a problem. My parents' basement church interviewed us and decided that my prior marriage and divorce excluded me from their rites. We then turned to the Episcopal Church I grew up in; however, in the first confirmation class we attended, for him, the teacher, a Canon of the Cathedral, attacked my own father's published editorial position against the church. We were very clear that they knew who I was and did not approve.
It was at this juncture, that my therapist pointed out to me elopement was an option. I guess she meant well, but I had only known Winn for 4 months. I did a bit of investigation, and found a one-hour instant blood test lab near the Fulton County Courthouse. I told Winn to meet me there, and we had coffee while we waited for the result. Having the certificate in hand, I directed him to the Courthouse where we filled out papers. I lied on mine. Then, while he was paying the fee (I remember $60), I queried a clerk about Justice of the Peace nearby and got directions. Within minutes we were on the sidewalk headed to another gray stone building where, at 12:13 on Dec. 13, 1977, an old man recited the words. The sign on his wall was what I remembered from that day "Illegitimi Non Carborundum."
I remember that as the last day when Winn did what I told him to.
Having tied the knot, we now entered a new phase of finding an appropriate place to live. Paying rent was not acceptable any more. We must buy a house, accumulate equity. Winn's need to meet a financial goal became the new focus of our lives. His reliance on his father's help was a revelation as well. We went out to their home in Covington to visit as newly weds and they presented us with a cake. It was a bunny, so this must have been near Easter of 1978.

***

I realize as ai write this that I had no friends. Was was graduated college and I had abandone the group of friends I met during my first marriage. I made no friends in high school. A couple of girls got lcose to me, but either we got crossed up or they simply faded away. I did not have the skill of approaching people, going out of my way to make friends. Things just happened to me. Or didn't. and friends didn't happen, they need nurturing. I know that now. College was mostly night school. I found a marriage boyfriend, but no lasting friendships. Some of the professors knew me, because of my father or his friends. I felt like a burden to people. Ultimately, now, at 68, I find the only people who can tolerate me over the long haul are my family. I'm grateful for all the forgiveness and all the love.
The years of working were a little different. Through my therapist, I met an alcoholic. Roy is dead now, no way to break the anonymity of the dead. He was a part-time lawyer in need of a part-time secretary, and I got the job. He turned out to be a very compassionate and patient employer. When I finally graduated college, his "suite-mate" another solo practitioner needed full-time help, and I worked for both of them. Later he retired and I stayed on with her. It was her gay paralegal who suggested the bar...

***

I don't know why or exactly when, but we did end up living in his parents' house while they were gone. It was not a success, and I got very drunk and angry and fired a shotgun in their backyard. My first ever shotgun blast! ...at an empty liquor bottle. I think this truly terrified Winn. I guess it should have scared me, but it didn't. I'm still happy about it. What a great way to let off steam.
Anyway, ashamed to say his parents returned to a filthy house, which his stepmother immediately set to rights.

***

Yeah, so this got hard and I stopped. One thing I'm realizing I must deal with is the decision to have my own tubes tied. I did not want it, but I agreed to it anyway. I had chances to say no, and I didn't do that. I failed myself. Just to "keep the peace." I so regret this decision.
After Luke was born and getting up to age 3 or so, I really wanted another child. I am a good mother, and I loved it.

***

Our first house was on Second Avenue in DeKalb County. I had a previous boyfriend who said the "second crookedest man in Atlanta" lived on Second Avenue. It was (maybe still is) a very bad neighborhood. Our nextdoor neighbors seemed to me to be quite friendly. Winn and I melded our household goods, such as they were, 2 TVs, a sewing machine, some guns. We needed a refrigerator, dining table and chairs, and amazingly, a woman he knew was selling hers. We bought the awful things. While the fridge burned up rather quickly (it's a good story), the table and chairs lasted for years. They were iron, and the chairs had lots of pointy, curly ends that grabbed and assaulted you as you walked by. I still ahve the table. Very sturdy, iron and plastic veneer particle board.
I got introduced to partnership and wifehood when we moved that avocado green, sticker-infested fridge into our new home together. I had never moved an appliance. He kindly put me on the "uphill" side as we tried to get it up 2 concrete steps into the kitchen. At one point I asked my new husband, What happens if this falls on me? And his reassuring answer was, It will crush you to death.
The fridge didn't work too well. I learned where the fuse box was and what round, glass fuses looked like. Then, after the second or third blown fuse, my husband put a penny in the box under the fuse. No more blowouts! The fridge caught fire. I think the next one came from a reseller of used appliances named "A B Used Appliances."
I remember a peaceful routine I established. On Saturday mornings, I would set up the ironing board, and watch the old westerns on TV while I ironed Winn's shirts. Bonanza, The Lone Ranger, Maverick, Have Gun Will Travel all brought a quiet, easy vibe into my otherwise rather difficult adjustment to the icky neighborhood, the commute to Paces Ferry Road to work, Winn's absences and demands. It all faded away while I did a simple chore and was entertained by familiar images and sounds.
Winn somehow found the funds (we now had one joint checking account) for a new stereo system. You may remember music "systems" from the olden days: two enormous rectangular box speakers, a smaller box with lots of knobs called an amplifier/tuner, a turntable for records. I don't remember if there were more parts. Those parts currently reside in my garage. I don't remember what this gem cost us either. What I do remember is that it was deemed essential.
Then the neighbors dropped by to visit and chat. Somehow these two young men got a tour of the house from me. Winn came home and was displeased. Shortly afterwards, someone broke into the back of the house and just took everything of value (not the fridge). My new (and only) leather jacket Winn had just bought me, the stereo, my sewing machine, his deer rifle, and what I miss to this day: my dean's key. Also a silver barrette my X-boss gave me. It was pretty, but too heavy to actually use.
They also took Winn's watch. It had tar stains on it. That was how he recognized it when he ran into the fellow wearing it. Winn got very involved in the investigation, arrest and prosecution of the thieves. He would jump up in the night, stark naked, pointing his Colt Commander into the darkened hallway. Winn was disappointed that Judge Oscar Mitchell (RIP) let the thieves go on a technicality.
We moved.

***

Winn's search for better accommodations--and he did all the searching--led to a small 30 x 30-ft brick bungalow on the industrial side of Avondale Estates. Three little houses in a row, with us taking the middle one. The other two were rentals. The furnace was a floor unit in the middle of the central hallway. There were coal grates in the living room and one bedroom. The kitchen was the size of a large closet, and we put the washer and dryer--wedding presents from my parents--in the mudroom off the kitchen. In our first year, Winn replaced the iron plumbing with copper pipes, and attempted to rewire the house himself. He nearly electrocuted himself with direct current from the street, and I was not sympathetic. For some reason, I believed such projects belonged in the hands of qualified electricians.
Winn claimed the furnace was broken and we must heat with coal. Thus in our first winter, all brand new copper water pipes under the house burst, and Winn and a neighbor spent days replacing and resoldering the entire system. After Winn found a coal yard in south Atlanta that would sell the big hunks of soft coal he said we neede to burn in the grates, it turned out that 2 grates was not enough to keep the whole house warm. Imagine. And then, suddenly, 2 years later, the furnace was working again. hmmm. I remember filling pails with water outside and then hauling them into the house to sit on top of the furnace to heat. I am astounded that my adorable tiny daughters did not grow up with checkerboard scars on their tummies from that furnace.

It is my memory that every single year we were together our water pipes burst. Even though we were living in Georgia, a southern state with mild winters. Keeping a warm house, using central heat, seemed to be something we struggled with constantly. I remember vividly and with gratitude the fuel supplier who showed up at the trailer in Bartow County. He was delivering a 55-gallon drum of kerosene to fuel the furnace in the travel trailer the five of us were living in. The kerosene drum needed to be raised up in order to gravity-feed into the furnace. We did have cinder blocks sitting around, and this stranger, this deliveryman, came up with the plan which we executed together, rolling the drum from one stage to the next until it was high enough to function properly. I don't remember his name, but I'll never forget him. So patient and cheerful.

I'm not even aware of making choices. This is my husband. This is my family. This is my life. I'm going along to get along. I've made some choices that I hoped would work out, but I'm actively seeking anything, not even happiness, I guess. I'm just living and coping and doing what someone else is sure he wants. It makes me sad now.