the editor talks with you

As it is St. Valentine’s Day and you may be in the mood for a love story, please indulge me as I share one with you. I recall the day we met as if it was only yesterday. She had graduated with a university 4-year degree in only 3. My boss introduced us and told me she would be going through management training. I thought to myself, “You never offered me management training. What am I?” With a not-too-friendly snarl, she was greeted with “Welcome aboard.” “Ugh,” she thought. “An old grump.”

In management training she worked with me for 2 weeks. It was like Marine boot camp. She was challenged in every task she was given. Everyone noticed how hard she got it. No one stood up for her. What her tormentor didn’t know was that she was raised by a demanding fighter pilot father who expected her to excel. She and her brother had to bring home straight As. His rules were stricter even than mine. Weeks later, after she had worked in all areas of the news operation, her boss asked her where she wanted to work. She said she wanted to work with me. He was stunned and asked, ““After the way he put you through the wringer, why do you want to work with him?” “Because,” she said, “I learned more from him than anyone else.” She had won my respect.

Flash forward a few years. We had been wed and moved from South Carolina to Yankeeland because my income wouldn’t support a family with a child on the way. We found a 3rd floor walkup apartment, the northern version of a fitness program – 60 steps and no elevator. All of the guys at the newspaper wanted to know if we married our sisters. Some of us do I said. Not me. I like my sister but not enough to marry her. They thought that was funny. How about your wife? they asked. She’s my first cousin, I said. Really? they asked. I said yes. It was the first of other lies.

“We hear you get married young,” they said. “How old is your wife?”: “How old is yours?” I replied. Some said 18. Others said 19 or 20. “That’s too old,” I said. “A girl that old is set in her ways. You won’t be able to train her to be the kind of wife you want.” How old was mine? “She’s 12,” I said. They went home and told their wives I was married to a 12-year-old girl. “That poor thing,” their wives thought.

When I arrived home the next evening, the breakfast table was piled with gifts. Arms crossed, the girl of my dreams demanded to know what was going on. “I know you’ve been told how cold and heartless Yankees are,” I said. “ But these people are nice. They are just welcoming us to their community.” I don’t think she believed me but the sheets and towels were welcome gifts. When everyone met her at the Christmas party, my hoax was uncovered. She has put up with such misbehavior on my part longer than I should tell you.

A Valentine’s Special

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