I hunch on the corner couch—feet on the ottoman, head halfway up the back cushion, my body an awkward-shaped L. I should go into my office to write—I know I should. It would be better for my posture and my distractible mind. But I am comfortable and lazy. I like the soft cushion under me, the blanket draped over my lap, like it in spite of the fact that my back hurts from hunching.
I will be old before I am forty, or if I am not, this couch certainly will. Already its surface is mashed, a lip pushing out the top of the cushion, this corner more loved than the rest of the set.
Ivan and I bought this set together during one of my visits to Oakland before we were married. The pieces are soft gray, with clean lines, understated. Like us.
I remember we had a difficult discussion the day before we bought them. I don’t know anymore what we said, but I remember I made Ivan feel bad. When he came out to his parents’ kitchen the next morning for breakfast—I thought his eyes looked red and wondered if he’d been crying—he squeezed my hand, hard.
I am glad I’m married to the friend I know now and not the stranger I knew then. I didn’t understand his silences, his certainties, his swinging man walk, his drawled country accent. I am not saying I understand those things now, but they are familiar to me, and familiar things make sense.
Today, perched on an ancient roaring tractor, I watched him hurry back and forth from the corn bin to the wagon, a stream of scattering gold pouring from the auger into the wagon bed. My job was to keep an eye on him and run the auger, and now he looked toward me and made a forward motion with his hand. Forward? He wants me to drive the tractor forward? Is that really what he means? I looked behind the tractor at the swiftly turning PTO shaft that drove the auger. If I drove the tractor forward, everything would be ripped apart. I gave him a wild, what-do-you-mean kind of look. More vehemently, he thrust his hand forward again. The throttle. He wants me to push the throttle forward. I did, and the revving engine quieted, idled.
By the finish of our loading process, I had mostly figured out the meanings of his signs. A downward slash of the hand does NOT mean push down the throttle, thus speeding the auger—it means stop. A twisting motion means turn on the auger, or maybe turn it up. And when he tells me to point the needle of the gauge between the X and the 1 on the dashboard, he means this 1, not that 1.
Communication. It’s tough. Learning what the signs mean: when they mean go and when they’re really saying stop; when this word means that word and that word means this word. Languages can be confusing, languages of the heart no less so. But you form a sort of dance after a while: a bending and a lifting, a reaching and a pulling, your step inside my step, our movements synchronized. We’ve learned a little better how to understand each other, and understanding, we can step across gaps.
It’s nice. Like sitting on a soft gray couch and feeling comfy and noticing the spot is beginning to look loved.
Oh my. I love this post. So many things I could say and share, but suffice it to say I have been here/there, with my husband as he works, not on a farm, but on various projects and innovations. My siblings and I all remember Dad and how tricky communications could be when an auger or haywagon/maker were roaring. I have often told my husband, I can’t read your mind. :-) .
Our newest project, building a wood shed, has gone pretty well, partly because I have worked with him as his assistant all the way through it and I know what tools he’s needing and what drill bits to grab and how to be helpful. He loves it. Does it take 44 years to get there? Maybe. But you’ve got the hang of it!
Thanks for those stories, Melodie. That’s something I’ve been hearing a lot after this post–that communication always takes effort, all the way through. But also that marriage gets better and better with time–so I guess we’ve got something to look forward to. Thanks for commenting!
This is something I am still learning after 23 years…I love your insight. I think this is constant in a marriage…thanks for the encouragement!
Good to hear from you, Shilah. Thank you!
Have been there, and still am at times😕. I know the panicking feeling when you have no idea…… Marriage definitely takes work but it’s worth it!🥰
Yes, it definitely is. :)
Lucinda,
This is so beautifully written. What a wonderful way to explain how we learn to read our spouse.
My husband and I struggled a bit with that at the beginning of our marriage but after so many years together we even finish each others sentences or the exact same words will leave our lips at the same time. We look at each other and bust out laughing. Thank you again for sharing.
I love that, Pamela! How beautiful. :)
Early in our marriage, I determined to always communicate the hard things. Especially the hard things. After 21 years, I don’t regret that a bit. We keep trying, keep working; life brings changes, but it has all drawn us closer together. Bless you as you learn! It can and will be awesome, and yes, in some ways it gets easier, and some things get harder. But it is worth your time!!! Very much so…
Communicating the hard things is…hard. But that is a wonderful determination and one I want to make for myself.
You know from my recent blog post that misunderstandings can occur even after 53 years of a mostly harmonious marriage. You and Ivan are on the right track: You both love the Lord and are each other’s best friend.
I have a library book on hold titled For Women Only: What you need to know about the inner lives of men. If I learn anything new, I’ll be sure to share it. :-0