Quality Housekeeping: Wife's duties

It is important for men to remember that, as women grow older, it
becomes harder for them to maintain the same quality of housekeeping
as when they were younger. When you notice this, try not to yell at
them. Some are oversensitive, and there's nothing worse than an
oversensitive woman.

My name is Jim. Let me relate how I handled the situation with my
wife, Terri. When I retired a few years ago, it became necessary for
Terri to get a full-time job along with her part-time job, both for
extra income and for the health benefits that we needed. Shortly after
she started working, I noticed she was beginning to show her age. I
usually get home from the golf club about the same time she gets home
from work.

Although she knows how hungry I am, she almost always says she has to
rest for half an hour or so before she starts dinner . I don't yell at
her. Instead, I tell her to take her time and just wake me when she
gets dinner on the table. I generally have lunch in the Men's Grill at
the club so eating out is not reasonable. I'm ready for some
home-cooked grub when I hit that door. She used to do the dishes as
soon as we finished eating. But now it's not unusual for them to sit
on the table for several hours after dinner.

I do what I can by diplomatically reminding her several times each
evening that they won't clean themselves. I know she really
appreciates this, as it does seem to motivate her to get them done
before she goes to bed.

Another symptom of aging is complaining, I think. For example she will
say that it is difficult for her to find time to pay the monthly bills
during her lunch hour. But, boys, we take 'em for better or worse, so
I just smile and offer encouragement. I tell her to stretch it out
over two or even three days. That way she won' t have to rush so much.
I also remind her that missing lunch completely now and then !
wouldn't hurt her any (if you know what I mean). I like to think tact
is one of my strong points.

When doing simple jobs, she seems to think she needs more rest periods.
She had to take a break when she was only half-finished mowing the yard. I
try not to make a scene. I'm a fair man. I tell her to fix herself a
nice, big, cold glass of freshly squeezed lemonade and just sit for a
while. And, as long as she is making one for herself, she may as well
make one for me too.

I know that I probably look like a saint in the way I support Terri.
I'm not saying that showing this much consideration is easy. Many men
will find it difficult. Some will find it impossible! Nobody knows
better than I do how frustrating women get as they get older. However,
guys, even if you just use a little more tact and less criticism of
your aging wife because of this article , I will consider that writing
it was well worthwhile After all, we are put on this earth to help
each other.

Signed,
Jim

EDITOR'S NOTE:
Jim died suddenly on February 7 of a perforated rectum. The police
report says he was found with a Calloway extra-long 50-inch Big Bertha
Driver II golf club jammed up his rear end, with barely 5 inches of
grip showing, and a sledge hammer laying nearby. His wife Terri was
arrested and charged with murder. The all-woman jury took only 10
minutes to find her Not Guilty, accepting her defense that Jim,
somehow without looking, accidentally sat down on his golf club.

The Cab Ride I’ll Never Forget

“I don’t think that I have done anything more important in my life…”

Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living.

It was a cowboy’s life, a life for someone who wanted no boss.

What I didn’t realize was that it was also a ministry.

Because I drove the night shift, my cab became a moving confessional. Passengers climbed in, sat behind me in total anonymity, and told me about their lives. I encountered people whose lives amazed me, ennobled me, and made me laugh and weep.

But none touched me more than a woman I picked up late one August night. I was responding to a call from a small brick fourplex in a quiet part of town. I assumed I was being sent to pick up some partyers, or someone who had just had a fight with a lover, or a worker heading to an early shift at some factory for the industrial part of town.

When I arrived at 2:30 a.m., the building was dark except for a single light in a ground floor window.

Under these circumstances, many drivers would just honk once or twice, wait a minute, then drive away.

But I had seen too many impoverished people who depended on taxis as their only means of transportation.

Unless a situation smelled of danger, I always went to the door. This passenger might be someone who needs my assistance, I reasoned to myself.

So I walked to the door and knocked. “Just a minute”, answered a frail, elderly voice. I could hear something being dragged across the floor.

After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman in her 80’s stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940s movie. By her side was a small nylon suitcase. The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years. All the furniture was covered with sheets. There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils on the counters. In the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos and glassware.

“Would you carry my bag out to the car?” she said. I took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to assist the woman. She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb. She kept thanking me for my kindness.

“It’s nothing”, I told her. “I just try to treat my passengers the way I would want my mother treated.”

“Oh, you’re such a good boy”, she said. When we got in the cab, she gave me an address, then asked, “Could you drive through downtown?”

“It’s not the shortest way,” I answered quickly.

“Oh, I don’t mind,” she said. “I’m in no hurry. I’m on my way to a hospice.”

I looked in the rear view mirror. Her eyes were glistening.

“I don’t have any family left,” she continued. “The doctor says I don’t have very long.”

I quietly reached over and shut off the meter. “What route would you like me to take?” I asked.

For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the building where she had once worked as an elevator operator. We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were newlyweds. She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl. Sometimes she’d ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.

As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, “I’m tired. Let’s go now.”

We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a low building, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under a portico. Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move. They must have been expecting her. I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door. The woman was already seated in a wheelchair.

“How much do I owe you?” she asked, reaching into her purse.

“Nothing,” I said.

“You have to make a living,” she answered.

“There are other passengers”.

Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug. She held onto me tightly.

“You gave an old woman a little moment of joy,” she said. “Thank you.”

I squeezed her hand, then walked into the dim morning light. Behind me, a door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life.

I didn’t pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly, lost in thought. For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk. What if that woman had gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end his shift? What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away?

On a quick review, I don’t think that I have done anything more important in my life.

We’re conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments. But great moments often catch us unaware - beautifully wrapped in what others may consider a small one.

By Kent Nerburn