Changing Your Tune
Most couples I would assume or hope have a song, a melody or an arrangement
of verse that exemplifies their feelings for one another; a musical score that began with their first dance, their first kiss or the first palpitations of the heart.
It’s the magic of music.
When the wedding reception is in full stride and the open bar is crowded with well-wishers, the elated pair takes to the floor as the sequin ball sparkles overhead. All eyes are now smiling as they watch the newly-betrothed embrace; an aura with thoughts of future bliss surrounds them. A few stragglers toss a few bucks in the tip jar, requesting a double pour before their own dearly beloved one notices.
Our couples song is “She’s Got A Way” by Billy Joel. It was my choice. The words express better than any other song – and yes there are many — exactly how I feel. I wanted her to know that. Of course that was then and this is now; living for what could be upwards of a year in the garage changes a person’s perspective.
I play the guitar, poorly. I also sing, even worse. But that doesn’t stop me from trying – in private, bellowing out rock n’ roll or country or church hymns like “How Great Thou Art.” The internet has it all, readily available within seconds, the chords and the strumming patterns and the lyrics. My ego expands and I can’t wait to share what I have accomplished when she returns home (the garage.)
“Listen,” I say excitedly as she enters and I get about 20 seconds in. “What is that?” she asks. “‘Please Come To Boston’ by Dave Loggins,” I reply dumbfounded and disheartened before I stop.
“No, that’s nice, keep going,” she offers. I decline her encouragement, commenting that it is too beautiful a ballad to butcher so badly. She does not disagree. Silence speaks volumes.
Her knowledge of construction terminology and assorted jargon was actually above average. I was impressed, but still believed that accurate articulation of who was doing what – and where – and why, was important. The communication between her and me, as well as between her and them (the tradesmen) would be easier and better understood by all parties involved.
The threats I’ve received about over explaining the functions of a joist, rafter, beam, bearing wall and dimensional lumber are no longer hurled at me like candy at a parade. And to be fair, it’s a two-way street. I’ve made it quite clear that I appreciate the attention to detail with colors, patterns, different materials complimenting each other and multiple design options, but it’s enough already. My whiskey shot glass collection will not be displayed alongside the Waterford wine glasses, even though it’s okay for her mother’s red Avon dishes: just kidding, they are oddly attractive.
I’m in charge of most meals and have become rather fond of the double burner electric skillet and countertop oven. The large maple slab of repurposed bowling alley lane serves a dual purpose. I can slice, dice, sauté, fry and bake on one end while I’m repairing a lamp or stripping old paint off her grandmother’s knick knack shelf on the other. The small fragment of pork cutlet on the vice-grips or teeny weeny piece of electrical tape in the shrimp fettucine hasn’t deterred our appetites.
Any friction from such tight quarters has been extremely rare and since we both enjoy a good adventure, there are very few complaints. If however, passions do rise above an inappropriate level, we have two methods of maintaining our composure. The first is by talking to God, seeking extra strength and solace.
He is always there to listen. The second is Merle Haggard.
I’ll grab the guitar and get partially into “If We Make It Through December,” (ad lib) “we’re gonna be in a better place come summertime.” She drops her chin and eyeballs me, looking over the frames of her glasses. I’ll continue playing until she smiles or holds the stare for an extended period before I stop. I’m crazy but I’m not stupid.
