Happy Hot Tuesday, My Friend!
It seems hotter than normal everywhere, so I can officially say “happy hot Tuesday,” and it applies wherever you live!
Kevin and I just got home from a quick visit to Wisconsin. It was his 50th high school class reunion. It was fun, but there were sure a lot of “old people” there. (I can say that because I’m a whopping two years younger than him.) Two conversations made an impression on me while at the celebration—I heard two very opposing views of my dear husband.
OK, here’s perspective numero uno: Kevin and I were standing in the room, the first to arrive of his close bunch of friends. People were slowly filing in through the doors, making nametags, checking that their contact information was correct, and getting something to drink. As we stood there talking, a woman marched up to my husband, her own husband in tow, and pointed at Kevin. “You!” she said, half-smiling, half-looking as if she might slap him, “Do you remember throwing spitballs in my hair for four solid years?” Kevin, never one to be at a loss for words, lost his words. She went on, “Spitballs, paper airplanes, whatever you could throw in my hair! You sat behind me every year in homeroom and wouldn’t stop!” Kevin had zero recollection of this behavior.
She even said she’d talked to her grandchildren about bullying and how wrong it was. Did anyone ever bully you, Grandma? they asked her. And she let them know that, yes, there was this guy who bothered her every day of high school, in her homeroom. She informed her grandkids she was going to see him at their upcoming class reunion, and she was going to give him the “what for.” And, by golly, she did! As I said, all the while half smiling, we wondered Is she still mad? 50 years later? Her husband stood back and commented, “She’s got a really long memory.”
“Oh! And he also used to draw kissing fish on the blackboard! Every day!” OK, I had doubted her before, but this just didn’t compute. The man does not draw. I mean, Kevin is no saint (pretty close, though), but spitting spitballs into a girl’s hair every day for four years just doesn’t sound like him. From what I know, and I’ve known him for about 46 years, he’d be the one to tell the spitter to “knock it off” or “quit being a jerk.” Kevin insisted on his innocence throughout her accusations, but she was bound and determined it was him. She would not be moved.
Her maiden name is a couple of letters away from Thomas, and Kevin knew there were lots of kids in between, so the business of “sitting right behind her” didn’t add up. When Kevin’s closest friend arrived, and we relayed the whole story of Kevin’s apparent harassing behavior, his friend backed him up: “That wasn’t your personality,” he said, “She must have you mixed up with someone else.” As the evening progressed, Kevin’s innocence was established when they looked through an old yearbook and realized that, because of the number of kids in their class and the way they broke up the alphabet, they were never even in the same homeroom. It was not my husband spit-balling her hair or drawing kissing fish.
So, perspective numero dos: After the great spitball/kissing fish debacle, I was then talking to one of Kevin’s very good friends. I don’t know exactly how we got to this subject; maybe I mentioned that I didn’t think Kevin was ever going to retire. Most of his friends have by now, but Kevin still really loves his work. This friend looked thoughtful for a second and then started to tell me how much he admired Kevin. That there’s no one with a work ethic like him, and how even as busy as he is, he’d always help out a friend who needed it. He said even though my husband had enjoyed a successful career, he never let it go to his head. Geesh, I thought we were both going to end up crying in a minute. (Kevin wasn’t there for this conversation. He was chatting with other classmates.)
OK, this person really knows who he’s talking about—he knew the truth. This friend had a 180-degree different opinion about Kevin than the woman who thought Kevin bullied her all those years ago.
All this makes me think about what different people believe to be “true.” There are endless “versions” of truth to be had in the world; it’s hard to know what to believe. Does ThisStation tell the actual true news? Or is it ThatStation? Or neither? Should we believe ThisGuy or ThatGuy? One of my simplest daily prayers is, “God, please let me know the truth.” And that applies to any situation that comes up on any given day.
Somewhere out there is a graduate of the class of 1976 in West Bend, Wisconsin, who got away with spitting wads of paper into a female classmate’s hair for four years. But I know my husband, and it wasn’t him.
And that’s the truth!
Written with love – – – Patti XOXO
PS – Next week will mark a full five years of writing to you! I’ve decided to switch to a monthly letter. Maybe you’ll miss me more if you don’t hear from me as often! I’ll write next week, and then I’ll send you a letter on the last Tuesday of each month! Thanks for reading my letters!