You know how – more often than not – what goes around comes around? Some time after the Kenneth-Genevieve unpleasantness my new husband endured, it was my turn to be blind-sided by blatant, gene-pool oddities. Yes, I neglected to ask the important question I advocated in Part 2. See? I wasn’t kidding when I said simply reading this blog means you’re getting the benefit of painfully learned lessons, minus the pain. My excuse? I was young and too naive to know I needed to ask that main pay-attention-point question in Part 2.
The Pay-Backs Story
In the early months of our marriage, we traveled several hours to my in-laws’ home in Oklahoma. Not long after we arrived, a visitor quietly arrived. Someone answered the door. Hushed greetings were exchanged. The visitor walked up the stairs of my in-laws’ split-level house and turned the corner to enter the living room door.
I, the unsuspecting newest member of the family, was sitting on the hearth, soaking up the fire, when he made his entrance. Unlike Hubby’s plunge into my gene pool, I received NO warning – not even the three-minute warning he received – of who had just entered my new in-laws’ home.
Taking up the entire doorway with his wide stance, stood a tall cowboy-ish drink of somethin’ who looked vaguely familiar, though I was certain I couldn’t possibly know him. (Did I mention my new husband was the buttoned-down-collar, penny-loafer sort?) As I checked off his cowboy-wardrobe, my mouth increasingly dropped open until I’d worked my way to an undignified, trout-mouth expression.
- Ten-gallon Stetson hat (removed, so he could fit through the door). White, of course. CHECK.
- Manly, two-day beard. CHECK.
- Cigarette (a Marlboro, perhaps?) dangling from his mouth. CHECK.
- Rolled red bandana handkerchief peeking out from his shirt collar. CHECK.
- Bolo tie (with what looked to be real–silver tips) around the shirt collar. CHECK.
- Plaid western shirt, complete with definitely fake pearl snaps. CHECK.
- Hubcap-sized belt buckle, emblazoned with Texas star. CHECK.
- Tooled leather belt with all the appropriate insignia. CHECK.
- Well-worn leather gloves. CHECK.
- Levi jeans, worn and faded. Blue, of course. CHECK.
- Pointy-toed, bull-hide, cowboy boots with the prerequisite decorative stitching. CHECK.
I’m not talkin’ texan Texan, y’all. I’m talking TEXAN Texan! The Marlboro Cowboy, incarnate!
Now, I knew how Texans looked. I’d seen plenty. I had, after all, watched the cowboy-and-Indian shows and movies that all American kids watched in the ’50s and ’60s. But this was the first time I’d seen one out of its natural habitat. Wow! Apparently, they look larger-than-life when they show up outside of Texas or even outside a Hollywood Texas set.
While I was preoccupied with the cowboy wardrobe checklist, my in-laws were occupied in greeting The Marlboro Cowboy. After checking out his wardrobe authenticity and while they were still meeting and greeting, I slunk over to the window. The Marlboro Cowboy drives an old, mud-encrusted pickup? WHAT??? He’s supposed to ride a horse. Where’s his HORSE??
Puzzled and disappointed, I sneaked back to join the in-laws and soon realized I couldn’t understand a word The Marlboro Cowboy was saying. I was pretty sure we hadn’t crossed any national boundaries on our way to my new in-laws. However, we had crossed the Mason-Dixon Line. Though it isn’t technically a national boundary, you can never be certain what might happen once you cross that line. Things are different down there. I always pray diligently each time I cross it that I’ll be able to sprint back across should they decide to close it. Don’t laugh; stranger things have happened. As I said, they do things differently down there.
But I digress.
WHAT is The Marlboro Cowboy saying? I wondered. Better yet, Why is he HERE?? And I continued to chew on those questions during his entire visit, sitting in solitude, since the conversation swirling around me was largely unintelligible.
After he left, I learned he’s Great Uncle Jesse, of course – one of my husband’s grandmother’s four brothers. “You could’ve warned me,” I hissed to Hubby, when I could do so discreetly.
“Warned you about what?”
See? This pay-backs story just proves what I’ve been saying in this Odd #17 trilogy. We each become comfortably accustomed to the more eccentric bits of our gene pool. In fact, they seem fairly normal to us, and we seldom stop to consider their effects on the uninitiated.
Hubby hadn’t meant to hide his genes, either. He simply never thought to mention, like my clan didn’t, some of the more eccentric members of his extended family. He also didn’t give a thought to the fact that his wife had grown up north of the Mason-Dixon Line, and that she would be very, very, very caught off guard by such a character. Furthermore, it never occurred to him that she wouldn’t know the secret handshake or the dialect.
I know. I know. This harmless swish into my husband’s gene pool can’t compare to his abrupt Kenneth-Genevieve shove into the shallow end of my gene pool. I can’t whine, really, especially since The Marlboro Cowboy’s visit was mercifully short, compared to the endless Kenneth-Genevieve bit of theater that Hubby endured. (Texan cowboys, it turns out, don’t have a lot to say.) I tell this story only to reinforce what I stated in Part 2 of Odd #17.
Again, in case you missed it,
here’s the pay-attention point.
ASK AS MANY QUESTIONS
AS YOU CAN
to uncover any oddballs
in your intended’s family.
Having done that, do remember they all share the same gene pool. Now, ask yourself, Do you want to jump into that pool or not, Little Missy? FYI: “till death do us part” can turn out to be an interminably long time. Think about it. I certainly have, but after the I-do part. More’s the pity.
Damage-control time: some facts have been changed –no, not to protect the innocent – to embellish the story, silly. For instance, it might have been Skoal snuff, rather than a Marlboro ciggy. Okay, maybe I tweaked a few other minor details, too. But I promise, the embellishments are just that: mere lipstick on an otherwise true-to-life story that’s meant to serve as a clear warning to all young lovers considering matrimony. Ask. Ask. Ask!
©2016, Teresa Bennett