Before we married, my ex gave me a cactus plant, prickly thing that would cause you an abrasion just by looking at it. I watered it infrequently—which is what you are meant to do—kept it by a sunny window, even fertilized it in the winter months. But I’ll tell you what, the plant had it out for me from the get-go. Once I simply brushed my palm on the bench where it lived and ended up with five spines in my paddy paw. I should have recognized it as an omen, a portent or warning, but we all know what hindsight is. Cacti are meant to stand the test of time. That’s one of their primary assets. And, boy, this one did. It lived on and on. Lived past my mother. But that is another story.
We rented a house on a dirt road where only the infrequent car passed. There were cows and pigs and a pond. There was hay to get up in summer and livestock to feed in winter. That was part of the deal. And good thing we had those tasks, that distraction, so we could avoid the truth. There was a coal stove to stoke and water pipes to thaw each January. Our landlord, Jacob Elwood Hall, kept his garden just feet from our house and, in his eighties, showed us how hard work can heal many a wound, a lesson we would need dearly when our son and daughter were born. Many days we got along fine. We respected each other. But something between us was brittle and irreconcilable. We differed in the most fundamental ways.
When I think of our marriage, what comes to mind is Handel’s composition of the Royal Fireworks. He wrote it for a celebration marking the end of The War of the Austrian Succession. At King George’s request, it had no stringed instruments. In their place were nine trumpets, nine horns, 24 oboes, and 12 bassoons. On the day of the event, it rained, and the fireworks ran amok, shot off at the wrong times and in unintended directions. One stray rocket even set an onlooker’s gown ablaze. What brings these two upheavals together is neither was planned for. However, as with all failed experiments, we learned something vital. And ended up with wondrous creations. Now we have Handel’s instrumental virtuosity.
And he and I brought two astounding human beings into the world. We nurtured them. We parted ways before too much harm was done. Sure, we could have had a better time. But isn’t that so often the case? You ask about the cactus plant? Still have it.
