Scraps

Initially
I was once foolish enough to ask Lynne why she married me. I knew it wasn't for my good looks or money—both were sadly lacking. Sex appeal, perhaps? I wish! She said, "I married you for your name." Lynne's maiden name had been Wood and she spent so much time as a child on the wrong end of alphabetical queues that she'd have taken anybody with an initial in the first half of the alphabet.

The Gift
Its been said that I have the gift of the gab. If that's true I suspect I got the diluted version because when push comes to shove Lynne usually gets the better of me.

Once, while planning a night out, we had different opinions about where we should go. I was doing my best to persuade her that my idea was best when she held up her hand for silence. "Look," she said, "we're not going to argue about this. If we argue you'll only win. We're going to do it my way."

And we did. Against that kind of argument I had no defence.

Tandem
That's not the fastest she ever won an argument. We could have sent the next one to the Guinness Book of Records.

Lynne and I own a tandem bicycle and a couple of racing bikes, so we've spent a lot of time in the saddle. Because we live in the Blue Mountains there's always a hill to contend with.

We were riding the tandem up Lapstone Hill one day (it's about three kilometres long and leads into the Blue Mountains) and I was foolish enough to start an argument. Immediately the pedals got very heavy and a voice over my shoulder said, "I'll start pedalling again when you admit you're wrong." I think I set a world record for giving up.

Quickies
We were in bed one night, just dozing off, when I heard Lynne cough. "Gesundheit!" I said, a bit inappropriately. "I didn't sneeze, I coughed," she said. Then added, "You never listen when I cough."

Then there was the morning she walked into the lounge room twirling a pair of my undies around her finger and asked, "Are these yours, Cinderella?" It took a while before she let me off that one.

One of our kitchen chairs was broken and it stayed that way for about six years. I wouldn't fix it because I said Lynne broke it and she wouldn't fix it because she said I was responsible. I suppose it was one of those chicken-or-the-egg questions that are never going to be satisfactorily because it had broken when she hit me with it, and the argument was about whether her swing or my block had broken it.
Eventually I replaced the two screws that held the back on and returned it to the kitchen.
Far from being complimentary about my superb (if delayed) workmanship she said, "You admit you were wrong, do you?"
If I hadn't laughed so much I guess there was always the chance it could have been broken again—this time with my swing and her impact.

Bereaved
Lynne and I aren't getting any younger and a few years ago one of our sons raised a question that was obviously bothering him. He said, "Mum, what will you do if you ever lose Dad?" Her reply was immediate, "No problem," she said. "I'll buy a dog."

So far, so good, but a few months later she actually bought a dog and I'm worried that she might know something I don't . . .

George
In January a large branch of our pecan nut tree snapped in a wind storm. It was still attached to the trunk but it looked dangerous and had to come down. It was so high that I could just barely reach it to get a hand-hold, so I dragged a garden seat underneath and inched my way up the branch till I got a good hold.

Then I said, "Watch this," and, hanging tightly to the branch, jumped off the seat.

It seemed like a good idea at the time. I expected the branch to break but as soon as my feet hit the ground the thing shot straight back up—with me still clinging to it.

It threw me across the sandstone garden border and I ended up a mass of cuts and bruises.

And what was Lynne's sympathetic reaction to my pain? She pounded her chest with both fists and let out a Tarzan yell that Johnny Weissmuller would have envied.

It would have been bad enough if she left it at that but, oh no – she doesn't call me Tarzan. Until she gets tired of laughing about it I'm going to be George of the Jungle.

DNA Test?
When our youngest son was conceived I was a little surprised because I didn't think it was possible at that time. As a consequence, for years I used to tease Lynne about it with questions like, "Who was his father really? You can tell me—I'll still love him as if he was one of my own."

She took it as the joke it was intended and for fifteen years claimed she wasn't sure who his father had been until, eventually Neil (who had been aware of the banter) spoiled it himself. He joined the Army Cadets and, for the first time in his life, got a really short haircut.

And there sticking out on either side of his head were two enormous ears!

He was mine!

Married?
Lynne has always been health-conscious both from her sport and her reading. She was accepted as a mature-age student to study Occupational Therapy at Sydney University before becoming ill, first with a severe form of chronic fatigue syndrome but later with a series of trans-ischaemic attacks—a type of transient stroke.

When she was forced to quit university she took a massage course and met a guy named Greg who was about her own age. They enjoyed working together in class but also met at home to practise during the week. It didn't take long before they became good friends.

One night they were laughing about something and one of the younger, single women said, "You two get on pretty well for a married couple."

"We're married," said Lynne, "but not to each other."

The girl was amazed and said, "Hey! This marriage idea mightn't be so bad after all."

Ah well . . .

Menage a Trois?
That wasn't the only time somebody thought she was playing up. Lynne has always looked young for her age and once when she was touring the south western corner of Australia with two of our sons she, accompanied by the older of the two, went in to book a caravan for the night. The proprietor offered them the choice of two caravans.

"You'll probably prefer this one," he said. "It's got a double bed."

They looked at each other, dead pan, and Wayne said to the guy, "I don't suppose you've got one with a queen-sized bed? There's another bloke out in the car."

Engage Brain Before Opening Mouth
Chronic fatigue syndrome dominated Lynne's life for four years and on most days during that period she was unable to do anything for herself at all. Our youngest son Neil proved a dab hand in the kitchen (he's still a good cook) and I did all the housework when I got home from the office.

During that time I sometimes went jogging with a neighbour. He was fairly kind to himself and we had to take lots of rests along the way, but at least it enabled me to retain some kind of fitness. One week he suggested we go cycling instead and I told Lynne about it.

Why don't you come with us?" I asked her. "I'll pedal and you can just take a turn when you feel like it."

As it turned out she had one of her better days that day and we stopped at the top of each hill while we waited for our friend, John, to catch up. After I dropped Lynne at home he dropped his clanger. He said, "Lynne wouldn't have been able to keep up today on her own would she?"

No, mate," I said. "Women are hopeless."

I couldn't wait to tell Lynne what he said and, though it happened rarely enough during her sickness, I saw her eyes light up with mischief. "Why don't I take my racing bike next time?" she said.

It was a disaster! Lynne spun the pedals lightly as she whipped up hill after hill, stopping to wait for John while I rode beside him to keep him company.

Sick or not, he never again put himself in a position to challenge her.

It Could Happen to Anybody
Lots of jokes get made about in-laws, and having been on both sides of the situation I can understand why. I didn't get on very well with Lynne's parents—I never gained their approval and after a couple of attempts I stopped trying. We were polite to each other, but we were never friends, so her father's admission that something had gone amiss was a shock.

We were on the roof of his garage doing some repairs when he said, "I've lost my sex."

The idea that a man of his age might lose his sex wasn't surprising; the idea that he'd admit it to me was astonishing. I didn't know what to say and I thought non-committal was best. Fortunately. I said, "That's not so good."

"I had them this morning," he said, "and I've put them down somewhere and I can't find them."

That's when the penny dropped, with a very loud THUNK! He may have said "sex" but in his mind he spelt it "secs". He had lost his secateurs!

My mind goes numb at the thought of his reaction if I'd said anything personal. . .

His name was Jim and he was a very versatile man. He could make anything with his hands and some of that skill was passed down to Lynne.

But his hands hadn't always been gentle, and certainly not friendly. During the war (World War II, that is) he was an army cook in New Guinea and, to pass the time, he joined the boxing squad.

Once when he climbed into the ring he was roundly booed. He said, "I didn't deserve that and I got cranky. So I knocked the other man out."

It was only later that he found out he'd KOd the New South Wales heavyweight champion.