September has been a banner month for my husband. In addition to the annual September happenings that make him happy – cooler temperatures and squash season – several new ones have him smiling, too.
First, on the happy list are the blossoms on the trumpet vines he planted two summers ago. After two years of tender and slightly obsessive care, not to mention hours of head rubbing (the gardner’s nervous habit) and yards of chicken wire to ward off hungry dear in the winter, the vines on our pergola are blooming.
Second on the list is the new-fangled watch, formerly on the hubby’s want list and now on his wrist. It’s a special runner’s watch – think of a Get Smart gadget on steroids. Not that the husband is on steroids. No, no, no, not my Pa Ingalls who refuses all drugs, including aspirin, and help from neighbors, even though that nice Mr. Edwards down the way would love to help build our cabin and share his nails.
But I digress. Back to the watch which does everything a runner’s heart desires. It keeps track of time and distance and who knows what else? It even comes with a website, which Hiram showed to his co-workers who are also runners (not while they had patients, mind you), and now they all want a watch like his.
However, the trumpet vine blossoms and the bells-and-whistles watch pale in comparison to the third item on Hiram’s happy list: Sudoku puzzles. Believe it or not, the man did not know about them until July 30, 2010. I was aware of the cursed things, and though I never actively hid their existence from him, I never drew attention to them either. Why? Because I knew their nasty den of rows, columns, and numbers (Can there be a more repugnant combination? Only if one ate asparagus while solving them.) would lure him into their nasty den the minute he saw them.
I was right. Ever since he learned about them at a family reunion – that’s the last time he’s going to on my side of the family – he’s been hooked. He works on them for hours, carries the little book wherever he goes, and dates the ones he solves. If I need to find him, I just follow the trail of eraser crumbs. And at the end of the trail, what do I see?
A man, fit and trim at 54, with all the hair rubbed off the top of his head. He’s smiling, always smiling, clutching a book full of rows, columns and numbers close to his chest. He is one happy, happy man.
What’s not to love about a guy like that?
