George Brown
By George Brown

While camping at Turkey Run State Park a few years ago Yvonne shared a sentiment that revealed a perception of me she had apparently held for a long time but which, until then, she had never expressed. I had walked to the camp store to pick up a few things and upon my return she calmly said, “I’m glad you’re not a manly man.”

As you might guess, her comment took me completely by surprise. I hesitated for a long moment trying to grasp the nuance of her not so subtle words. Finally, being fully comfortable with my manhood, I replied, “Why thank you, Honey, that is possibly the nicest thing you have ever said to me.”

Suddenly realizing her comment might have in some way called in question the potency of my rugged, sometimes even raw manhood, she quickly clarified, “Oh, I don’t mean you aren’t masculine, I’m just glad you aren’t like that man over there – as she spoke she pointed to a 30ish looking fellow two campsites over from ours. He was shirtless, revealing a chest full of dark curly hair, and he spit into the fire several time as he tended it. Then, reaching down, he picked up a can of beer and began drinking it as he used his other hand to scratch an itch slightly below his waistline.

“I see”, I said.

That was the end of our brief conversation about my manhood, though I must confess the sentiment Yvonne expressed that day has subliminally lingered in my mind, leaving a trace of doubt as to whether, after 48 years of being her able bodied provider and protector, she might still harbor uncertain feelings about my husbandly prowess.

The truth of it unexpectedly surfaced again this past weekend when I presented Yvonne with a delicious home cooked meal – something I’ve been faithfully doing three times a day since she broke her ankle five weeks ago. She was relaxing in my (former) recliner watching the Bengal’s game on our 48” TV, which, at her request, I had moved from the bedroom back to what she now refers to as the girl cave. Not that it merits mention, as though this meal was more spectacular than all the others, but it did include fresh skillet corn, garden fresh green beans with new potatoes, vine ripe tomatoes with cottage cheese, an Angus burger smothered in mushrooms and onions, and a homemade buttermilk biscuit. Oh yes, with a small vase of fresh cut flowers to cheer her spirits.

As she took the tray, Yvonne looked up at me lovingly and said, “Honey, I’m so glad you aren’t a manly man. If you were, you wouldn’t be able to cook like this.”

I just smiled and said, “Thank you, Honey. Is there anything else I can get you?”

“A cold beer later would be nice”, she replied, with her eyes now fixed on the TV instead of me.

With that, I headed off to clean the kitchen and to make sure there was an ample supply of Yuengling Light Lager in the refrigerator, but as I worked I couldn’t help but wonder whether Yvonne was right. “Maybe I’m not as much of a manly man as I’d like to think I am”, I thought to myself.

The final answer to this uncertainty became clear the very next day. After five weeks of not leaving the house except for doctor appointments Yvonne was, understandably, suffering from a severe case of cabin fever. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to go out, but the pain and discomfort of a broken ankle had limited doing so. But, finally, the pain had subsided so we made plans to have a late breakfast at Poochie’s Place in Amelia, then head to the Cincinnati Nature Center for a wheelchair hike on the accessible Discovery Trail.

Little did I know that dining at Poochie’s Place would be an omen of unfolding events. One of Yvonne’s favorite pastimes is exploring the crowded, cluttered aisles of thrift stores looking for serendipitous must have items. Knowing how much she enjoys doing so, and realizing it had been more than five long weeks since Yvonne had had her thrift store fix, I secretly planned to take her to her favorite store, the Peppermint Pig. (As some readers may know, the Peppermint Pig happens to be a clandestine cover for a dedicated group of ladies committed to the rescue of cats and dogs.)

Yvonne was both noticeably moved and excited when I pulled into the Pig’s parking lot. First we explored the book section, selecting several to purchase, including a collection of Mark Twain’s short stories for me. Then we checked out the what-not aisle that included recently displayed Christmas decorations. I selected an out-house birdhouse and Yvonne picked up some kind of Christmas thingy for one of our grandchildren.

With our treasures in hand we headed to the checkout counter; and what do you suppose we saw behind the counter – the loveliest, sweetest, most adorable little puppy a little girl with a broken ankle could ever hope to love, and love it was at first sight.

As Yvonne held him in her arms I asked, “Are you sure?”

“Yes”, she exclaimed, almost giggling. “We were meant to come here today.”

I had a momentary flashback of starting our day with breakfast at Poochie’s, and then said, “Yes, I suppose we were.”

Instead of going to the Nature Center we spent the afternoon getting puppy settled at home. While I worked Yvonne held him and contemplated ideas for a name. Quite absentmindedly (and possibly triggered by the misfire of a few subliminal neurons) I suggested, “Since he’s a male why don’t you call him, Manly?”

To my surprise, and complete chagrin, Yvonne exclaimed, “That’s perfect. I always wanted a manly man. Now I finally have one!”

As Yvonne spoke, she snuggled Manly in her arms, then she smiled and winked at me; but her wink didn’t help much. I couldn’t hide from the truth. But, alas, I had more important things to think about and do. The laundry needed folded and I still hadn’t decided what to fix for supper.

And so passed another day in the life of Lady Yvonne and the butler of Brownton Abbey.

George Brown is a freelance writer. He lives in Jackson Township with his wife Yvonne.