When Surprises Turn Out Well...

Well, the ten inches of snow did not materialize, and I knew hunting season was about to begin, so I went to see Louis on Sunday. It was a surprise visit, so I didn’t know how he’d take it—he doesn’t like surprises any more than I do—but it turned out fine. He said he had an inkling I was on my way when he called at ten and I wasn’t home, but then he told himself, “Naw, she wouldn’t do that.”

She did. Meanwhile, I had my cell phone in my lap, and was hoping once he didn’t catch me at home, he’d call the cell phone so I could give him at least a few minutes warning.

He didn’t.

We had fun anyway. A short visit, only three hours, but well worth the drive. As you know, I have been feeling a bit under the weather for the past few weeks, with something I not-so-affectionately call “The Crud.” People have been emailing to ask what that is, so here goes: It’s that yucky, phlegmy sinus drainage that makes you cough every time you talk or after you eat, and if you’re a menopausal woman like me, the cough it causes, causes other consequences.

It’s also hard to sleep at night because of the drainage and you need to keep your throat lubricated, because if you don’t it can evolve into that dry tickle cough that just won’t quit. (I much prefer the deep, wet coughs that make you sound a lot more sick than you are. At least then you know things are moving, and there’s a chance of getting better soon.)

Overall, you just feel cruddy. It’s not enough to send you to the doctor, but it’s annoying and persistent and inconvenient and wears you down after a while.

I’m on the tail end of my case of it. So yesterday, while we’re talking, I feel a cough coming on, and turn my head and grab a napkin and cough into it, a nice long, full, wet one. I then set the napkin aside, and turn to find Louis looking at me in disgusted horror.

“Don’t worry, it’s not contagious,” I said. To which he replied, “Germs are germs.”

You know how he feels about germs.

I don’t want to make fun because he has at least 2300 valid reasons for wanting to avoid germs, but still, the look on his face was priceless.

When my son was little, he would use me as a human napkin. Everything he touched or ate ended up being wiped off on my sleeves, because he liked to touch my arm constantly when he talked (“Look, Mama, look!”), especially in restaurants.

Finally I gave up and stopped wearing anything that I didn’t want permanently stained. I figured it was more important to listen to what my son had to say than to look spotless, a decision I’ve never regretted making.

Anyway, once, when my son was with me, Louis did something, maybe he pretended to cough or sneeze on something, teasing my son as he passed over some food, maybe a bag of chips or candy my son wanted, the implication being that Louis wanted it and was going to make it so that my son didn’t want it any more, and without missing a beat, my son accepted the package, then wiped his hand on Louis’s sleeve, like he used to do to me.

Louis nearly shot out of his seat. It was so funny.

My son and I cracked up. Once I stopped laughing, I remember saying, “It’s obvious you were never a mom.”

We talked about the hunters, and why I refuse to visit him during deer hunting season. Louis, who is afraid of nothing, is taking this on as his new challenge, trying to talk me out of this seemingly irrational fear. He’s never heard of such a thing. People drive during deer hunting season all the time. Hundreds of people will have to drive on those same roads to get to work tomorrow, he says.

To which I said, “For which they are getting paid. I don’t have to come here.”

So he’s been asking around, and finding out that yes, the deer do tend to go somewhat crazy during deer season, especially the first week, and it’s not the best idea to be driving through the forest if you don’t have to be.

And the hunters were out in full force from what I could see. The local sportsman’s club was advertising a Hunters Party. The local motels had signs saying Hunters Welcome. Every watering hole within 45 minutes of leaving Louis had a parking lot packed with SUVs (then I started getting closer to bigger towns and less forest). Guys with down vests and plaid shirts congregated everywhere. Hunting camps I’d never before seen a car or truck at were occupied, smoke rising from the chimneys. The State Police were out in full force, stopping speeders left and right.

No, this is not an environment I care to casually go driving through next week, or the next, or the next.

Anyway, back to the visit. I like to tell Louis about how my son, when he’s been gone from home for a while, or I’ve been away and we’ve both been gone, will often walk in the door and start talking, and sometimes not stop talking for hours. Never mind that I might have been in the middle of doing something before he arrived. He has now arrived and wants my full attention. Which I am happy to provide because I adore him.

But I still think it’s funny that it clearly never occurs to him that I wasn’t just sitting there waiting for him to come home and take over my day.

So yesterday Louis tries to make that same analogy, comparing my visits to him to my son’s walking in the door at home and casually assuming I will drop whatever I am doing to sit and listen to him for however long he feels like talking. Especially an unexpected visit, like yesterday’s.

To which I just smiled and settled in deeper and said, “That’s right.”

And then I started talking.