As is my style, I strolled into the family gathering at my sister’s house about 45 minutes late. From across the large room, my wife cast a sideways glance my way that exuded equal parts relief and disdain. The mental darts she hurled my way clearly found their mark as I vainly and frantically sorted through the emergency toolbox in the seldom-used part of my consciousness, searching for even the tiniest bit of charm. All I could come up with was a slight grin that could be more accurately classified as sheepish than charming. My tardiness, though brought on by the best of intentions, had once again resulted in my undoing.
Two hours earlier, my wife had admonished me as I left the house to finish up the feeding for the day, to keep my ducks in a row so I could make it to the gathering in a timely manner. The purpose, after all, for which my side of the family was gathering was my birthday. I should note that I felt I should only bear a third of the celebratory burden since it was New Year’s Eve and my twin sister was in town for the occasion as well. All my justifications notwithstanding, I knew I was under a mandate to adhere to a minimum standard of punctuality, which was apparently far above my ability to meet.
In an honest effort to meet the deadlines my wife had given me, I thought I’d be able to cut a few corners and, with a little luck, even be ahead of schedule. I needed to check a water trough at the far end of a 200-acre pasture where I’d fed a group of about 300 cows. I hopped out of the pickup, swung the gate wide and drove through the 5-metre gap. There wasn’t a cow within a half-kilometre of the gate, so naturally, I ignored the more sensible of choices and kept right on going, confident in the fallacy that just this one time I could leave the gate open without any of the obvious consequences that usually follow an ill-advised “time-saving” scheme where cows are involved. An hour-and-a-half later, and with my weekly quota of cussing easily met, I closed the gate and rushed home to clean up and head to the festivities.
Since my wife is not a terribly vengeful personality, I knew that with the aid of time and conviviality, her ire would dull, and my charm and wit would sharpen. I made my way to a table where several members of my extended family were engaged in what appeared to be a robust and jovial conversation.
My sister was entertaining the little group with stories of a dear friend of hers who lived in a constant state of thriftiness, jolliness and absentmindedness. It seems this particular friend, though well aware of her often idiosyncratic behaviour, just couldn’t help but persist with her actions, if for no other reason than it made for good stories at parties. For instance, her truck driver/farmer husband, who loathed tuna, had to live off tuna fish sandwiches for a month because she’d gotten a screaming deal on canned tuna at a case-lot sale. Along the same logic lines, she continued to use a certain type of skin moisturizer, even though it gave her a rash every time she used it, her reasoning being that she’d paid good money for the five bottles of the stuff, so she dang sure wasn’t going to throw it away.
Since she was on a roll, my sister continued on with a story or two about herself, my favourite of which was about the time her 3-year-old granddaughter turned her pet hamster out of its cage while she was visiting Grandma. My sister, who has wildly irrational fears of anything remotely related to rodents, was frantic, for several reasons, as she bravely searched the house for the stray pet. As she was taking a pensive look behind the couch in the living room, she heard a loud snap from the kitchen. She tiptoed to the doorway and stole a peek around the corner. Sure enough, there was the wayward hamster, wayward no more. He’d come to his demise in the mousetrap behind the refrigerator. I’m not sure what half-truth was used to console the granddaughter, but I believe that ended the days of hamster ranching at Grandma’s house.
As the evening and the year drew to a close, my wife had nearly come to a position of forgiveness for my leaving her alone with the in-laws as she gave me a New Year’s peck on the cheek. All would be well until my next blunder, which was surely not far off in the future. I was sure to soon leave another gate open or forget to tell her about some meeting or event. But for now, we were all a little wiser. Just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should. Still, not every “bright idea” is a bad idea, and sometimes the cows don’t find the gate.
At the very least, I’ll have a story for the next birthday party.
