The Husband Who Cried Wifely Request

No, this is not Sheryl's. It's my own M44, much shorter, but the same basic thing. We don't have pictures of hers yet.

Sheryl turned IL today. That could also be written XXXXIX. She doesn't read Roman numerals, so I should be safe here. Anyway, it was her birthday. A few weeks ago she made it very plain that she wanted a firearm for either Christmas or her birthday. Yes, I know what you're thinking. We're far too broke to buy such extravagant toys. And normally you'd be right. But sometimes stores like Big 5 (spelled V Magnum in Latin, I believe) and CAL (generally not spelled at all in Latin) will have special deals, ridiculously special deals, on certain historic military firerams in order to get people into the store. And we are certainly people!

She was very specific as to which historic firearm she wanted. CAL was selling model 1891/30 Mosin-Nagant battle rifles for a wonderful price which made it almost affordable. I spent the last couple of weeks mentioning to her things like report and recoil. Still she insisted that this was what she wanted. She knows perfectly well that her husband is able to make "reduced loads" which will render both its bark and its bite much more tolerable.

Long story short, I bought it for her yesterday. "But," I hear you ask, "How did you do that when you're so broke all the time?" Well you see, there are these credit cards which come to our house a few times per month, offering us the opportunity to become indebted to people with whom we have not even been properly introduced. Our habitual behavor heretofore has been to tear or cut them up carefully and put them in the trash. But this time we said to ourselves, "Selves! You know we've been pretty good for a long time?" "Yes, we have," we were forced to agree. "And Christmas is coming soon, did you know that?" Again, the truth of this argument could not be denied. "Perhaps we could use this card to get a few things for Christmas." This idea siezed control of our erstwhile rational thought process, and soon we were buying groceries and Russian battle rifles with the darn thing as though we were real people; almost as if we had a right to some happiness. It's truly frightening how seductive a tiny piece of plastic can be.

And so, after a few more purchases, we'll be even further in debt than we already were and we'll be wondering how it happened. That's why I'm writing this record. I'll be able to look back and see precisely when and where we went so wrong when it felt so right.

Another thing to remember! Sheryl asked for this. I did not hint at it in the slightest degree. I know there are those of you out there who believe that the chances of a XXXXVIII year old wife actually expressing a desire to have something like this are somewhere between slim and none, and Slim just left town. But it's all true. Some day, at the bar of judgment, during the great video tape in the sky, when our unrepented sins are being shouted from the roof tops (I really dread that part.) you will see that I told this story exactly as it happened. Then you'll say, "Imagine! Jim got to buy a firearm for his eternal companion and didn't even have to persuade her to want it! If I hadn't seen it with my own glorified, perfected, resurrected eyes, I'd have never believed it." Then I'll smile rather smugly just before having the smile wiped from my face by a public recitation of all the terrible things I did in this life but forgot to repent of. And yes, I know I ended that last sentence with a preposition, but I'm just too tired to care.

A Few Reasons I'm Proud of my Wife

During the successful part of my life I enjoyed a kind of raw glory, giving my all to teaching and getting lots of praise and admiration in return. I loved this, especially since the money was a real joke.

Some people don't get very much open praise or public acclaim, but they contribute hugely to society and to their own families. My wife Sheryl is such a person.

You know how a car can look kind of nice but not like it's an amazing performer and you might not take it too seriously until it suddenly lays several feet of rubber in the intersection, makes a sound like the Battle of Jutland, and disappears in a fog bank of its own smoke? We used to call such a car "a sleeper." Sheryl is sort of a sleeper.

Sure, she's nice to talk to and always seems mild and easy going. But her talents are amazing and they're of very important types.

I'm not just computer illiterate, I'm computer handicapped. Sheryl once took a class in which the requirement to pass was to build three (3) computers with your own hands. And she aced the class. Watchng her at work on a computer is not only amazing but a little humbling. It's sort of like watching one of the Tabernacle organists at work, all four limbs blurred in a constant frenzy of seemingly pointless activity until suddenly the computer jumps down from the table, does a pirouette, sings a chorus of "Everything's Coming Up Roses," and produces fifty copies of Moby Dick, complete with Melville's signature and a free harpoon for the first 20 customers.

On two occasions since we got married I have found myself in the unenviable position of having to teach a class to fellow students/teachers by the use of a - shudder - computer! My first response to such an assignment was a long reverie on how to hide the professor's body. After being reminded about that one pesky commandment, I then began to recite some perfectly truthful things about me and computers, such as the fact that they always smile malignantly when I walk into a room. I mentioned that they had often plotted my personal destruction and that I was simply not the computer type. "Give me a piece of chalk," I boasted, "and a couple of hours and I can make you understand and remember how World War I started. I don't need no stinking computer!" Curiously, my speech had taken on a sort of Mexican accent by the time I finished.

Sheryl, however, said that all I had to do was plan my lesson and she could make the computer part go well and look good. "We'll just put it on a __(Jump Drive and put in the USB port)__," she said. Yes, I did notice that there was a blank there just now. You see, that's because its a computer term. It's this little thing sort of like a key ring that you stick into the side of the computer. It's a two or three word term which includes the word "port." Port key? No, no. That's what makes you fly from the Weasley's neighborhood to the quidditch finals. Iron Port? No, no. That's a Coke that you mix with Cherry syrup. Portabella? Ma, no! Questo e' un tipo di fungo! Roba da matti!

Well, anyway, it's got the word port in it.

And sure enough, she made it all go well. In both classes I got applause from unsuspecting people who thought I knew what I was doing, heh, heh, heh.

She can also shoot quite well. And I don't just mean popping water bottles and skipping rocks across the desert, although she can do those things, too. She's a serious group shooter. See the picture? Huh? Huh? Not bad, eh?

Perhaps her most important talent is Sheryl's ability to calm and reassure little children. This ability also extends to small animals and ruffled husbands.

When we lived in the Chubbuck Eleventh Ward, Bishop Dredge called us into his office one night and asked Sheryl to be the Sunbeam teacher. I've seen grown men cry and run in frenzied circles at the thought of such an assignment. But Sheryl brightened and said, "Oh, goodie! I love to teach Sunbeams. I was afraid you were going to ask me to do something hard."

I placed my wrist gently on Sheryl's forehead. No obvious fever. She was clearly overjoyed, though, and Bishop Dredge, a veterinarian by profession, rolled his chair a little closer to the corner where stood his trusty tranquilizer rifle. She assured us that she was quite sincere. Everything would be fine.

On her first day teaching the Sunbeams, Sheryl asked me to slip out of the High Priests group at a certain time and help her to photograph each of her tiny charges. Here are a few resulting portraits. Most seemed to love the attention and their pictures looked great. But there was one tiny little girl whose lip trembled at the thought of having a camera pointed at her. Just being in Primary was a kind of endurance test for her. I sort of sneaked a picture of her and left, thinking that life was going to be too much for that particular child.

Less than six months later, on Fast Sunday, the little doll's father stood up and tearfully expressed his love and his wife's for "dear, sweet Sister Haeberle." The timid little creature now ran to get to Primary and talked constantly at home of all the wonderful things Sister Haeberle did and said. (Kaybree)

My pride is of the justifiable kind.