Louisiana Voice

Occasionally, I post something as a point of personal privilege. This is one of those times.

Looking back, it seems a lifetime ago. Yet, the time seems to have zipped by before I really had a chance to take it all in.

Because Louisiana Tech is on the quarter system (the only school in the state that is), quarter break just happens to coincide with the Thanksgiving holidays. It was one evening during Thanksgiving/quarter break in 1967 that I was working part time as a bag boy at Safeway Grocery in Ruston while awaiting my grades—with some trepidation, I might add.

That evening was like every other boring day at the store (how exciting can bagging groceries be?) until I looked up and saw the three people approaching a register with their cart. One of those was a young lady who bore a striking resemblance to Mary Tyler Moore. She was, it turned out, with her sister and her brother-in-law and they were picking up a few items after visiting the women’s father who was a patient at Lincoln General Hospital.

As the other bag boys began approaching the register, I elbowed my way to the front. “I got this,” I said.

God, she was beautiful, but how to break the ice? Suddenly it came to me: ask about her grades. If she responded in a way that confirmed she was a student, chances were good that she was single. Brilliant. (It was a wonder I didn’t have women hanging all over me,)

But it worked. “Got your grades yet?” I asked as I carried her groceries to the car. Yeah, that was smooth. (Her sister Carolyn and brother-in-law Steve, seeing through my clever ploy, were hanging back, giving us a little privacy, most likely laughing at my glibness.)

“Not yet,” was her only response. Pushing my luck, I asked her name. “Betty Gray,” she said.

So far, so good. “Can I call you?”

“I guess so. I live in Simsboro. I’m listed under my dad’s name, T.R. Gray.”

Of course, being the doofus that I am, I promptly forgot her name (I’m still awful at remembering names) but my best friend, Gene Smith, had gone to school with her in Simsboro and he remembered her. I finally worked up the courage to call her in January and we went to see a simply awful movie called Fantastic Voyage at Ruston’s Dixie Theater.

Two dates later I proposed (she was simply that wonderful). She laughed at me. Two more dates and I proposed again. She accepted.

We were married on her 20^th birthday, August 23, 1968. Today is our 50^th anniversary and I can state unequivocally that they have been 50 years of a lot of highs and very few lows. For one, we have a rule to never yell or scream at each other. We can disagree without resorting to saying things we can’t take back. I like to say that Betty raised four kids: three daughters and me—and that I’m a work in progress. And I’m not too far off on that assessment. But the point is, we knew each other a grand total of nine months before we got married—and it took. I guess it demonstrates that real love is not defined by time.

I also say, jokingly, of course, that a lot of people lost money after the first year and that I even lost $20 because there was just no way she’d put up with me for that long. Somebody even had some variety of win, place and show going with odds taken on one, two or three years. I suppose bettors understand how that works.

To be perfectly honest, I spent a lot of time playing and coaching baseball, playing softball and tennis, and chasing news stories while she remained home taking care of Amy, Leah, and Jennifer. And make no mistake, the credit for their successes (Amy is a school principal, Leah a nurse supervisor and Jennifer a teacher) goes to Betty. She is their rock and to complete the picture of my perfect world, all three daughters and our seven grandchildren live within 10 miles of our house.

It don’t get no better than that.

There have been some memories that stand out more than others, to be sure. Like the time doctors thought Leah, when she was a child, might have cystic fibrosis. It turned out to be asthma, which was bad enough but at least it wasn’t cystic fibrosis.

And when Jennifer, our youngest, went into labor in Denham Springs while we were on Christmas vacation at Betty’s mom’s in Simsboro in Lincoln Parish—a mere 220 miles away. I drove like a bat out of hell to get to Woman’s Hospital in Baton Rouge for the birth of my first grandchild—on Christmas Day! We made it by a couple of hours.

When I was doing stand up comedy, I did a Christmas show for a Baton Rouge company at a local restaurant. We were in a private dining room and after my set, we sat down to eat. The company owner/president had the bright idea of going around the table (there were about 40 of us) and have each man tell how he proposed to his wife. Being one of the last ones to speak, I had time to think about it. When it was my turn, I said, “We were having dinner in a restaurant and I looked across the table at her and said…..”You’re what?”

It suddenly got very quiet at the table—until I said I was joking. But for a moment, the company president was convinced he’d had a very bad idea.

But the funniest—and most embarrassing for me—was the birth of Amy, my oldest, in 1972. We were living in Ruston at the time and when she was born, Gene Smith and I were admiring her through the nursery window. Gene, who doesn’t have the best vision, asked what I named the baby.

“Amy Michelle,” I said.

“That’s not what’s on the bassinet,” he said.

“What does it say?” I asked, moving closer to the window.

“Ruby Gail Aswell,” he said.

Unbeknownst to me, my own vision was beginning to weaken and the power of suggestion took over, especially since one of my stepmothers (I had three of them, which goes a long way in explaining why I was raised by two of the most wonderful people on earth, my grandparents) was named Ruby and I absolutely despised her.

I peered in and could barely make out the name but sure enough, there it was: “Ruby Gail Aswell.” I exploded. I went tearing through the hospital until I found Dr. Hall who had performed the delivery. Pinning him against the wall, I began screaming invectives at him and demanding to know why he took the liberty of hanging such an offensive (to me) name on my baby. He started laughing as he removed his glasses and handed them to me. “Take another look,” he said.

I have to admit the eyeglasses did help as I was able to make out “Baby Girl, Aswell” on the bassinet.

Dr. Hall was a pretty good sport about it all. He laughed about that little episode for the rest of his life. Of course, Gene did, too—and does. And he was the one who caused the whole dad-blamed misunderstanding in the first place. (But isn’t that what best friends are for?)

There are so many other memories. My daughters’ first dates, all the teenage crises, the drama (oh, the drama), the time Amy and Leah flipped our car into a ditch (they were unhurt because I’d drilled the use of seat belts into their brain but the chilling feeling you get from that call from the state trooper is something you never forget) their weddings, the births of their own children and right there with me, all the way, has been the most beautiful, most caring, most patient, most wonderful woman I have ever known or will ever have the privilege of knowing.

It’s been a terrific 50 years with the love of my life. My only regret is that we don’t have another 50 years to spend together. We just aren’t given that much time on this rock we call call earth.

But then she probably would run me off with a mean, biting dog if she thought I was going to hang around that much longer.