Today’s column is a story about one woman, one man and a force which will bind them together, for eternity.
After completing a drawn out, nasty and vindictive divorce, Michelle found herself in a bad state. She had devoted 28 years to a husband who had never matured. It was as if, like an apple pie put into the oven, he had come out only half baked — selfish, quick to anger, unable to sacrifice for his family. Michelle, now 48, found herself stuck in a life composed of an endless string of lonely, hollow and painful days. When her sleep became broken and she could not stop crying, her physician referred her for treatment of a clinical depression.
First office visit: “Have you ever heard of cannon fodder?” she asked. My son, who is an army captain, told me that I should start dating, but only for practice. He said that 100 years ago, newly made artillery cannons were field tested by stuffing their barrels with hay, or fodder, and then one practice charge was fired. This was a test to see if the new cannon could handle the explosive charge. My son told me to pretend that the dates I went on were just cannon fodder. So, here is a record of how my tests have gone: Man 1: He thought it was cool to show me how his pet python ate little bitty mice, live mice. Ugh! Man 2: Tried to kiss me, on the lips, after just meeting me. Ugh, ugh! Man 3: Brag, brag, look at my new Corvette and my big biceps, ugh, ugh, ugh! Michelle was advised to hang on to her hope of finding a good man, and to take a very specific college class.
Office visit 2: “I did it. I’m the sole female in a class of 39 men.” She had enrolled in “Intro to Auto Mechanics.”
Ben never believed he could become such a wreck. He was alone, bitter and angry. At 49, his life was a dried-out husk with the sustaining core gone. His wife had lost a cruel battle with cancer and had died — he hung on by a thin thread of hope which told him: don’t give up, there is a woman out there, somewhere ... Ben decided he needed professional help, after his son found him passed out from an alcohol binge.
Office visit 1: “When my wife died, I died with her. Could I ever love another woman?”
Office visit 2: “I did what you advised, and guess what? I’m the only man swimming in a sea of women.” Ben had enrolled in a college class called “Scrapbooking.”
Then something happened which should not have happened, and the world tilted.
Two months later: Michelle’s class had just begun when she heard the ear-splitting wail of a fire alarm. “Students, calmly proceed to the stairwell and exit the building,” her teacher ordered. Michelle and her class, now outside on the lawn, watched black smoke billow out of the second-floor windows. She noticed another class of students pouring out of the building. Like cattle being rounded up, the two groups of students were jostled and pressed together, causing Ben to lose his balance and drop his scrapbook. An attractive woman bent down and retrieved his book, which had opened to a large photo of a small boy standing next to a tractor. Sitting in the seat of the tractor, high up, was a man with a small grinning girl, on his lap.
Ben watched as a wide-eyed look spread over this woman’s face. She then asked him, “Do you know who this is?” “Sure,” he replied. “I’m the boy here, and the man on the tractor sold and serviced farm equipment for my dad.” “No,” Michelle said, “That’s not what I meant. The girl on the tractor there (she pointed with her finger) is me.”
Brought together by a single photograph, Ben and Michelle become close friends and closer lovers. Before 12 months had passed, they were married. Fate, luck, coincidence, destiny? No, this power goes by another name.
That which outshines the sparkle of a diamond, sustains us more than the taste of a cool spring water or freshly baked bread; that which binds our hearts deepest desire, to the very fabric of our future, and which may dim but never die. Hope, the healer of life’s deepest cuts, the giver of the strength, so we can bear life’s deepest pains.
Michelle changed the oil on Ben’s truck, and Ben made a scrapbook of Michelle’s family. Did they ever reveal the reason they had taken a college class?
The content of this article is for educational purposes only and should not be used as a substitute for treatment by a professional. The characters in this story are not real. Names and details have been changed to protect confidentiality.
Dr. Richard Elghammer contributes his column each week to the Journal Review.
