Cindy

In 1971 we were at the Harry S Truman airport on St. Thomas in the U.S. Virgin Islands. My father spotted an Orange Julius stand in the airport and bought one of the frothy drinks for each of us.

This event is notable for several reasons. The first is that my father was NEVER given to buying treats for the kids. A big event for us, for example, was for Mama to hand out a peppermint lifesaver to each of us at the halfway point of, say, a 2,000 mile car trip. We were grateful. He knew, at a cellular level, the difference between “wants” and “needs”.

The second reason is that I remember the look of joy in his eyes as he drank his Orange Julius and watched us do the same. I have never asked him about his motivation for such largesse. I don’t want to know. The memory must be treasured as it is.

A sidebar reason is that I learned that Harry S Truman’s middle name was “S”. It can be spelled out (“S”) or abbreviated (“S.”). He was the thirty-third president of the United States.

Recently I had a hankering for an Orange Julius. I didn’t know that Orange Julius is a franchise operation that has been in existence for about 80 years. Some Dairy Queens are licensed to sell them. It’s not unlike the Starlight Drive-In of my childhood in Lexington, Kentucky. They were licensed to sell Kentucky Fried Chicken back in the day. We would occasionally run into Colonel Harlan Sanders at the restaurant. Once he was eating alone and I asked him to join us. Years later, as a junior in high school, I became fairly well acquainted with him and even got to ride in his all white Lincoln Continental. He told me that I had “a fine countenance”.

Now I have learned about the Orange Julius franchise, thanks to the internet. I have also learned that a person named Robbie makes it her business to deconstruct famous recipes and publish them. Thus, if one has a hankering for Ruby Tuesday’s hot wings or an Egg McMuffin or Applebee’s ribs or an Orange Julius, one has merely to log on and follow the directions.

Here’s what she says to do: Put six ounces of frozen orange juice concentrate, ¼ cup of sugar, 1 cup of water, and one cup of milk in a blender along with 1 teaspoon of vanilla extract. With the blender running at medium speed add eight ice cubes, one at a time, until smooth.

Every time I see or think or write “teaspoon” I hear “cucharadita” in my head. When I served as the druggist in the jungles of Honduras for my father, most of my directions to the patients involved cucharaditas.

So last night I made Orange Juliuses (according to Robbie’s recipe) for Cindy, Hank, and me. They were a big hit, especially with Cindy.



Cindy is my biggest fan. She cheers, she looks encouraging, she does “the wave” all by herself. She gives me standing ovations most of the time. Those rare times when she doesn’t, je suis vraiment très désolée. When she realizes that she has not adequately prostrated herself while facing East, she tells me that I’m being silly.

Cindy and I met in 1973 at Sewanee, The University of the South. She was a pretty little freshman from Murfreesboro, Tennessee. I was a long-haired, pony-tailed, goofy-but-enthusiastic freshman from Lexington, Kentucky. In those days I wore glasses with remarkably large, black frames. I was trying to sprout a beard. With my hair pulled back and with the dirtiness of an under-chin beard, I looked like an ugly nun peering out from an even uglier wimple. Photographs prove that I was unattractive.

Except to her.

Do you remember the story of the woman who rushes from her house and lifts the car off her child? Alternatively, she carries a steamer trunk or grand piano from a burning building. I am married to that woman. If you are a student of the enneagram, she is a type six.

Sixes are fearful. They make lists in order that they’ll know precisely what is going to happen. They are manifestly uncomfortable with the unknown. They hate change. On the other side of the coin, however, they are capable of astonishing feats of momentary courage.

If we had married back then we would have just celebrated our thirty-fourth anniversary. As it turns out, we just marked number eleven. Sometimes I like to think it was our thirty-fourth.

Cindy quit her job, sold her house, and moved to Virginia with her twelve year old daughter Lillian. She wanted to “try out” dating me again after all those years. Imagine that.

My little girl Caroline got a mama. Lillian got a daddy. Cindy and I got each other, at last. Lillian’s biological father and Caroline’s biological mother have not been in the picture very much. Maybe that’s why the blending of our family has such a fairy-tale feel. After two years of marriage we produced Hank. He’s nine now.

Back at Sewanee Cindy knew me as Hank. Now she only calls me by that name when she’s mad at me. At times like those she often calls Hank “Chuck”. Chuck is her younger brother.

Fortunately she is not angry very often. On the contrary, most of the time she is a dispassionate, well-balanced, and serene being. On those rare occasions when she does impersonate a surface-to-air missile, the result is highly dramatic. Our elder golden retriever is deeply disturbed by these events and waddles to and fro urging everyone to calm down.

Literally and figuratively, Cindy wiggles the mouse. You have met people like this, I am sure. While studying a computer screen they will jiggle the cursor all about in what appears to be a frantic attempt to find an icon upon which to click. If one comes up behind such a person and, say, asks, “What’s up?”, the mouse wiggler will close every window and shut down the computer without answering. Some inner-voice taunts these people: “You are about to make a big mistake” the voice says.

Cindy has been known to order things from telephone solicitors just to get them off the phone. We once got a two year subscription to “deal a meal” cards in such a way. When taken by surprise her reactions are unpredictable.

That’s why it’s fun to sneak up behind her and simply stand still. This little episode can be played out when she’s getting clothes out of the dryer, putting dishes in the cabinet, or any other time when she’s standing. It doesn’t work if she’s sitting down.

Her great grandmother, Lillian Carter, crossed the Cumberland Gap in a covered wagon. As such she comes from strong pioneer stock. She is a strong woman. When I stand quietly behind her, the discovery of my being results in a rapid series of mini-scenes. If you imagine the strobe lights of Stone Mountain, Georgia, causing the saints of the Confederacy to appear to be riding across the granite, then you’ll get the picture.

First she balls up a fist or brandishes the laundry measuring cup in a menacing posture. Next she’ll curse like sailor. Finally she will actually and physically attempt to harm me.

I never tire of this event.

Cindy likes me because. She loves me although. She is the only person I have ever met who can take repeated teasing with grace. On the other hand, she is hard of hearing, so maybe she just doesn’t hear the teasing. We would never have had our daughters if we had married way back then. And what would we do without them now? Their little brother adores them; they return the favor. What a mystery life is! Cindy sets the tone.

The other night we were lying in bed. She said, “I just can’t believe I’m married to Hank Selby.” She wasn’t mad at me then. I think she was remembering our college years and celebrating our thirty-fourth anniversary.