There may be among
you fair readers, one or two who will recall a confessional essay in that first
book of mine, Notes from an Old Fly Book in which I write about our being up on
the ridge of the range, in the second month of our marriage, now sixty-six
years ago, fishing with two of my good angling friends. When, around our small campfire, I began to
behave quite badly. Betty would have none of it and, picking up a heavy iron
cup, whanged me on the side of the head, leaving me to struggle for
consciousness.
My behavior was
modified on the instant, and I, at once, became the model husband that I have
remained ever since.
Now, so many years
later, I occasionally find myself stopped in the street by this or that lady of
a certain age who has heard my story and wonders if whacking her husband a good one, as Betty had
done, would aid in her marriage problems.
I almost always
recommend against it, explaining that the “discipline of the cup” must be
administered no later than in the third month of a new marriage-- if any good
is to come of it.
I try to explain
that deeper into a marriage, whanging does little if any good and is not worth
the effort. I advise the ladies to bear up and try to be content with us old husbands
who are, generally speaking, a pretty sorry lot—and there not being much anyone
can do about it.
