- Jun 27, 2003
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Heart's Content
by Nancy Otto Boffo
Titusville, Florida
I stuffed a folded shirt into my husbands suitcase, glad that he was leaving. Maybe a few days apart will help, I thought. Mike and our teenage son, Matthew, were driving north to my parents house in New Jersey. They would be picking up an old, run-down car for Matthew to work on, towing it back to Florida. And they would bring back Grammys old pie safe for me.
This precious family heirloom had been stored under the staircase in my grandparents basement for as long as I could remember. It had been used to hold pies and jams as they were cooling, keeping them safe from rodents and bugs. My great-grandfather had made it out of rough-hewn crates from the nursery he owned. Hand-built, simply painted, with basic window screening, it was no museum piece, but it recalled a time when people invested themselves in the home.
My grandmother had died and my grandfather was determined to distribute family mementos while he was still alive. He gave the pie safe to me. On our last two trips north we hadnt had room for it. Three feet by two feet with two screen doors, it didnt fit in a car with two adults, two children and their luggage. This trip, with an extra car, seemed the perfect opportunity to bring it to its new home.
It had been years since I had baked a pie from scratch or made fresh preserves. Both Mike and I worked, and our two children kept me busy at home. After 12-hour days running his own auto-parts store, Mike came home, ate dinner and then took out his ledger to work on the books. On weekends he helped friends with their car troubles, transforming our driveway into a service station. Of course, I appreciated his generosity-that was one of the reasons I had married him-but I wished sometimes he could be more generous with me.
I was still hurt over what had happened on Valentines Day five months earlier. After work I had bought Mike a card and a heart-shaped box of chocolates. I cooked his favorite meal, veal parmigiana with spaghetti, and set the table with candles and our fine china. When he came home, he stood awkwardly in the dining room doorway, then mumbled, Im afraid I didnt get you anything.
But-but- I stammered, its Valentines Day.
Im sorry, Nan. Ive been really busy at the store. You know I love you. He reached over to hug me, but I pulled away in anger. If you really loved me you would have taken the time to show it.
The memory pained me. Little things brought it back, like when Mike walked into the house and fussed over our dog, Suzy, before I even got a hello. Or on a Saturday afternoon when he struggled with some friends carburetor and I wished we could take a walk on the beach, just the two of us. As I snapped Mikes suitcase shut, I brooded over the incident. Lord, I prayed, help me see all the qualities that made me fall in love with my husband in the first place.
Suddenly from the bedroom I heard Mike holler, Nan, wheres the toothpaste you bought me for the trip?
I marched to the bedroom, muttering to myself, and took the toothpaste off his dresser-right where he left it-and handed it to him.
Oh . . . I didnt see it there, he said.
I went out of the room without saying a thing. For a moment I felt a pang of guilt at giving Mike the silent treatment, but I was so tired of feeling as though I did all the work around the house. Later, as we stood in the driveway, I gave Matthew a hug and Mike a cool kiss. Lingering after they drove off, I wondered if my husband had even noticed my lukewarm good-bye.
While they were gone I cleaned out closets and came across some old letters from my grandparents. I had grown up in New Jersey not far from where they lived. I spent many hours in their house, often in the basement, looking at faded photographs, going through a steamer trunk of antique clothing. Shelves of Mason jars, an old Victrola and the pie safe-they gave me a comforting feeling. Even after I moved to Florida, I loved to go back to New Jersey for visits.
As a teenager I often retreated to my grandparents house when things werent going well at school. My grandfather listened to me with an open mind. He didnt judge and he didnt put me down. Why couldnt I find the same unconditional love in Mike?
When Mike returned from his journey, I ran outside to greet him, admiring the old Chevy Nova he had towed back. But when I saw the pie safe in the car, my mouth dropped.
What happened to it? I asked. The doors were gone, half the legs were missing and those that were still there were on the floor.
You wouldnt believe what we had to go through to get it here, Mike said. We couldnt get it into the trunk and it wouldnt fit in the front seat. I even tried unbolting the seat and pushing it back, but it still wouldnt fit.
I pictured Mike struggling in the summer heat and felt a twinge of sympathy for him. I tried for two hours. After that your father suggested I come back for it another time. Someone said it was just an old piece of junk and to leave it there for garbage day.
I winced at the thought of my family heirloom sitting at the curb waiting to be hauled away.
But I knew how much it meant to you, Mike said, so we took it apart as best we could and made it fit.
He went through all that trouble for me, I thought. Sympathy deepened into something greater. This was just like my husband, generous, thoughtful, caring-caring about me. How could I have overlooked that? So cards werent his thing; he had another way of showing his love.
Love is patient, love is kind . . . it keeps no record of wrongs, says the Bible. I had been lingering too long over the wrongs. Yes, they hurt, but I was doing more damage to our marriage by mulling over them. It was time to forgive and move on.
I threw my arms around Mike and hugged him. Thank you, I whispered in his ear. Within a week the pie safe was back together and proudly displayed in the corner of our family room. I think of it as my valentine.
The above article originally appeared in the February 1996 issue of Guideposts. To subscribe to Guideposts, click here.
Submitted by Richard
by Nancy Otto Boffo
Titusville, Florida
I stuffed a folded shirt into my husbands suitcase, glad that he was leaving. Maybe a few days apart will help, I thought. Mike and our teenage son, Matthew, were driving north to my parents house in New Jersey. They would be picking up an old, run-down car for Matthew to work on, towing it back to Florida. And they would bring back Grammys old pie safe for me.
This precious family heirloom had been stored under the staircase in my grandparents basement for as long as I could remember. It had been used to hold pies and jams as they were cooling, keeping them safe from rodents and bugs. My great-grandfather had made it out of rough-hewn crates from the nursery he owned. Hand-built, simply painted, with basic window screening, it was no museum piece, but it recalled a time when people invested themselves in the home.
My grandmother had died and my grandfather was determined to distribute family mementos while he was still alive. He gave the pie safe to me. On our last two trips north we hadnt had room for it. Three feet by two feet with two screen doors, it didnt fit in a car with two adults, two children and their luggage. This trip, with an extra car, seemed the perfect opportunity to bring it to its new home.
It had been years since I had baked a pie from scratch or made fresh preserves. Both Mike and I worked, and our two children kept me busy at home. After 12-hour days running his own auto-parts store, Mike came home, ate dinner and then took out his ledger to work on the books. On weekends he helped friends with their car troubles, transforming our driveway into a service station. Of course, I appreciated his generosity-that was one of the reasons I had married him-but I wished sometimes he could be more generous with me.
I was still hurt over what had happened on Valentines Day five months earlier. After work I had bought Mike a card and a heart-shaped box of chocolates. I cooked his favorite meal, veal parmigiana with spaghetti, and set the table with candles and our fine china. When he came home, he stood awkwardly in the dining room doorway, then mumbled, Im afraid I didnt get you anything.
But-but- I stammered, its Valentines Day.
Im sorry, Nan. Ive been really busy at the store. You know I love you. He reached over to hug me, but I pulled away in anger. If you really loved me you would have taken the time to show it.
The memory pained me. Little things brought it back, like when Mike walked into the house and fussed over our dog, Suzy, before I even got a hello. Or on a Saturday afternoon when he struggled with some friends carburetor and I wished we could take a walk on the beach, just the two of us. As I snapped Mikes suitcase shut, I brooded over the incident. Lord, I prayed, help me see all the qualities that made me fall in love with my husband in the first place.
Suddenly from the bedroom I heard Mike holler, Nan, wheres the toothpaste you bought me for the trip?
I marched to the bedroom, muttering to myself, and took the toothpaste off his dresser-right where he left it-and handed it to him.
Oh . . . I didnt see it there, he said.
I went out of the room without saying a thing. For a moment I felt a pang of guilt at giving Mike the silent treatment, but I was so tired of feeling as though I did all the work around the house. Later, as we stood in the driveway, I gave Matthew a hug and Mike a cool kiss. Lingering after they drove off, I wondered if my husband had even noticed my lukewarm good-bye.
While they were gone I cleaned out closets and came across some old letters from my grandparents. I had grown up in New Jersey not far from where they lived. I spent many hours in their house, often in the basement, looking at faded photographs, going through a steamer trunk of antique clothing. Shelves of Mason jars, an old Victrola and the pie safe-they gave me a comforting feeling. Even after I moved to Florida, I loved to go back to New Jersey for visits.
As a teenager I often retreated to my grandparents house when things werent going well at school. My grandfather listened to me with an open mind. He didnt judge and he didnt put me down. Why couldnt I find the same unconditional love in Mike?
When Mike returned from his journey, I ran outside to greet him, admiring the old Chevy Nova he had towed back. But when I saw the pie safe in the car, my mouth dropped.
What happened to it? I asked. The doors were gone, half the legs were missing and those that were still there were on the floor.
You wouldnt believe what we had to go through to get it here, Mike said. We couldnt get it into the trunk and it wouldnt fit in the front seat. I even tried unbolting the seat and pushing it back, but it still wouldnt fit.
I pictured Mike struggling in the summer heat and felt a twinge of sympathy for him. I tried for two hours. After that your father suggested I come back for it another time. Someone said it was just an old piece of junk and to leave it there for garbage day.
I winced at the thought of my family heirloom sitting at the curb waiting to be hauled away.
But I knew how much it meant to you, Mike said, so we took it apart as best we could and made it fit.
He went through all that trouble for me, I thought. Sympathy deepened into something greater. This was just like my husband, generous, thoughtful, caring-caring about me. How could I have overlooked that? So cards werent his thing; he had another way of showing his love.
Love is patient, love is kind . . . it keeps no record of wrongs, says the Bible. I had been lingering too long over the wrongs. Yes, they hurt, but I was doing more damage to our marriage by mulling over them. It was time to forgive and move on.
I threw my arms around Mike and hugged him. Thank you, I whispered in his ear. Within a week the pie safe was back together and proudly displayed in the corner of our family room. I think of it as my valentine.
The above article originally appeared in the February 1996 issue of Guideposts. To subscribe to Guideposts, click here.
Submitted by Richard
