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“In 1878, Charles Freeman was committed to Danvers Lunatic Hospital for the murder of his youngest child,” the sound system in my husband’s car blared as we drove away from our house to run errands.
“Murder again?” I said to Francis, who had been listening to audio books about heinous crimes a lot lately. It seemed that every time I rode as a passenger in his car, I was welcomed not with music or news or podcasts, but with detailed descriptions of disturbing real-life murders.
This wasn’t exactly the pick-me-up I needed on a frigid April morning.
“I’ve been listening to a biography on President McKinley,” my husband defended himself, “but I needed a break, so I found another audiobook about famous murderers.”
I accepted my husband’s eccentric habits — the poor guy does have long commutes to and from work across the border in Connecticut every week — and settled in for the ride, hoping that looking out at the half-bloomed daffodils and the nesting Canada geese would lighten my mood.
“Hmm,” a delayed thought suddenly occurred to me. “Danvers Lunatic Hospital … I wonder what the origins of the word ‘lunatic’ are?” I said half to myself while staring out the window.
“Moon,” Francis immediately responded, with a tone that implied that the answer to my question was an obvious one. “Luna means moon,” he added, sniffing with intellectual superiority.
“Well, of course, I know that luna means moon.” I was now on the defense. “I was asking why the word for moon was ever associated with people with mental illness. Like, was it once believed that mentally ill people howled at the moon or something?” I clarified, intending to finally, once and for all, prove to my husband of 33 years that I am not, in fact, an idiot.
“I’m sure the word comes from the belief that different phases of the moon made people go crazy,” Francis said confidently, as if he was educating his simpleton wife on sociology, human history and etymology.
I stared over at Francis where he sat in the driver’s seat. His eyebrows were arched upward, demonstrating his satisfaction with his place in the world. His chin was in the air, showing pride in the vast knowledge he’d gained from 28 years of active duty military service, extensive world travel and a post-military-retirement career in corporate security. His hand was draped leisurely over the steering wheel of his imported car, clearly indicating Francis’ belief that, in his quest for success in life, he had most definitely arrived.
Our marriage flashed before my eyes. All the years that I neglected my law career to follow my Navy husband and raise our three children. Every promotion I attended, truly proud of Francis’ earned accolades. That time when our kids were teenagers, and I found out they didn’t know I ever had a law career, or a brain, for that matter. And Francis’ retirement ceremony, when the pomp and circumstance was worthy of someone who’d reached celebrity status.
“It must be so nice,” I said, breaking the silence with a bit of playful banter, “to be so completely certain that you are smarter than your wife.”
“You know I don’t think I’m smarter than you,” Francis said, tsking at my silliness.
“But you believed that I didn’t know that luna means moon?” I said, incredulous.
“Well, I, I …” Francis stuttered.
A half hour later, we were in the midst of buying a new washing machine at Home Depot. Francis stood by with our credit card poised for the purchase, while I sorted out all the details with the Home Depot agent. Unlike most traditional marriages, I had always been the handyman of the family. I used the tools, installed the light fixtures, assembled the cribs and fixed the broken stuff. So, I was in charge of picking the appliances.
Researching online to answer a question I had about an LG washer-dryer combo unit, the agent poked at her keyboard and reported, “Here it is. The LG website says yes — you can wash and dry clothes simultaneously.”
“Honey,” Francis whispered, tapping me on the shoulder with a mischievous grin, “simultaneously … that means at the same time.”
Read more at themeatandpotatoesoflife.com and in Lisa’s book, “The Meat and Potatoes of Life: My True Lit Com.” Email: meatandpotatoesoflife@gmail.com
