HENRY SAYS:
“Marriage is the solitary thing in Life that has turned out the way they’ve always told us it could.”
INTRODUCTION:
Never having given any thought to marriage, and having no real hope of finding a good wife anyway, it
probably seems a bit unfair that I should end up with, quite possibly, the greatest wife any man has ever had
in the entire history of marriage. I cannot deny the injustice in that, but, it really is not my doing. Despite
myself, and against all odds, I now find myself married and as happy as a man of my particular temperament
can possibly be.
I cannot tell you how that came about, but I can tell you this much, being married to the right woman is the
best thing that can happen to any man. Believe me. It just makes so many things so much easier; it makes the
unbearable nearly bearable and, with any luck at all, it elevates the man. It may even have elevated me a bit. I’
ve written this book in an attempt to prove that. Unfortunately, it probably only proves that I am not the
excellent husband my truly excellent wife deserves. Admittedly, I am merely a very very good husband.
Nonetheless, I am now a respectable guy, and that’s sayin’ somethin’. The odds against that ever happening
were pretty good.
“Marriage is the solitary thing in Life that has turned out the way they’ve always told us it could.”
INTRODUCTION:
Never having given any thought to marriage, and having no real hope of finding a good wife anyway, it
probably seems a bit unfair that I should end up with, quite possibly, the greatest wife any man has ever had
in the entire history of marriage. I cannot deny the injustice in that, but, it really is not my doing. Despite
myself, and against all odds, I now find myself married and as happy as a man of my particular temperament
can possibly be.
I cannot tell you how that came about, but I can tell you this much, being married to the right woman is the
best thing that can happen to any man. Believe me. It just makes so many things so much easier; it makes the
unbearable nearly bearable and, with any luck at all, it elevates the man. It may even have elevated me a bit. I’
ve written this book in an attempt to prove that. Unfortunately, it probably only proves that I am not the
excellent husband my truly excellent wife deserves. Admittedly, I am merely a very very good husband.
Nonetheless, I am now a respectable guy, and that’s sayin’ somethin’. The odds against that ever happening
were pretty good.
FINGER PICKING
You know, one Spring day my very dear wife and I were walking
along in Golden Gate Park—knowing us, we probably had a brace
of dogs straining on ahead—and I was trying to explain to her the
phenomenon that is Duck Baker (whose artistry can not be
explained, only experienced). I’d started out by telling her that
Duck was a finger-picker.
My wife, who is French and therefore properly educated, and at a
level far above such stuff, asked sweetly, “What is finger-picking?”
At that very moment (at that precise moment) we came around the
corner and there before us, in the meadow below, was a large
herd of three or four hundred finger-pickers. They were all
gathered ‘round in clusters of six or seven and all flailing away in
giddy syncopation. The timing could not have been better.
“THAT,” I said with considerable aplomb, “is finger-picking.”
When Sylvie and I are together there is often a cleverness to Life.
I don’t know what was at play there, but of course I wish more of
Life were like that for everybody.
You know, one Spring day my very dear wife and I were walking
along in Golden Gate Park—knowing us, we probably had a brace
of dogs straining on ahead—and I was trying to explain to her the
phenomenon that is Duck Baker (whose artistry can not be
explained, only experienced). I’d started out by telling her that
Duck was a finger-picker.
My wife, who is French and therefore properly educated, and at a
level far above such stuff, asked sweetly, “What is finger-picking?”
At that very moment (at that precise moment) we came around the
corner and there before us, in the meadow below, was a large
herd of three or four hundred finger-pickers. They were all
gathered ‘round in clusters of six or seven and all flailing away in
giddy syncopation. The timing could not have been better.
“THAT,” I said with considerable aplomb, “is finger-picking.”
When Sylvie and I are together there is often a cleverness to Life.
I don’t know what was at play there, but of course I wish more of
Life were like that for everybody.