A friend mentioned that she went to see the Addams Family. The movie is an adaptation from a show that was popular when I was young, and even her passing allusion ignited a long forgotten song in my head.
"Their house is a museum,
when people come to see em,
they really are a screa-um, the Addams family..."
How long had it been? Half a century at least. Scenes replayed in my head about a couple who, in their distinctively macabre manner, showed mutual respect and affection. Gomez could not resist planting kisses along his wife's outstretched arm. Morticia was effusive with praise for her husband's good judgment, which differed significantly from me at age eight. But not being part of their family I had no vote, and instead absorbed the underlying message that a couple can influence
each other in choices that show up in a thirty minute drama. Which is a lesson worth relearning.
When John and I team up for dinner prep, our styles collide on occasion. His fried potatoes are crispier, while I use less oil. My salad isn't as imaginative, though quicker to assemble. He prefers to wait to serve until everyone sits down. I lean into feeding the early comers while food is hot. He takes the extra time to concoct a sauce, while I am relieved to shove pans on the table and begin.
Shel Silverstein has a poem that echoes in my ears.
"If you convinced me, and I convinced you, would there not still be two points of view?"
Technically. But it behooves me to at least be pliable enough to be swayed.
