Friday, April 13, 2012


David jots down acts on a lime green post-it note. I ask him for the hundredth time, “So now where is this Renaissance Festival?” He corrects me, like he has all week, “Renaissance Faire” when I purposely say it wrong. “Right, Faaaaaire” I repeat back to him. It’s Saturday morning and I sit beside him sipping coffee as he stares at his laptop screen like it’s video feed for a heart surgery and he’s mid-operation.

I pick up his pen and add a made-up show called ‘Kitty Kitty’ to his list. He drags his eyes away from the screen and reads what I’ve written. He cracks up in an evening or later-in-the-day type laugh, not the kind of laugh you expect to hear early in the morning. I watch him cross it off the list as if he’s concerned he might forget that ‘Kitty Kitty’ isn’t a real show when we get there tomorrow.

David plans and prepares carefully and completely for everything he does, especially if I’m involved. A new coffee shop he thinks I’ll like because their scones are vegan. What he’ll pack for a four-hour hike versus an eight-hour hike. If I should bring bug spray or just sun screen. An itinerary for my family coming to town, with events customized to each of their interests. Options for if it rains, for if it’s hot. Options for appetizers or where to stop for treats on a road trip. I love this about him.

He’s on to post-it #2, breaking down his first list of show titles into show times. I see him scratch his head in the spot where he used to have hair that he would twist into a wiry point in college, when he had thick mad scientist waves.

Strategy fills the creases in his forehead, especially between his brows, vertical grooves of concentration and exploration. He is somewhere between here and the Renaissance Faire.

I reach over again and quickly add another made-up show to his list, ‘Sweet Cheeks,’ but he is too engrossed to notice.

To think, I am (willingly) going to spend an entire Sunday among costumed, dialect riddled, RenFaire folk, pleases me. Not because I want to peruse medieval wares, smell greasy meats and have jesters jolly in my face with their shtick. But because I will get to see a different David than I do Monday through Friday, wearily kicking off his downtown shoes at the door, and sighing that sigh that tells me it has not been an easy day for him.

Because I will get to see the David who I have to keep up with. Who easily weaves through crowds to get to the far stage in time to see the comedy duo he’s read all about.  Who I will follow as he pulls me by the hand, compares sight lines, picking ‘the best’ bench or bale, who sits forward and twist his head around almost 180 degrees, owl-like, eyes wide, scouring the crowd, the stands, the stage, drinking it all in, as the sun reddens his skin.

He will compare each detail to the best one he’s ever been to, as well as the one we went to when we were first married (which I honestly can’t even remember). He’ll feed me tidbits about the next show and tidbits about whatever he thinks I might like to know, which is nothing specifically and anything generally, as it relates to the giddiness in his voice and the dancing of his eyes.

“Ha! What’re you doing?” he says shaking his head and drawing a straight line through the second show I added to his list. “That sounds kinda naughty,” he chuckles to himself as he drifts back to the ‘not here/not there’ space of creating what will be.

Eventually he crumples the first post-it and pulls up the second one, reviewing it like post-op patients' charts. Then he opens his spiral note pad and I know he’s ready to make the Final Plan. I close my eyes and listen to his pen scratch against the paper, imagining the pages below being dented with the pressure of his pen.

‘Sweet,” he says a few minutes later. “I have it all figured out.” I reply, “Huzzah!” and raise my hand for a victorious high-five. But he’s gone back to the screen, scratching his head, “Now how to do I get there…”