Published: December 24, 2008 03:45 pm      

Perhaps he should have rephrased that

A friend said she overheard a conversation between two women who were in their 30s or early 40s.

“One of them asked the other how her dad was doing, and she said, ‘Oh, about as well as could be expected. He’s depressed a lot.’ I immediately connected that with illness or surgery, or maybe his wife had died,” she said.

“The other woman wanted to know why her dad was depressed, and she said, ‘He just gave his girlfriend a one-carat diamond ring, and she can’t make up her mind whether to leave her husband.’ ”

Try as I might, I couldn’t think of anything caustic or witty to say. Nothing printable, anyway.

What does occur to me is that people often get what they ask for, and then — like Jimmy Buffett says — it’s their own damn fault.

I’m not immune to this phenomenon, of course. The worst thing about being stupid is that every now and then you feel a need to prove it. I have been stupid many times, particularly when it comes to women (including one whose birth date remains etched in my mind, even though I haven’t seen her for years) — but, again, I’m far from unique in that respect.

My friend’s daughter — Anne — is married to a man who, to all intents and purposes, is one of the brighter individuals I’ve met. Brian is a nice guy and has a good job, and we’re all fond of him. (Anne and Brian don’t live around here, by the way, so it’s safe to tell you their real names.)

However, he has now demonstrated a potential for stupidity of such magnitude that every man I’ve told about it just shakes his head in disbelief — including Anne’s brother. He’s recently married for the third time, so he’s had plenty of opportunity to learn from his mistakes and not repeat them. When I told him about it, he grinned and said, “At least it wasn’t me, this time.”

It seems that Anne was getting ready to go to church on a recent Sunday, and she told Brian she probably should leave their young daughter (Abigail) at home because she was a bit fussy. Would he mind watching her?

“Having Brian watch Abigail used to be fine,” said my friend, “because she could just lie there in a blanket at his feet. But now that she’s learned to walk, it’s a different story.

“He’s sitting there doing something with his computer, and he says to her, ‘I’d rather not. I’ve got things to do.’

“Anne says, ‘What about me? I’ve got things to do, too!”

“Then he says to her ... ‘My things are important.’”

I whooped. Short of telling a woman that her sister or her best friend is ... shall we say ... more passionate than she is, I can’t think of many things that would anger a woman more than that.

“Anne just went off on him,” my friend said. “Then she scooped up Abigail, and off to church they went. By the time they got home, he was as sorry as he could be and just apologized all over himself.”

Doesn’t matter. What’s done is done, and he’ll pay for it a long time, in increments; atonement for egregious stupidity is made on the installment plan. I’d love to have seen it, particularly because Anne has a lot of her grandmother in her, and her grandmother was a force to be reckoned with.

I was privileged several years ago to witness something similar that happened between two married friends of mine. We were at a party where a buffet dinner was being served.

“It was bad enough,” the wife told me later, “that I’ve been basically running a bed and breakfast at home for the last six weeks.

“But we were sitting at our table, and he asked me if I was hungry. I told him I was, and he said, ‘Well, go and get something.’ ”

As Jimmy Hatlo used to say, that’s when the fun began.

——————

A friend who’s read about some of my adventures at Gettysburg’s battlefield said he was there when his family wandered off and left him alone.

“I heard a voice nearby call out, ‘Let’s get ’em, boys!’ ” he said. “It was a voice with a deep southern accent, and I looked to see where it came from, but nobody was there. Then I heard it again.

“When my family came back a few minutes later, my son looked at me and said, ‘Dad, your hair’s standing on end.”

A re-enactor from South Carolina who was in the uniform of a Confederate first sergeant told my friends and me about the night he visited Sack’s covered bridge, the place where legend has it that three rebel soldiers were hanged for desertion.

“I felt a hand on my shoulder,” he said, “and I looked down and saw the hand and the arm it was attached to. A voice in my ear said, ‘Look what they’ve done,’ and I looked and saw three Confederate soldiers standing nearby.

“The voice said, ‘I’ve got some other things I’d like to show you,’ and that’s when I said I was sorry, but I had to go.”

I can’t say that I blame him. During the daytime, if you know where to look, you can see where three rope burns have scarred one of the bridge roof’s crossbeams.

My friends Gary and Mark were at Sack’s covered bridge one night when a column of little green lights approached them, then parted in the middle and went around them before coming back together on the other side.

I’ve seen such lights myself. A few weeks ago, Gary and I stood in the middle of the field at Spangler’s Spring and watched them come slowly through the woods toward us.

But that’s a story for next time.