Merry, Merry

The Story of Us OR How Song Ideas Present to Me

My life would not be complete without my husband of 36 years. Like all partnerships, there is never one that’s perfect. Billy D, and I often laugh at the fact that we would NEVER be paired up on a modern dating app. We are just too different. We met back in college at the University of Illinois in the spring of 1985 while performing in a production of Godspell. 

Meeting you was more than happenstance.

The Gods they cast a spell, we were entranced.

On a bitterly cold Saturday afternoon in January 1985, my sophomore year of college, I was racing from my apartment just off campus in the cornfields of Champaign, Illinois, trying to get to my library shelving job on time, when I decided to take a short-cut through the Newman Center. As I was speed walking through the building, because, of course, I was late, I am ALWAYS late, a hand-lettered sign caught my eye:

Godspell auditions today

1-5 pm

I stopped dead in my tracks. “I love Godspell. I know all the songs!” I said in my head. Without thinking, I poked my head in the room with the sign and asked if I could audition.

I breathlessly explained, 

“I am on my way to work. I am off at 4. I would love to tryout, I was in Godspell in high school. I did many musicals and dramatic plays in grade school and high school. I even starred in some of the productions.” 

My head was telling me to SHUT UP! But my mouth kept going. 

“I don’t have time to prepare anything, as I am due at work in about three minutes. Can I just sing something from the show? I know Day by Day. Well, I guess, who doesn’t know that song?! There are only about eight words in the whole song.” 

The four people sitting behind the audition table were stifling chuckles behind their hands and clearing their throats for composure, 

“Sure, come back at four and we will see what you can do.”

“Great, see you later. “ 

I sing-songed as I skipped from the room. That short-cut to work, oh-so long ago, changed the course of my life.

37 Years Later

“Oh look, a little pub. Anyone else parched?” 

This phrase often enters into conversations started by my husband, especially when we’re traveling in big cities where he’s less comfortable than when he is on a trout stream. On this particular day, we were in the middle of a self-guided Banksy mural walking tour in Bristol, England. My husband, Billy, is very good about being dragged on art tours. He even occasionally initiates them, not for his benefit, but for mine. He knows that art in all its guises is very important to me. We were lucky to have our grown daughter, V, along on this adventure as well. Since both V and I are public school teachers, we take advantage of our time off in the summertime.

That particular corner bar was deserted at two p.m. on that Saturday in June of 2022. So, we all sat down and had a pint. There was a TV on in the pub, channeled to some sporting event. Both my husband and daughter are big sports enthusiasts, I knew I would have to keep myself occupied while they got their sports fix. I usually defer to people watching when I find myself in this situation. Unfortunately, there was just the bartender, and he was engaged in sports talk with my family. Drats, they got to him first! Lucky for me, this English establishment was decorated with bookshelves lined with old books.

I am pretty sure the books displayed were not for general consumption and just for aesthetics, but that did not stop me. My eyes greedily took in the numerous old tomes shelved next to our corner booth. Along with the stale beer smell was a more enticing musk of second-hand books. I pulled out a deeply faded crimson hardback from a 1930’s Child Craft Anthology and opened to a page displaying a poem titled:

“Merry are the bells and Merry Would they Ring”

a three-stanza poem or nursery rhyme illustrated in black, white and red ink. It was nestled in the picture of; two singing dogs in bow-ties, three open-mouthed, head tilted back, tights clad troubadours, set against a medieval half-timbered home. Also in the picture was an old man in a night shirt throwing a black Victorian boot at a stout old woman in a nightcap. Both were hanging out of the house’s windows, two stories apart. I read the poem in my head and immediately thought of, The Ramones- a punk band Billy D. and I had listened to often during college. I grabbed my phone and sang into my voice recorder app in a punk-rock late 80’s early 90’s style. That was the beginning of my love song to my husband.

I had been grappling with a love song for my husband for years. Billy V. wrote and performs a lovely ballad starring his wife on our first album. I knew I had to get something into our second album for my man. I had been struggling with how to express my love in a song. I knew a ballad would not be the vehicle to profess my love for Billy D. It would have to be a different less standard love song for the man I met at 19, in the musical Godspell. That spring, oh so long ago, my heart was stolen by the young Army ROTC student and fellow thespian.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

After the first rehearsal of Godspell, I came home to a roommate asking if there were any boyfriend prospects.

 “There is this one cute boy, blond hair, blue eyes, John Lennon glasses,” I said. “BUT he is ROTC-y. You know all that military stuff isn’t really my thing.”

During the production, that boy and I were assigned a dance duet in the middle of the show. We had to have extra rehearsals with the choreographer. Billy D. would show-up with his Army boots on because he had to, “break them in for jump school.” I shook my head at his behavior back then, a habit which has continued, maybe even increased over the years.

We started dating that spring. We had an on-again, off-again romance for the next two years. In the fall of 1986, while I had my first teaching job in Chicago and he was completing his civil engineering degree and Army training back in Champaign, 2 ½ hours apart, the final break-up occurred. He told me,

“I know I want to marry you, but I’m not sure when. Maybe after my first army posting.” (five years from the time of that conversation!) 

“Are you kidding me?” I replied. “I am not putting my life on hold for five years.” 

We broke up. I thought for good.

I wept uncontrollably for the next six weeks. Friends set me up on dates with other boys. Nothing clicked. It was so bad, my mother suggested therapy.

“I don’t know how to help you. Maybe you need to talk to someone else.”

 That snapped me out of my melancholy,

 “I certainly do not need therapy to get over some stupid boy!” I chanted in my head. 

Just as I decided not to be smart and get help, Billy D. called.

“Hey, my housemates and I are having a party. One last one before the end of the fall semester. Why don’t you come down?”

“I have plans with Trish on Friday evening,” I replied curtly. 

“Bring Trish. She’s fun.” I can see myself shaking my head, yet again!

As the party evening approached, I just could not decide what to do. I kept my date with my friend in Chicago. As Trish tells the story,

“All you did was talk about Billy at dinner. Remember you talked me into driving two and a half hours to drop you off at that party?” 

The day after the party one of Billy D’s friends cornered me, 

“So glad you made it to the party,” he said sarcastically. “Billy has been moping around the house for the last six weeks. We kept telling him there are other fish in the sea. He told us, ‘They aren’t Lucy.’” 

That was December 1986. We were married in May of 1987.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

My mother has a saying which she has passed on to all of her children, 

“Keep your eyes wide open before marriage and half-shut after.” 

That saying has stuck with me all these years. 

My husband’s mantras all these years have been, 

“I will never go to couple’s therapy. If I don’t talk to you about my feelings, why would I talk with someone else?”

I roll my eyes. Another of his quips he often espouses as he looks at his analog watch, 

“OK, let’s talk about our feelings. Go, you have 10 seconds. Oops, looks like time’s 

up.”

 I shake my head. You can take the boy out of the military, but the man remains rigid.

My husband may not want to discuss his feelings, or anyone’s feelings really, yet he would do anything for me, our three children, their spouses, our grandkids, his siblings, their spouses, our friends, the neighbors, his co-workers, my co-workers - you get it. He is the problem solver, the guy everyone depends on, and he does his best to deliver. He can recall anyone he has ever met by name. He is ultra-organized and responsible and is always on time. He did not stay in the military past his student commitment, yet he keeps his hair in a “high and tight” tapered buzz cut and wears his old uniforms on Memorial and Veteran’s Day. 

As of this writing, we’ve had 38 years of adventures together.

We spent the first three years of marriage away from our families in Chicago, building our new life together in Washington, DC and then Hanau, Germany. It was the era of the Cold War; East and West Germany were still divided. Billy D. was an Army engineer and away from our apartment in Germany, training, two to three weeks out of the month. We chose to start a family right away. We had our first two children 15 months apart. It was difficult for me. I was 26 years old, with two babies, living in a small German village, with little support. Looking back, I would probably diagnosis myself with post-partum depression. In 1988, that just was not a common discussion.  We were young and dumb and just plowed through our circumstances. I was lucky to have both a wise and caring mother and mother-in-law who visited us in Germany and helped with the care of our children after each birth. They both visited separately for 10 days. It was immensely helpful to have that support.

Looking back, it was the adventure of a lifetime. We met and remained friends with many of our Army friends. We drove and camped in most of the continental European countries. We were able to travel to Berlin before the wall came down. We visited Czechoslovakia on the first weekend of its democratic elections. That trip felt like traveling back in time to a black and white movie. The buildings and upkeep of the country seemed not to have been touched since World War II. So many varied and interesting experiences in these foreign lands. I believe it created a wanderlust for us that now, as almost retirees, we are starting to explore more frequently.

Billy D. and I have had a saying which we refer to after a disagreement,

 “I don’t always like you, but I always love you.” 

Sort of a take on my mother’s saying and the title of Billy D.’s love song, “Eyes Half Shut.” Not all of our time together has been carefree and wonderful. No long-term relationship comes easily, just as any life presents many obstacles and challenges. It is all hard work, yet I know my very privileged life is in part due to my husband’s constant focused vision of providing for our family. 

So, when the ARTs dept. has its Era’s tour, my costume change will be calf-high, white go-go boots and a white fringe swing dress. As I sing to my husband this song in my head.