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From: "Vee L. Housman" <>
Subject: 16-Breakup With Polly
Date: Tue, 11 Aug 1998 11:37:05 -0400


THE BREAKUP WITH POLLY

The other night I and Polly were sitting peacefully in a corner
of the room. The old clock in the corner struck right on the second
just as it did thirty years ago when I first bought it at Mike Hetzel's
auction for six dollars and stood it in the corner when we began
keeping house. If that old clock could speak, it'd have a lot of
misgivings to relate. To a man and wife, thirty years means a lot.
What troubles, what worries. How many times did we break up
when we should have stood by each other? How many
heartbreaking hours did just one wretched little word bring? For
long weeks we'd avoid each other as if strangers, just to let the
other know that we hadn't lost our spunk. It was just like putting
two grains of sand into a buggy axle. One would rub against the
other until finally the wheel would stop. Conflict in a household
makes just about as much sense as the two grains of sand in the
buggy axle. How plainly we can see it all now. What wouldn't we
give if we could take it all back and rebuild our whole lives all over
again.

The time for sledding parties and apple dumplings is all over.
It was a time when I thought there was only one woman in the
whole world, and that was Polly. Pretty soon after we were married
I learned that there were endless other women that I could have
known before I got married. After awhile I came to the conclusion
that there were many other women in the world that I could have
made it with just as well as I had made it with Polly. I grew angry,
stubborn, and resentful.

Through this all she stayed the same as she was before we
were married, always ready to do a favor for me, always cooking
everything that she knew I liked, blacking my boots and washing
my clothing, and yet I remained sour and mean. Finally she realized
that it wouldn't make any difference if she did the right thing or the
wrong thing. Her reward would always be the same--and the parlor
match that I'd been carelessly stepping on for so long finally
exploded and burned up its sulfur.

Those were bad times. I couldn't think of enough ways to try
to spite Polly, and finally I took off on a drunken spree and in my
inebriation broadcast our troubles all over the whole Mountain.
Pretty soon a lot of troublesome old wives who knew me well got
enough out of me to vie for the best story to tell at the next church
social. I was the biggest man on the Mountain when I told my side
of the story, that no woman's underwear were loose enough to
tempt me to reach into them. I told my story, but it was one side
only. It sounded real good in a barroom full of loafers. But there
was another side to the story--the right side--no one has yet heard
it, because Polly never told her story. I took a great pleasure in
seeing her suffer. It showed that I was a man of great
determination. That was my style.

Finally it came into my head that everyone's wife was more
attractive than my own. Maybe there was something to it. Troubles
had worn grooves into her cheeks. Her eyes which had always
seemed so lively, looked dark and sorrowful. She couldn't love me
anymore. I'd become a drunken, blubbering animal. If only I had
some moments of compassion when I was sober, but at those times
I was worse than when I was drunk. I could see that she didn't love
me anymore, and this made me jealous. That usually made things
much worse.

I noticed that she was getting used to my drinking, and that
drinking didn't hurt her as much as when I blamed her for being too
friendly with other men. I realized that there was nothing going on,
but I wanted to keep up the fight, and I didn't know of any other
way. This was going too far. She'd never said anything in the past.
The ill-doing was so far all on my part, but when I accused her of
this she finally stood up for herself, opened the door and told me to
get out. That was in the days when I went to live as a tramp. You
can read of it elsewhere in my book.

Now, you may think that I'm behaving like a crybaby for
telling these things. Perhaps I am, but if I can save one young
couple from breaking up and making fools out of themselves, then
I've done more good in this letter than I've done in any that I've
ever written before.

* * *

Note: This collection of Boonastiel stories was written by H. A.
Harter in the original Penna-Dutch dialect and were published in the
Keystone Gazette, Bellefonte, PA, between 1894 and 1904. They
were translated and transcribed by Bob James of Alaska and they
are being posted to this PADUTCH-LIFE mailing list with his
permission.

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