One our pine-paneled wall near the door to the garage, 40-year-old dents and scratches remain for all to see evidence of the night I threw my beloved type writer at my beloved husband.  I missed.  He left anyway.

Bill Routon left our home to go duck hunting at Yellow Creek.

For the second time in our marriage I pleaded with him tostay home.  We had sick children and I felt rotten.  The first time was our first Christmas with children who would wake up searching for Santa and Daddy.  We agreed to have Santa come on Christmas Even instead, which suited me because that’s when my parents gave gifts.  None of us emphasized Santa.

But this time was different.  Different from Thanksgiving, too,--we just had dinner late.  Different from my birthday, which fell on the last day of duck season.  He gave perfect gifts.  Different from new Year’s Eve;  Bill just never went to bed on that date.

After my begging and crying—both extremely rare for me—Bill put on his coat and started for the door.

“If you leave this house, don’t you ever come through this door again.  I’m going tomorrow to get a divorce.  I mean it, Bill.”

At the same time, in one unusually strong, angry moment, I lifted my typewriter and threw it at his disappearing back.  I missed.

I realized that I had not heard his truck motor start.  Looking out the kitchen window, I could see Bill leaning over the steering wheel.   I could also see snow drifting in and not melting.

I went to the hall closet, grabbed an Army blanket and a Razorback pillow and rushed outside to give them to him.

He rolled down the window and said, ”Are you all right, now?”

“Oh, my God,” I said.  “If I’m worried about whether you are cold and damp or warm and comfortable, I might as well forget about a divorce.”

“Good.  I love you.  I’ll bring you four ducks to cook.”

We kissed.  “Better ducks than another woman,”  I whispered.