You know at times I write about some crazy stuff. Sometimes it’s about nothing, but sometimes I go down a very personal path. I’ve thought “too personal” perhaps. Too revealing.

Then I learn something. Sometimes when I write, it turns out to be what everybody else is already thinking anyway. Only I’m the one stupid enough to put it in print.

Today, I want to tell you about Marion.

The very idea that I have chosen to put her up front like this is proof that I am a confident and self-actualized husband after 45 days of marriage. I am also aware that if I screw this up, the authorities will never find my body.

Let’s be clear. My motive is not to poke fun. I will not be saying anything laughable. It’s just that I’ve had so many old friends talk about how they’d love to meet Marion one of these days. And I figure, why not take a swing at a proper reveal right here and now.

Let me paint the picture of this woman. For starters, she carries a Leatherman with her at all times. It is her multitool of choice.

The other day we stopped at Buc-cees to fuel up and get a brisket sandwich for lunch. We don’t like to eat heavy when we’re on the road, so she bought one sandwich for us to split.

“We can eat it in the truck,” she says.

We get our seat belts on. I’m backing out of our parking spot. The sandwich is sitting on the console between us. I’m watching it out of the corner of my eye.

She peals back the foil wrapper. I’m sitting at the light paying attention to the traffic. Once we get rolling, I notice that she’s cutting our sandwich in half with the blade on her Leatherman. She cuts the foil and makes a holder for each half sandwich.

“How’s that?” she asks.

So, there you go. Thoughtful. Efficient. And most importantly, she carries a knife.

She will often apologize for being a “redneck woman” who, in her mind, is lowering my standards. She likes to tease me that I was a choir boy before I met her. I don’t think that she’s a redneck at all. She has all her teeth, and she clearly knows when and when not to use a proper swear word.

We were eating supper with friends over the holidays. They’ve been around Marion enough that they are getting to know her. And of course, Marion makes that pretty easy because she is who she is in any setting around anybody.

She says to my buddy, Shawn, “There’s a Christmas song I heard that I want you to play for me.”

He’s always up for a challenge. “What’s the song?”

“It’s by Lynard Skynyrd.”

“I didn’t know they had a Christmas song. What’s it called.”

“Santa Wants Some Lovin,” she says. “Here, let me play it for you.”

The very title of this song spurred a Ho, Ho, Ho between the gentlemen at the table. It was hard to tell if the other wives were totally on board with the implied spirit of the lyrics. Santa had other things on his mind.

We were talking about this particular event just last night.

“I’m sorry if I embarrass you,” she says.

“Are you crazy. That song was hilarious.”

“Well, I thought so, but not everybody’s like me.”

“You got that right.”

“I’m not like Beth. If you’re friends are expecting quiet and shy, that’s not who I am.”

You know, this second marriage is different. And I think it’s different because losing a spouse changes you. You look back over the last forty-something years and you realize you are who you are to a large degree because of the person you loved and the adjustments you made to make that love work. Maybe you lose a piece of yourself along the way in order to give and support and sacrifice for the sake of marriage and family.

I’m not saying you lose out when you do that. Truth is, you win. But when death takes that other part of you away, you’re left to discover all over again who you are and who you will become. Through the loss of everything old, you find a new and different you.

One of the great things about this second chance of ours is that I am not Mike, and she is not Beth. That’s not a disparaging commentary on our first marriages. It’s just the truth.

My kids have said to me, “You’re different with her than you were with Mama.”

It’s no surprise to me that they can see that. We’re both different.

“You laugh a lot more than Mike did,” Marion says to me. “Mike hardly ever laughed. We’d ask him to smile for a picture and he would give us that straight face claiming that he was smiling.”

“So,” I say. “You think it’s funny when abdominal gastric air escapes unexpectedly. Beth’s sense of humor did not include asking who stepped on that frog?”

We are not replacement spouses. Different is good. I think what “got me” about Marion is that she is so different, and unique, and ambitious, and confident, fully trusting in the fact that God knows what He’s doing even if we don’t.

“What are you gonna do with me?” she’ll ask.

This question typically arises after something redneck-like comes out of her mouth. Or maybe she gets us into some situation that gets more complicated than we thought trying to help someone. Or she just gives me some of her sarcastic sass when she thinks I need it.

“I reckon I’ll keep you around,” I tell her.

“I can’t change who I am,” she says.

Me moaning. “Oh Lord, why me?”

“Don’t forget. You asked for me,” she pushes.

Me looking up toward heaven. “Lord, remind me to be more specific next time.”

There’s a lot more to this woman than a pocketknife and a sharp wit. She has taught me to see God at work in even the most minute details of our lives. She lives to bring joy to others. She constantly has ideas about what she wants to do for some friend of hers. And from a lot of that she has callouses on her hands. She is as down to earth as it gets.

She’s in Newnan most of this weekend. Our phone call last night ended on the topic of change.

“I wouldn’t change a thing about you,” I tell her.

“You sure about that?” she asks me.

“You don’t see me trying to put lipstick and heels on you, do you?”

She jumped on that one. “Are you saying I’m a pig?”

“Don’t hear what I’m not saying.”

“I think you just said that I can’t be helped.”

“More like you can’t help it and I’m okay with that.”

After we hung up, she immediately texted me a picture of a glamour pig in lipstick and sunglasses.

“O, Lord?”

If you haven’t already, I do hope you get to meet her one of these days.

Myself. I can’t imagine my life if I hadn’t met her.