Culture No. 12

Sometimes people have a hard time understanding what it is a trophy wife actually does. I myself used to be in that boat until I jumped ship for the bliss of unemployed and childless matrimony. At first – I won’t lie – I was ashamed. It’s kind of an awkward spot to be in, especially if you move to a new state where no one knows anything about you. One side will think you’re lazy and come up with all sorts of creative euphemisms that boil down to the same patronizing refrain – “Get a job.” – while the other will judge you for not spawning as soon as nuptially possible. (The latter group is particularly amusing in the fact that these folks always seem to be the most miserable around their own children. Indeed, misery does love company.)

But while learning to not define myself by what I do – I never felt particularly “architectural” anyway – or how many fetuses I can produce in a given decade has truly been a gift to my self-confidence, both of these groups are missing out on one, important, usually-omitted-for-the-sake-of-not-looking-like-a-cat-lady fact: I do have a child. Her name is Nora and she’s four, furry, feline, and fabulous.

Got all of her mother's sass...and some.

Since the wedding, Nora has latched onto Bert – literally – with no claws barred. They eat breakfast together every morning. She prefers his lap to mine. If I say no, she knows who will give her the affirmative second opinion. She loves her new dad, so I guess it seems only appropriate that Bert’s first-ever Father’s Day gift consisted of a bird foot, a wing, a beak, and an assemblage of (I’m assuming) bird guts, all delivered straight to our back door. (Usually she leaves the presents on the sidewalk, but I guess a special day calls for going that extra-special mile.) Bert was gracious, as always, but it confirms to me that the Speed Spawners obviously did not take the “Plant, Pet, Person” route. Let’s just say: I look forward to that Father’s Day when I can clean up after a child who just made breakfast for their dad, rather than a cat who left her latest, ant-covered sacrifice on our welcome mat.

Nora and her daddy, bonding in the early days. (2007)

Thankfully, the rest of Bert’s first Father’s Day involved no more deaths. After lunch, we went up to Francis Slocum State Park for a few hours of hiking around the lake. The park is only about 15 minutes from our apartment, but other than a quick drive-by to check it out, we haven't spent any time there at all. Yesterday was the perfect day to break the ice. We could not have asked for nicer weather and it was particularly lovely to be in the woods without acquiring five ticks for every step. I love you, Connecticut, but Pennsyltucky’s got that one on you, no contest.

Bert, playing Mario Brothers.

The lake was created in the late 1960s as a means of flood control (just in time for every NEPAns favorite hurricane, Agnes, to arrive) and the Park opened soon afterwards. It was named after a five year-old girl who was kidnapped in the late 1700s by a group of Delaware Indians. She tried to escape but failed, and lived with the Delaware for the rest of her life, going by her new name, Maconaquah, because she could not remember her given one. She married twice, had four children, and refused to return to Pennsylvania later in life when her siblings found her living on a reservation in Indiana.

So what does that make her? You got it: a trophy wife. The original, Pennsyltuckian trophy wife. You see? I’m not the only one.

Frances Slocum: the trophy wife who started it all!

(Ugh. I don't know why I'm pixelated. Blogger is not my friend today.)