When the storms roll through Belleville, Capt. Mark can still float my boat
I call him Captain Mark. If you were on a sinking ship, you would want him at the helm. He would swim to shore with you on his back, kicking wildly at the sharks behind him.
You think I’m kidding but I’m not. I’ve been married to this man for nearly half my life. My father, Big John Meehan, turned me over to him with a smile on his face. He knew Mark would be my protector and he was tired of the job.
Back in those days, I was sweet and ditzy and wore lots of short skirts. I’m sure Mark thought shepherding me through life would be a breeze. Then the storms kicked in.
“Get in the basement, Michelle!” my husband said last weekend, as I laid watching “Dateline” in bed. When I turned off the TV, I heard sirens blasting in the background.
“Grab the pets!” I said. “And some Diet Coke and chocolate!”
He rolled his eyes but didn’t protest.
Minutes later, we were huddled in the basement bathroom. A disciple of Doppler Radar, Mark knew the tornado was coming and he was ready. He even brought helmets (thank goodness no one needed to put one on) and cushions for sitting on the hard, tile floor. Did I mention I love this guy?
I love his smartness and calmness in the face of a storm. I also love that, when the storm passes and the electricity is out, he knows where to find the candles.
For years, I’ve made fun of his sensibleness. Like the time he said, “You shouldn’t go barefoot when you take the dogs out in the morning” – and I ignored him and stepped on a bee. Or the time he urged me to dig out my snow boots after a blizzard -- and I wore heels and landed spread eagle on our driveway.
“I told you so,” he said, handing me a bottle of ibuprofen.
You did,” I said, rubbing my knee.
Of all the mates in the world, I’m glad I picked this one.
Gilligan may have had the Skipper. But I’ll stick with Captain Mark.
