For January 23, 1996 Drummer Column, Gibbs, 709 words

Sweet times

The wife and I woke up at 8 a.m. every morning during the recent three-day holiday. Of course, we didn't get out of bed until after noon on any of those days. We engaged what we call our "Sweet Times Together."

We do this every chance we get. I hop up and make the coffee, then hop back into bed and Susan and I talk for hours. The topics change from day to day, but the ritual remains the same.

We lead busy lives. Sometimes we only see each other in the mornings while dressing for work and late in the evenings when we come home exhausted and sit in front of the television, eating out of bowls on our laps, waiting for yawns to drive us back to sleep.

On the weekends, if the chore list isn't too long, we engage in Sweet Times. Alone in the house now, with the kids gone, we're getting lots more of them. We've just about solved all the problems in the world.

We were worried when the nest emptied how we would spend our time. Would we grow apart without the children here to bind us? Would we become strangers in the night? How would we modify our activities in order to stay close?

Our morning talks were not a planned activity. They just happened because we both like them. We've been having them for years, though they were usually farther apart. For the last few months, however, we've rendezvoused in the bed, propped up on multiple pillows, just about every Saturday and Sunday morning.

When I think back over our years together and all the adventures we've had, my favorite most memorable times have always been our quiet mornings alone discussing philosophy, religion, society, and why both our families are so screwed up. I'm happy that at this time in our lives we're able to do more of the things we like best.

Anyone who knows my wife knows her to be a wonderful talker, and listener. She can hold her own on any topic and is willing to go where the conversation leads. I tend to free associate, pulling our chat in all sorts of odd directions.

This weekend we talked mostly about family, first Susan's then mine. She wondered why her relationship with her brothers was so fractured. Why did they never call, never send Christmas cards, never acknowledge our existence except on obligatory get-togethers? We walked through her childhood, analyzing her parents, their lives in Richmond while her dad was mayor, their fights and friends. We decided it was simply that she was the little sister growing up in chauvinistic times. The men made all the decisions and her opinions didn't matter. That attitude has apparently carried over into adulthood.

We wondered why my mother had been plagued by a lifetime of bad marriages to abusive men. Why did she allow herself to be mistreated for so many years? How did that behavior shape my childhood? We decided it was simply that Mother had grown up in chauvinistic times. The men made all the decisions and her well-being didn't matter. I had responded by swearing off marriage forever, by seeking out strong women that I couldn't control, by refusing to grow up. Some of those problems have been fixed.

Sometimes our talks start with us both reading. Whoever comes across an interesting point first shares it. We read aloud. Eventually, the books fall to the floor and we're off and running. Other times our talk is triggered by the previous night's activity, recently a family gathering. The nightly news is a powerful source. The death of Ennis Cosby triggered a debate on teen violence that followed us to dinner at China Garden, where Robert, the owner and new first-time dad, told us how things are different in China. "In China parents have complete authority over their children. They are not arrested for disciplining them." Our latest discussion - how good it felt to lie in bed discussing things - followed me to the den where I wrote this column.

Susan bought me a new pair of pajamas for Christmas. She bought herself a pair, too, in case I didn't think of it. They're just about worn out.