We were in St. George, Utah, for First Night, a New Year's Eve celebration that involves walking down rows of vendors and performers and games on blocked-off Main Street. Even though it was St. George, Utah's "Dixie," it was cold. I'd brought a coat, and my son supplied scarves and hats. When we started down the street, my husband pushed a pair of thick camouflage gloves into my hands. I slipped them on and enjoyed their comfortable warmth. We listened to music impersonators for Billy Joel, Elton John, Willy Nelson, and Shania Twain, among others. We savored the warm, sweet smell of funnel cakes and mouth-watering Indian fry bread offered for sale. We watched the 10:00 p.m. children's fireworks display before our daughter-in-law, Jamie, took our two-year-old grandson home.
While walking toward the midnight fireworks display site, I grabbed Bob's arm. He had his hands stuffed deep in his pockets. When I slid my hand down into his, his pulled it out of the pocket for a better grip. I noticed that one of his gloves had the forefinger cut out. "That's for my trigger finger," he said, holding his naked fore finger up. (He meant the "trigger" on his camera.) I noticed that his gloves were thin. "I gave you the warm ones," he said, stuffing his hand back into his pocket. "They're nice, aren't they?"
I opened my eyes wide. "Why'd you give me the warm ones?" I asked.
"Why do you think?" he asked, giving me a grin.
I leaned against his arm as we walked. It's been a long time since Bob has given me flowers. He doesn't even say the words, "I love you." The closest I get are the words, "Luv 'em duts." But I'll tell you what, when it comes right down to it, I'll take a diaper changing, dinner cooking, glove sharing guy over lace and roses any day.