The Checkbook Story

 Over the years, Ron and Karyn have invited me to their home for dinner on many occasions (too numerous to count).  The evenings are always full of a lot of laughs, good food (only if we bring in…only kidding, Karyn) and conversation.  Unfortunately, Ron inevitably steers the conversation towards the Smith checkbook.  OH BOY!!!!  (One must keep in mind that Karyn is in charge…of the checkbook, that is.)    According to Ron, there is too much money, not enough money, deposits not made, deposits made, but shouldn’t have been made, wrong balance, right balance, etc…(you get the point)!  It’s never pretty!  My concern is that these checkbook debates only take place when I’m around.  Ron seems to see me and the word “checkbook” immediately comes to mind.  (I blame it on some sort of associative hypnotic reaction.)  Anyway, I’ve gotten smart and at any sign of conflict, I ask if this is going to be one of those “checkbook things” and if it is, I graciously excuse myself from the dinner table. 

 My thanks to you both for many, many wonderful evenings, despite the “checkbook thing”.

I have 2 favorite stories. The first was when Karyn and Ron first moved to the social capital of the world, Binghamton and were invited to a party. Apparently there were many men there with beepers (hopefully the doctor type, not the drug-dealer type) and Ron, not wanting to be left out decided he, too, could be just like them. Walking into the party and seeing all of these people with beepers on their belts, Ron felt good as he was wearing his garage door opener on his belt!!

 The second involves a trip Karyn, Ron, my husband Sid and I took to Kutchers (we really know all of the hot spots!). The guys decided they were going to play golf, while Karyn and I did-God knows what. It was time for the ever-exciting trivia game and Karyn and I made our way to the designated room. As we walked in we noticed some people milling around and across the room two figures sound asleep on a sofa. Karyn said, "Look at those two old guys. Glad our husbands are not like that." With that we walked closer and of course those two old guys, sound asleep were Ron and Sid-- a truly natural pose for both.

Ron, who has worked 6 days a week since I've known him, had almost never taken a day off until he had grandchildren to go visit. When I was in high school, he took off work the day before my Earth Science state Regents exam to help me study. He did the same thing for Steven before me and would later tell people that he went through Earth Science three times. (We both passed the test-- all thanks to Ron.)

Ron was not a man of high fashion. About a year after he married us, I became aware of how much his clothing mortified me (I was 11 at this time). Mom and I devised a plan to clear out his closet by offering to take some of the more hideous pieces "to the cleaners" for him. I think he probably knew what we were doing, but years later still asked about that Navajo shirt.

When I turned 16, my mother tried to teach me to drive once. Once. It fell to Ron to take over. Apparently I took turns a little fast. Ron introduced me to Mr. Smooth Turn, my friend who was supposed to guide me through turning corners at an acceptable speed. Ron would drive and demonstrate Mr. Smooth Turn's capabilities in his soothing doctor voice. I eventually got it. Ever since then when I would drive with Ron, I would feel compelled to turn a corner and point out to him that I remembered my good friend Mr. Smooth Turn and still invited him into the car with me. This would always make Ron laugh.  

When we moved into our house in Vestal, we bought from a family that included a son named Satish. When we would tell people where we lived, they would say, "Oh, you live in Satish's house." Ron could never remember that kid's name and in his head, it morphed into the name Snoshty. A few months later, Steven and I were begging for a dog. Ron finally conceded with one requirement. He would choose the name. Ron named our dog Snoshty so that Snoshty could once again live in our house.

Years later when Snoshty started getting sick, I was very upset that he was no longer as agile and spry as he once was. He could no longer make it up and down the stairs and one night in a fit of frustration and anger over the situation, I screamed, "Why don't we just shoot him!" as you would a wounded horse. A little while later, Ron got a cramp in his leg and was having trouble on the stairs. He quickly called to Mom and said, "Don't tell Stacey!"

When Steven and I were younger, Ron would come into our rooms at night to tuck us in and say goodnight. He would sit at the edge of the bed and we would talk about the day or things that were on our minds and would end with a hug. Every night, the conversation would get off track and just go in a very silly direction. At this time, Ron would lean over and say, "Here's your hug" to indicate that we were done talking and now we were just stalling to try to stay up longer. This has now become a part of the family's lexicon in any setting as a euphemism for taking the conversation one step too far.

My junior high and high school would often send home letters or forms to be signed by parents. The letter would state that it should be signed by the "parent, guardian, or responsible adult." Ron decided that he was neither my parent nor my legal guardian, so he signed all forms "Responsible Adult for Stacey Wions." In going through his papers, we found a certificate that I made for him at one time naming him World's Greatest Responsible Adult.