THE MAN FOR HER



by LEO J. KINSELLA 


Published by VALIANT PUBLICATIONS 
421 South Halvey Avenue 
Oak Park, Illinois


Imprimatur: +Samual Cardinal Stritch
Archbishop of Chicago

Nihil Obstat: Edward Brueggeman, S.J.

Copyright, 1957 Leo J. Kinsella


PREFACE

Many wives who read "The Wife Desired" felt that their husbands had 
been neglected. They would like to see a book for them. "Wouldn't 
work," I always said. "They would never buy or read a book for self-
improvement as husbands."

"I'll bet you mine will read," one wife replied. "I'll get the book, say 
not a word to my husband, and read a chapter or so each night. 
Occasionally I'll burst out into laughter. Soon he'll wonder what's 
going on. I'll leave the book lying around. If I know my husband, 
curiosity will have him into it in not time."

So that is the reason why there is "The Man for Her." I could not run 
forever from all the wives who had read "The Wife Desired."

A few chapters have appeared in several magazines: "Town 
Spendthrift--House Tightward," "Eschewing Thistles," and "Mouse 
Trapped Husbands" in "The Way of St. Francis"; "Husbands Treated 
Like Dogs" in "The Messenger of the Sacred Heart". Reprints of 
"Mouse Trapped Husbands" and "Husbands Treated Like Dogs" in 
"The Family Digest."

My gratitude goes out ot so many for their help and suggestions, 
especially to Zita Smetko for her help on the manuscript.



Dedication To My Father and Mother



CONTENTS

Introduction

1. Husbands Treated Like Dogs
2. Inspiration
3. Mister Fix It
4. Town Spendthrift
5. Eschewing Thistles
6. Mouse Trapped Husbands
7. Understanding
8. Humor
9. Positive Listening
10. Masterful Man For Her
11. Adventure, Romance, Enthusiasm
12. Make Believe
13. Tit For Tat
14. Companionship
15. Love
16. Sex
17. Religion



INTRODUCTION

Doctors, lawyers, and other professional men study and train for 
years before they practice. Likewise, tradesmen of all sorts must 
slowly learn their trade. But who needs any preparation to be a 
husband? He is fitted by nature to be the answer to any discerning 
maiden's prayer. All he has to do is pop the question to the 
fluttering girl, stand before the altar, and he has it made.

"Oh, yes?" all the ladies sing out in chorus. There do seem to be a 
few dissident voices raised to the statement that all males, just 
because they are males, naturally slip into the groove of the 
perfect husband. Some never seem to hit the groove. Others, after 
brief success, jump out of the groove and wobble all over the 
family lot.

For women marriage is a full time job. For men it is a part time job. 
A big part of his time and energy is spent in making a living. No 
doubt that is why most of the advice found in magazines, Sunday 
supplements, and so forth, is for wives. In fact, most of the 
women's magazines devote a considerable amount of space to the 
end of improving m'lady. How to wear clothes more elegantly, how 
to make better use of "make up," how to be the best Cook on the 
block, how to be a successful and happy wife--these are the topics 
which help to sell magazines to ladies. Has anyone heard of a 
man's magazine devoted to his self-improvement?

Even the Bible in its numerous references to husband and wife 
gives much more advice to the wife. So, perhaps, husbands should 
be let go blissfully on their way. After all, what wife would wish to 
destroy her husband's self-confidence? I certainly do not intend to 
trifle one bit with that male ego.

The only effort in subsequent chapters will be to observe 
successful, happy husbands in action. How does a husband 
manage to have the wife desired, and in having her, reach the 
pinnacle of earthly happiness? We hope to find the answer to this 
question as we read on.

The most miserable people in the world are those who bring 
unhappiness to others. Contrarily, the happiest of all are they who 
make others happy. Has anybody ever seen a miserable, 
cantankerous wife with a joyful husband in tow? So, husbands, if 
you would escape a fate worse than death, cultivate a happy wife. 
The Man For Her is smart enough to keep his wife purring. And 
should he stumble into the doghouse he knows the way out.

One day three golfing companions and I were witnesses to a very 
amusing situation. A real duffer or "hacker," as we used to say in 
caddie parlance, was manfully swinging away on the first tee. 
These were not practice swings. He had blood in his eye, and had 
his golf ball been a living thing it would have been in danger of 
being hacked to death. Finally he dribbled the ball off the tee. As 
he stalked down the fairway he pulled out of the caddie cart a 
nationally read picture magazine. In that particular issue there was 
an article by a famous professional giving away the secret of his 
long domination of the pro tournament tours.

"If somebody else can drive two hundred and seventy-five yards 
down the fairway, why can't I?" was written all over his face as he 
glared at the magazine. We were skeptical of the results of his 
determined reading. Only an experienced student of the game of 
golf could understand the article, much less put it into practice. 
Yet, the duffer was reading it avidly as he trudged over to the 
rough after his ball. The incongruity of the situation made all of us 
chuckle.

Many tens of thousands of men, many of whom are husbands, do 
wish to improve their golf game, otherwise there would not be so 
many books on the subject. Hardly a season passes without one of 
the leading professionals coming out with a book on how to play 
better golf.

Everytime a person goes to school or reads a book to learn 
something it is an act of humility. It is a healthy admission that he 
does not know everything. We have humble golfers. Can't we have 
humble husbands?

Countless happy marriages are mute testimony that there are 
humble husbands. However, divorce courts, marriage counseling 
services, family relation institutes, and aggrieved wives are 
testimony (and not so mute) that many husbands could learn a 
thing or two. Here I must be allowed the indulgence of a word or 
two to the wise. My own experience as a marriage counselor is that 
failures seldom indicate any realization that there is anything to 
learn about playing the role of the successful husband. At best, if 
the light ever came, it came too late. The wife was through, gone.

The purpose of this book is not to attempt to revive dead 
marriages. If, however, through the grace of God, the reunion of 
one husband with his wife is accomplished, all this ink would be 
justified. Yet, I am not appealing to hopeless, psychopathic 
"duffers." I am not capable even if I wanted to deal with them. The 
hope in these pages is that some young men may become more 
aware that, as there are a few tricks to every trade, there is 
something to be said for preparing to be a husband. Also, perhaps 
some husbands could pick up a tidbit here and there whereby they 
could bring a little more happiness to those wonderful girls they 
married some years ago.

Once I heard a wife say that her husband was the most wonderful 
man in the world and that she adored him. What husband is there 
who could be indifferent to such praise from the one he loves? 
What husband worthy of the name would not literally stand on his 
head to merit such esteem?

Full happiness can come to a husband only through his wife. 
Success in business and the social world are as ashes in his hand, 
if he fails to win the love and admiration of his chosen partner for 
life. The unsuccessful husband is sometimes the successful 
business man. Frustration at home drove him to find his niche 
elsewhere. And it is a niche he would gladly vacate were not real 
happiness denied him in his own home.

So many happy husbands and so many miserable husbands. What 
is the reason? Different wives, of course! The reader who thinks 
that to be the only answer should drop this book and go quietly to 
sleep. On the other hand, if he knows this ungallant answer is at 
least an over-simplification, in subsequent chapters he may find 
many different types of happy husbands and how they were 
successful.

During the months I spent collecting the material for this book I 
asked quite a number of young ladies to give me, in a few hundred 
words, their picture of a real husband, a flight of fancy, if they so 
desired. I have come to realize that the task was far from easy. Not 
one of the young ladies produced a thing in spite of several 
reminders. One, upon being asked by her mother why she had not 
begun writing, replied that if she could get down on paper the 
things in her soul people would think she was looking for God, not 
a husband.



1. HUSBANDS TREATED LIKE DOGS

I had heard that honeymoons were an ecstatic interlude, so I 
should not have been too disappointed that life with Grace had 
settled down into a humdrum affair. After five years, I had an 
uneasy feeling that our marriage was getting threadbare like our 
first parlor carpet, which would not take many more brushings. It 
hurt my pride to sense that my wife was not in seventh heaven 
either. The baby and four-year-old Bill gave her quite a time along 
with the household chores.

Grace was beginning to take on that expression of weariness tinged 
with self-pity. We were budgeting like mad for our own home, and I 
guess both of us felt that we were not having much fun. Life was 
all work and no play.

What really began to tee me off was Grace's attitude of resentment 
over my taking it easy around the house after work. Gradually I 
developed a deaf ear to her requests and commands. The order 
from the kitchen, "Jack, come here," no longer brought me to 
instant action. "Jack, bring the paper in from the porch" was like 
an anesthetic. Even if her mentioning of the paper made me want 
to see the sport page, I stalled around before getting it.

Guess I never had been a fireball around the house, but these 
orders were making a shirker out of me. What I considered a tone 
of command in her voice made it more difficult for me to do what I 
knew had to be done.

Then one day a change took place. I was reading the newspaper 
and trying not to hear Grace calling from the kitchen.

"Jack, dear," her voice was different, "please come here for a 
minute."

I took my sweet time, finally getting to the kitchen as though I had 
some business there. After a moment I grumbled, "Well, what do 
you want?"

Grace turned and threw her arms around me, kissing me warmly 
and repeatedly. Then she gently scratched me behind the ear.

"Gosh," I managed to say, "is that all?"

"That's all. I just wanted to be with you. I spend too much time in 
this kitchen away from you."

As I hugged her again, my eyes landed on the window she gave up 
struggling with the minute I entered the kitchen.

"Wait a minute, dear," I said with some strength coming back into 
me. I jerked the window up with five times more force than was 
necessary.

"My!" Grace exclaimed, "you have tremendous strength in your 
arms."

"Anything else I can do?" By this time I was walking around the 
kitchen like the Strong Man of the Circus, with my chest out 
dangerously far.

"Not a thing, dear," she chirped.

And this was just the beginning. Grace was a different person. She 
had a winning, confident charm about her. The command in her 
voice was gone. No longer did she have to ask me two and three 
times to do things for her.

The milkman hardly had let go of the half-gallon bottle of milk 
when I scooped it up. As I made for the refrigerator, Grace 
intercepted me and tickled me in the ribs.

"Taking unfair advantage of me," I reproached her, as I struggled 
to get away like Mohammedans fighting to get away from Mecca.

When I caught the evening newspaper on the first bounce, I 
returned to be trapped by Grace. She usually hid behind the front 
door, as I pretended to think that she was in far-off Tibet. When 
she pounced upon me, I got the message. I didn't spend three 
years in the Signal Corps for nothing. The newspaper dropped to 
the floor and sometimes remained there.

When Uncle Ed left me a few thousand, I spent little time trying to 
figure out why he singled me out in his will. I was too busy 
spending the money. Likewise, I was having too grand a time with 
Grace to bother too much over the reasons for our new attitude 
toward each other. For two weeks or so I went merrily along on my 
dumb way. Then the day of awakening came.

I had to stay home from work with a terrible cold. Really it was a 
blessing in disguise, as so many of my imagined ills turn out to be.

Late in the afternoon, being alone, with the children asleep and 
Grace having run out to shop, I became restless and picked up one 
of my wife's magazines. It was one of the well-known women's 
magazines. "Treat Your Husband Like a Dog" was a challenge to 
read on. It became clear to me, sentence after sentence, what had 
happened during the past weeks. Grace, I was convinced, had tried 
the article out on me. She had treated me like a dog.

YOUR PUPPY, the article said, MUST ASSOCIATE THE COMMAND, 
COME HERE, WITH SOMETHING PLEASING. AFTER HE COMES, PET 
HIM, AND SCRATCH HIM BEHIND THE EAR. YOU'LL FIND THAT 
HE'LL WANT TO COME AGAIN FOR SUCH REWARDS .

"Well, I'll be darned!" I almost woke up the children. I could almost 
feel her fingers behind my ear as I thought back over a number of 
pleasing experiences of recent days.

The article continued: DON'T FORGET, PRAISE GOES A LONG WAY 
IN THE TRAINING OF YOUR PUPPY.

The magazine dropped to my knees and memory carried me back 
to the kitchen. "My, Jack, what tremendous strength you have in 
those arms of yours." I laughed out loud as I recalled that, if I had 
had a tail that day, I would have thrashed the kitchen with it.

"That little rascal," I mused. "Wait till I see her!"

Then an angel of light gave me a brilliant idea. Why spoil the game 
and the fun? Continue to be--ahem--to play dumb--it takes little 
effort for you and you are so good at it.

Just to check, I then bolted out to the kitchen and tried the 
window. Sure enough. I smiled knowingly like Sherlock Holmes. A 
baby could lift it. I pulled my bathrobe off one shoulder and held 
my arm up to the light of the window. I made a fist, and my muscle 
looked like a knot in a cooked string of spaghetti. And Grace had 
made me feel like Hercules.

I hurried back to the parlor, replaced the magazine, and turned on 
the TV. Thank heavens, the angel of light got through to me and 
gave the angel of darkness no chance to get in his digs. I felt no 
resentment that Grace had been treating me like a dog. On the 
contrary, I was glad to know that my wife was making a studied 
effort to make ours a happy marriage.

Several happy weeks, the like of which we had not experienced 
since our honeymoon, attested to her finesse. Grace was a clever 
girl, God love her. Not many women could have put over her game 
so well, I prided myself.

When Grace returned, I was seized by a little imp and by the desire 
to further test if I was on the right track. I gathered up all the 
magazines in sight and said, "Grace I'm throwing all these out."

"Now, Jack, you're sick. I'll take them to the basement."

Wouldn't I have been crazy to squelch a game like this? I thought 
that I could detect a faint quiver in her voice as she said, "Besides, 
I want one of those magazines. It has an interesting recipe for 
Zucchini squash. And I bought some this afternoon."

As I sat in the parlor, I formulated my strategy. If Grace could plot, 
so could I. If she could maneuver me into jumping all over the 
place for her like a puppy--and what is more, like it--couldn't I play 
a game of my own? Don't women also have a few week points in 
their armor?

As we sat down to dinner, I decided to make my first move. I 
gingerly led off with, "Grace, this Zucchini casserole is out of this 
world." It really was delicious, and perhaps that fact helped me. I 
hadn't said a word of praise like that for ages.

What a boob I had been for so long! Grace came up like a hungry 
bass for my plug. "You like it?"

"Like it? It's wonderful."

"I was afraid. First time I tried the recipe." She struggled to be 
nonchalant and keep the cooing out of her voice.

"First time or not," I said, "it really hit the spot, and I didn't have an 
appetite when I came to the table."

As I ate dessert, Grace jumped up and got a long untouched bottle 
of blackberry cordial. "A glass of this will be good for your cold," 
she coaxed.

As she handed me the glass, her eyes never showed more 
solicitude--even when she gave our baby its bottle. Although I had 
forgotten about the cold, I managed a cough. "Wonderful stuff. 
Throat feels better already."

My quickly formulated strategy was working like a charm. My first 
play had scored a touchdown. One word of praise, and I had her 
ready to serve hummingbird wings on toast. No question about it, 
she had me eating out of her hand like a big, brown-eyed cocker 
spaniel. The spaniel was not going to stop eating out of her hand 
either, but he was going to pick and choose what would be on that 
hand.

The next morning at breakfast, I was hoping that the egg would not 
be completely hard-boiled. My wife had heard me grouse often 
enough about my egg. Up till that wonderful cold, it always had 
been a mystery to me why my egg could not be a three-minute egg 
once in a while. It had exasperated me why the egg had to be a 
half-minute or a ten-minute egg.

Those days are gone forever. A master stroke put an end to those 
detestable hard-boiled eggs. Socrates could not have carried the 
field before him with a more brilliant statement. "Grace, this three-
minute egg is done to perfection. Just right," I said 
enthusiastically, smacking my lips in true Indian style.

I never said a word the next morning nor thereafter about the egg-
timer perched on the stove. Now my eggs get stop watch attention. 
No Olympic racer ever had his time clocked more accurately.

As I pretended to hurry more than usual that morning, Grace 
sprinted ahead of me to the door. She threw her arms around me 
and kissed me. She kissed me. And not a little peck, either. There 
actually was a look of gratitude in her eyes. "Hurry home, Jack, 
dear; I miss you during the day."

I walked out of the house without touching the steps, and sold 
three cars that day. I had the world by the tail as never before. My 
game was clicking like Hogan's tee shots. Life was getting exciting. 
Here I was playing two games at once and did not know which I 
preferred.

In fact, when I got home that evening I hesitated whether to pursue 
my game or let her get in a few licks. I was warming up to the 
possibilities and with recklessness come of success wanted to rush 
Grace off her feet.

During dinner I held back from extolling everything on the table 
and kept the conversation rolling along about my luck in selling 
the cars.

I had not finished the paper after dinner when I heard Grace 
calling from the basement. "Jack, dear, could you come downstairs 
for a minute?"

"Ah," I grinned to myself, "wonder what lesson in the training 
program she wants me to exemplify tonight?" Happy that she had 
not forgotten about her own game, I held back from rushing 
downstairs. After a respectful delay, I sauntered down like any 
unsuspecting cocker.

"What do you want?" I managed as best I could in my 
unenthusiastic tone of yesteryear. Grace was well into her act, 
tugging at a large box.

"Just was wondering what you thought about this arrangement," 
she replied.

She was developing fast as a charming animal trainer. Indeed, I felt 
that even wild lions would have had a time of resisting her. With 
effort I held back from taking her in my arms. She rattled on about 
what I thought about this and that regarding the arrangement of a 
section of the basement. All I could see was a pile of junk.

As I began to help her with the box, she asked, "shall we put it in 
the coal-bin?"

I resisted looking into her eyes for the mischief they must have 
contained. She knew the coal-bin was for coal as well as I did. The 
whole plot was to gct me to decide where to put it, and then, of 
course, I would be the one to put it there--just where she wanted it.

It takes two to play at most games. So I began swinging at 
everything she pitched up. "No, Grace, this box should go over 
here. And watch out for those old boards. They have nails in 
them."

"MAKE YOUR PUPPY THINK HE IS HAVING HIS OWN WAY WHEN HE 
IS DOING JUST WHAT YOU WANT. REWARD HIM REPEATEDLY AND 
HE WILL CONTINUE TO ENJOY DOING WHAT YOU WANT."

I could see what lesson she was teaching her puppy and I was 
curious to see her technique in making the fitting reward for my 
cooperation. She pretended to stumble over a board and fell right 
into my arms. With her head on my chest, she looked at me. This 
was always the best part of the lesson and I carried it off like a 
prize-winning cocker spaniel.

"Grace, do you think it possible a woman's eyes can grow more 
beautiful with the years?"

"What do you mean?" she asked, snuggling closer. She definitely 
was interested in my line of thought. Her eyes told me to rave on.

"Well, lately I have been wondering about it," I said as I looked into 
her eyes. "Must sound awfully foolish."

"Of course not, darling," she purred softly, as the light in her eyes 
raced up toward one-million candlepower.

Her eyes were becoming more beautiful with each expectant heart-
beat. Manfully I resisted saying more. Grace was already limp in 
my arms.

"Well, Grace," I broke in upon our reverie, nodding to the junk on 
the floor, "guess I better get back to this debris."

"Let it wait, Jack. There's no rush."

"You are in a lovable mood, Grace. It would be cruel of you to 
expect me to turn from you to these boxes. In fact, I prefer 
carrying you around tonight." The thought was no more suddenly 
expressed than the action followed.

She felt so cozy in my arms as I walked slowly up the stairs, not 
wanting the experience to end. What a dullard I had been so long 
for not having done it before!

On reaching the kitchen, we became aware that we had two 
children needing a little attention. We smiled knowingly at each 
other as she said, "It won't take long, Jack, to get them to bed."



2. INSPIRATION

Since inspiration is the most important contribution a woman can 
make in married life, one might expect that young men on the 
prowl for a wife would be alerted for the presence of inspiration in 
their dates. Your steady date may be a slick little chick of good 
character and background. But does she inspire you? Does she 
arouse in you a desire to do big things for her? Does thinking and 
dreaming about her make you a better person, a less selfish 
person?

You may be spiritually and physically attracted to her. Well and 
good. But do you lose sleep planning all the things you are going 
to do to make her happy? The thought never enters your mind how 
you are going to be happy. You have forgotten yourself 
completely. She is all that matters. If you think of yourself at all, it 
is only as to how you can improve yourself to make her happy and 
proud of you. She is precious to you. To protect her you would 
wrap her in cellophane. To glorify her you would clothe her in 
spun gold and crown her with jewels.

You would stoop to nothing base. A glance of pain and 
disappointment from her would kill you. A smile of love and 
appreciation from her would act like strong wine and sends you off 
vibrating with the joy of being alive.

One moment you are in an agony of frustration because vou 
cannot provide her with all the things she rightly deserves. The 
next moment you could break telephone poles for her. Her 
presence or her image in your mind gives confidence that you can 
do anything for her. No obstacle can prevent you from laying the 
world at her feet.

It does seem that you are in love, that the girl inspires you. Marry 
her if you want to live. If you want only to go through the motions 
of living the rest of your life, let her slip away from you. The girl 
who not only can step up your pulse, but also can inspire you is a 
pearl of great price.

Many a young gallant marries unaware that such a word as 
inspiration is in the dictionary. During courtship days he never 
thinks to look for the faculty of inspiration in his future wife. After 
living together a few years the same man wonders what is lacking 
in his marriage.

Unfortunately, too many young ladies know nothing about 
housekeeping and cooking before marriage. Happily, many of 
them rise to the occasion and become good cooks and housewives. 
Similarly, many a girl finds herself after marriage and becomes a 
truly inspirational wife.

Why should young men gamble their whole future happiness? 
Because, I am afraid, so many young men do not realize how 
important it is to look for a wife who will be an inspiration to them. 
Beauty, personality, and all the virtues may lose much of their 
luster without inspiration. As a marriage counselor I have no 
recollection of a single unhappy failure as a husband who was the 
recipient of inspiration from his wife.

The best TV in the world cannot produce a picture without 
electricity. Most husbands present a sorry picture without 
inspiration. Turn on the electricity, and the TV comes to life. Turn 
on inspiration, and the husband sparks up and catches fire with 
the will to do big things for his wife.

Husbands merit inspiration by actively responding to their wives' 
effort. Few women are able to continue a course of action in the 
face of constant failure. No woman can inspire a lump of dough. 
The object of her inspiration must be receptive, must want to be 
inspired. Every teacher has experienced great differences of 
reaction to her efforts. Some students will respond at once, for 
example, to the teacher's effort at a witticism. Others will sit in 
their seats like cabbages. A teacher could stand on her head and 
juggle six text books with her feet and get no reaction other than 
stupid stares from some pupils.

Many of these listless little boys become husbands. How often has 
a wife looked at her husband with a glow of love in her eyes; but, 
because he was not in the mood for sex, there was no response. 
Normal routine for him was to go into suspended animation or 
hibernation. From his lethargic state he sprang forth once a week 
or so for an hour of love-making. Then he spent the following days 
back in his shell.

An exceptionally gifted and energetic wife might, with all her 
inspirational faculties in high blower, lead a husband of this type 
to a semblance of animation. However, less clever and less 
determined wives become discouraged. Dissatisfied and confused 
they frequently degenerate into shrewish and nagging wives.

Many a husband has only himself to blame, if he finds little 
incentive in his wife to make something of himself. It takes two to 
tango. Husband and wife react strongly upon each other. Even an 
enthusiastic wife soon runs out of gas if she is constantly 
presented with the spectacle of her husband curled up on the sofa 
like an over-fed hound dog.

There is nothing spectacular about a young blade flexing his 
muscles before his wife of a Sunday afternoon on some beach. Full 
of pep and virility he cannot resist "showing off' for the one whose 
esteem he prizes above all else. What is spectacular and wonderful 
is to see a dumpy little balding middle-aged husband "showing 
off." Surrounded by his children and wife on some beach he 
cavorts like the young colt he is not. In danger of rupturing 
himself he enters a high jump contest with his growing children. I 
love to see a display of this nature for I believe that it is, 
conscious or not, a play for his wife's admiration. Years of 
marriage have not dulled his anxiety to win the attention of his 
wife.

He is not too mature? Who wants to be too mature? That can be 
senility, an affliction very common in many husbands grown old 
before their time. The urge to "show off" is characteristic of 
children and the young of heart in love.

Our high jumping husband is reacting to a definite stimulus, the 
presence of his wife. "Now, George, be careful," or "Watch out, 
George, you'll hurt yourself," are well-meant, solicitous 
admonitions. But they only spur him on to greater heights, because 
he has her attention and concern.

I feel sorry for a husband never inclined to "show off" for his wife. 
He is either a sad sack to begin with and incapable of being 
stimulated by his wife's inspiration, or he has been so deflated by 
his wife that he drags his weary bones along a dull road with no 
horizons.

The husband is our subject, and we must resist sounding off on 
the wife. Yet, we yield to the temptation to comment on some 
wives. Any wife who ignores, or ridicules, or spurns her husband's 
"showing off" for her benefit on the beach or anywhere else is a 
dumb bunny. The spirit which leads her husband to high jump for 
her on a beach is the same spirit that will carry him to the heights 
in any field of endeavor.

Is not bringing home a Cadillac or a mink coat "showing off" on the 
part of a husband? Many wives like this type of "showing off" 
much better than high jumping. Seldom is George admonished for 
this kind of display. Yet, getting the Cadillac was a greater strain 
on his cardiac muscles than his exercise on the sand. Well, men, I 
guess all that we can say is that some women are funny and hard 
to figure.

Husbands should be warned that "showing off" is often regarded 
by wives as egotistic. Obviously, it does not have to be. Husbands 
are not so inhuman as not to want a little attention. Wives have 
their little methods of attracting attention; and nobody accuses 
them of being egotistic.

Any form of inspiration is fundamentally a building up of the 
husband's ego. If a wife wants her husband to bounce she cannot 
deflate him. Deflated balls do not bounce. Yet, many a wife is 
restrained from "blowing up" her husband, because she feels that 
his head is already swollen to the breaking point. At least a 
hundred wives have complained to me that they find it going 
against the grain to flatter husbands already evidencing exalted 
ideas of themselves. Although I have no proof, I always have felt 
that many of these wives were not very inspirational. An inspired 
husband is spared the ignominy of trying to raise himself by his 
own boot straps. His wife does the job for him. On the other hand, 
a "blow off" generates his own steam. He does not get it from his 
wife.

Since a conceited man is difficult for all, it is no wonder he 
presents a special problem to his wife. She knows that inspiration 
is one of her principal contributions to the man she married. Yet, 
she cannot be blamed if she feels that it is like carrying coals to 
Newcastle or shipping beer to Milwaukee to promote the ego of an 
egotistic husband.

A conceited man is so full of himself that it is hard for any one 
else to get inside him. I tried once and failed. I once worked with a 
young couple whose main marriage problem was the husband's 
towering conceit. The man had no particular accomplishment to 
his credit, nor did he evidence more than normal abilities.

Perpetually obsessed with himself, his first concern toward his 
wife seemed to be that she always realize how lucky she was to 
have captured him. Relentlessly in devious little ways he never let 
her forget how empty her life would have been without him. 
Humorless and deadly serious, he kept his wife in a dither lest she 
wound his vanity. Needless to say, she frequently failed to 
measure up to the demands of his pride. The resultant 
recriminating outbursts were distressing to her refined and 
sensitive nature.

Because the world did not appreciate him and lay honors and 
material rewards at his feet, he became a bitter young man. He 
could not suffer the loss of his grandiose image of himself. Others 
were to blame--his dumb boss, the incumbent political party, the 
governor, the President. Critical of everyone, he could tell exactly 
what was wrong with everything from the local dog pound to the 
U.N. Eking out an existence on a subsistence salary, he could 
blame no one but the whole world. Finding fault with everyone, his 
wife included, he hoped by this defense mechanism to ward off 
censure of himself.

This unhappy husband came to see me not to seek any advice 
about his marriage troubles but only to prove that his wife was 
sadly wanting. She was no inspiration to him. She never showed 
appreciation, never complimented him, never made him feel that 
he was tops for her money, never sparked for him. To no avail I 
tried to point out how difficult it was for his wife to set on fire 
what already was a 3-11 blaze.

His wife admitted that she was incapable of inspiring him because 
of his repelling conceit. It is interesting here to speculate on what 
might have been the reaction of the proud husband had his wife 
been able to overcome her repulsion. Would her wifely praise and 
admiration have brought him the beginnings of humility sufficient 
to destroy or mitigate his conceit? Would he have begun to enjoy 
her attention to the extent of forgetting about himself? Would he 
have noticed that the less he strained his own arm, the more she 
patted him on the back?

Here it is important to note how husband and wife react to each 
other. A conceited husband may so cut the ground from under his 
wife that she is unable to fulfill her duty of inspiration. A humble 
husband invites admiration and praise. The more she builds him 
up the more he responds with love and deeds performed to merit 
such an inspirational wife. Evil begets evil and good begets good.

An unhappy husband always finds the cause of his unhappiness in 
his wife. This or that is wrong with her. So often he is too ignorant 
or self-centered to realize that he is greatly to blame for his wife's 
faults.

Once a wife admitted to me the truth of her husband's accusation 
that she didn't put her heart into her cooking. "Wasn't he asking 
just a little too much?" brought a sad smile from her.

"Well, I'm not putting my heart, I'll admit, or much else into 
cooking for him now. I once did. I gave it everything I had. When 
we first married I was dying to win a little praise from my husband 
for my cooking. For awhile I felt that I was too much of an amateur 
to merit any praise. As time went on I became a good cook. I 
learned to appreciate good food well prepared. The better the 
meals became, the more he took them for granted. About the only 
comment I ever heard was 'The meat is tough' or 'The soup is too 
hot.'"

"Aren't wives ever supposed to receive a little nod of appreciation 
from their husbands? Is this business of inspiration a one-way 
street? Am I supposed to buzz with enthusiasm about my work 
around the house and with the children just because he doesn't 
beat me? Wouldn't a little positive encouragement and 
appreciation help? I realize that I'm supposed to inspire him, to 
send him off to work with his head back and tail up. But what 
about me? I'm human too."

The woman we have listened to at some length was not a bad wife. 
She loved her husband; but she wanted to love him much more. 
She felt that his lack of interest in her work and problems was 
sapping her enthusiasm and making it difficult to be a good wife.

Most people pay back in kind, love for love and neglect for 
neglect. This wife was paying back neglect. Her husband long had 
neglected to encourage her efforts over the stove. He had no right 
to complain. He was getting back from his wife what he merited, 
the baloney blue plate special. He was getting the can opener 
treatment and wondered what had happened to the boiled dinners, 
casseroles, and home-made pies.

Consideration of this sad husband's plight brings up the subject of 
the husband's obligation to inspire his wife. So far we have dealt 
with the way a husband responds to his wife's inspiration, how he 
avoids placing obstacles in her path as she tries to be an 
inspirational wife.

I have never met a wife who denies her duty of inspiration. Also, I 
have met few who have failed to remind me that inspiration is a 
two-way street.

Married people make a mistake when they become so casual or 
careless that they flaunt human nature in their dealings with each 
other. We like to know that people do things for us because they 
want to, not because they are duty bound or feel that they have to 
pay a debt. They enjoy exerting themselves for us and this brings 
us the happy knowledge of their love. No master ever receives 
happiness from the servitude of his slave.

When a wife says, "My conscience bothers me because I haven't 
sewed the buttons on your coat, dear," she intends no hurt, but she 
is being pretty dumb. Her concept of inspiration is minus zero. 
Her words might be paraphrased thus: "Sewing buttons on your 
coat is a pain in the neck. I know it's my duty and I must do it. 
Because I've been putting it off, my conscience annoys me."

The husband tingles with excitement and, inspired by his wife, 
rushes off to work to set the world on fire for her. Like Fun!

Love manifests itself by wanting, not having to do things for 
another. Christ did not have to die on a cross for us; He wanted to 
because of His love.

Inspirational husbands give the unmistakable impression that they 
are eager to do things for their wives. The kitchen sink drain is 
leaking, and the lady of the house is not happy over it. Her 
husband wants to fix it, not because he loves to tinker with 
plumbing but because he wants to do things for her. He derives 
pleasure from fussing for her, not from messing with old pipes.

The Man for Her does not look upon a broken electric switch in the 
basement as a duty to be faced. It is an opportunity to evidence 
his love and care for his wife.

To ignore completely the switch is smarter than to acknowledge it 
is an onerous job for her to which he will get some day. Giving 
excuses repeatedly for not fixing it can leave his wife with no 
other impression but that he is avoiding a distasteful job.

It is no boost to the wife's ego to realize that her husband does 
things for her because he must. Sadly she remembers the time he 
looked for excuses to perform little services for her.

Once a wife told me that the greatest joy in her marriage probably 
came from her acceptance of her husband's kind deeds and tokens 
of service. "He wants to do little things for me and derives a real 
pleasure in the performance. It's evident in his every action. There 
are times I could bite him I love him so much. He has never 
indicated any sense of obligation. I think that would kill me. 
Maybe he has spoiled me; but I love it."



3. MISTER FIX IT

"Listen, dearie," Mabel said to Margie in familiar, friendly tone over 
the back yard fence, "What are you moaning about? The only 
difference in my husband on week days and on Sunday is that on 
Sunday he rests with a clear conscience. My husband really takes 
to heart the Sunday rest. No servile work on the Sabbath is one 
Church Law he goes for in a big way. I think he goes to Church 
every Sunday just hoping to hear something about keeping holy 
the Lord's Day. If his ass fell into a pit on Sunday, he wouldn't 
draw it out."

Not to be out-done, calorie loving Margie holds up a plump arm 
and keeps the conversation rolling along by saying, "My husband 
does so little around the house to help me with the heavy work, 
that I'm getting muscles where I shouldn't have them."

Mabel took a discreet glance down at Margie's full and rounded 
hips and declined to make any comment on the local muscle 
situation. After all, neighbors do have to be friendly and get along.

After another half hour of small talk, both Mabel and Margie 
agreed that their automatic washers and dryers had long ago run 
their cycles and needed attention.

Let us turn our attention to Mabel's and Margie's husbands. After 
all, the husband is the subject of this book. Both neighborly wives 
might have thought that their husbands were relaxing down at 
work, building up a reserve of energy to be let loose on some home 
chores. Quite the opposite was true.

Mabel's husband, a foreman in a nut and bolt factory, was having a 
time of it trying to get the men and machines to turn out bolts to 
fit into the nuts. Margie's husband was up to his ears in paper 
work, getting out a statistical report sufficiently involved to baffle 
the other departmental heads for hours.

As both husbands fought their separate ways home through the 
rush hour traffic, the same thought was upper-most in their minds-
-a good dinner and a quiet evening of relaxation at home.

Mabel and Margie had other ideas. Both had given some thought 
during the day to several home projects for their respective 
husbands. Any husband is familiar with the ability of his wife to 
maintain a good backlog of schemes to keep him busy around the 
house.

At the most unsuspected moment, when he is comfortably seated 
with the evening newspaper, or is watching his favorite TV 
program, then she pounces upon him. The kitchen sink is leaking. 
The front door-bell does not ring. If nothing is out of order, the 
husband still can not be too sure of his evening rest. Ladies like a 
change. All day, week after week, they look at the same 
arrangement of the furniture. Any husband unsuspectful of what is 
coming now, should step to the bottom of the class. Sure enough, 
the furniture must be rearranged. And who can do that unless it be 
the big, burly husband?

Down through the ages, husbands have been meeting, with varying 
degrees of success, these inroads of their wives upon their fireside 
comfort. How can husbands successfully resist these onslaughts? 
Believe it or not, there are some proven methods which should fit 
your own particular circumstances. Ingenuity will enable each to 
modify or add embellishments to enhance the effectiveness of the 
system chosen.

The simplest and least painful method is one followed by my 
brother. Some years ago, my sister-in-law informed me that my 
brother would not do a thing around the house. "Why," she said, 
"he will not try to fix a thing. In fact, he won't even drive a nail." 
Ostensibly this was in the nature of a complaint. Yet, there was a 
wifely pride in her voice. "He says that he doesn't know about 
these things. Call a plumber or an electrician. They have the 
proper tools. It's their business."

Her pride was not too secret that her husband was very successful 
in business and could easily afford to call in the tradesmen to take 
over.

This is the most relaxed method of playing Mister Fix It. We might 
name it, the method "Fix It By Proxy." There can be some 
procedures by proxy in domestic relations not too satisfying. But, 
in this instance, little can be said against the system.

The incredulous may think that they detect a weakness in the 
method of "Fix It By Proxy." Before mentioning a criticism of the 
system and the devastating answer, I must drop a caution. Any 
method of keeping the wife happy, proven though it be by the past 
experience of innumerable ideal husbands, can be muddled up by 
a stumble bum. Finesse is the watchword and can never be laid 
aside in dealing with the wonderful little lady.

About the only trouble with the method of "Fix It By Proxy" is that 
the wife might begin to think that her husband has an "in" with the 
Treasury Department. She orders new fixtures at random. She toys 
with the idea of remodeling the bathroom. The kitchen sink 
ensemble is the latest creation; but the unit does not escape her 
effort at improvement or change. A new type of faucet advertised 
in one of the "Home Beautiful" type of magazines catches her eye. 
She must have it. (Incidentally, this class of magazine has done 
more to disturb the rest of husbands than can be imagined. 
Husbands should take them off to work, never failing to leave 
them on the train or at the office.)

The well-heeled husband can tell his wife to call the usual 
plumber, the one whose children he is practically putting through 
college, and then forget all about the matter. Or he may decide to 
have a little fun in the process of slowing down his wife with her 
projects. He takes the plumber aside, slips him a few dollars, and 
hatches a plot. (If men do not stand together in this world of 
women they will fall separately.) The plumber is to make an awful 
mess of the kitchen and slop around the place to a fare-thee-well. 
The husband then trots off to work and in mid-afternoon phones 
the little lady that a sudden business dinner engagement will 
prevent him from coming home that evening.

When he arrives home that night, his wife has had enough 
improvements around the house to last her for a while. She is 
definitely out of sorts and needs a little comforting.

"I'll tell that plumber a thing or two when I call him in the 
morning," the old boy assures his wife. "What can you expect of 
workmen these days! You must have had a terrible day. Why don't 
you call up Susan in the morning and run out to the club for a 
swim?" By the time the lights are out in their bedroom he has his 
wife purring with contentment and the assurance that she has the 
man for her.

"All this sounds just peachy," swells the chorus, "but what if you 
haven't that kind of money?" Fear not. There are methods of 
avoiding the slave role of Mister Fix It, suitable for even the ne'er-
do-well crowd.

Everyone should know that the best defense is an offense. This 
truism has application in other phases of marriage, as well as in 
the problem at hand. No husband should come home from work on 
the defense with his guard up, hoping that he can sneak through 
the evening without his wife presenting him with some 
reconstruction task on the house. This attitude invites attack.

The man for her keeps one jump ahead of his wife. He senses what 
projects she might stir up. For example, if the roof is leaking like a 
sieve he can, with reasonable certainty, foretell that his wife will 
be after him, ere many rainy seasons come and go. If the back door 
falls off its hinges and every stray dog in the vicinity looks upon it 
as an invitation to take up residence, the wife will probably 
become unreasonably demanding and ask that it be fixed.

The second method of playing at Mister Fix It could be called "Fix 
It With Wife." The motif of this method revolves around the truth 
that if a job is worth being done it needs a superintendent. Does 
anybody have to guess very long who is better qualified to fill this 
role?

Let us see how the method works by taking an example at random. 
The wallpaper in the children's room is peeling badly. The 
husband knows that the wife would prefer a washable paint. So, let 
us face it, a job has to be done. But who says the task has to be 
done by the husband alone?

The husband bounces into the house after work and suggests to 
the wife that they get after the children's room after supper. "We'll 
have fun working together, dear. Remember the time of it we had 
getting our first flat ready when we were married?" With a gentle 
hug and kiss he continues, "And if you get up on the ladder with 
those dark blue shorts I once saw you in, don't blame me if I pinch 
you."

After the work gets under way in earnest, anv husband could be 
tempted to wander quietly off to the TV. To succumb thus is fatal. 
The wife will be screaming for him in five minutes. The best 
method of escape has been found to have a reason to run out to 
the store for some item to carry on the work. For this reason, it is 
the biggest mistake in the world to have all the materials and tools 
on hand necessary to finish the job.

There is a tavern right next to the hardware store.

After a quick purchase, the husband can drop into the tavern and 
watch the TV fights for half an hour in perfect comfort. It is best 
not to overdo the pleasant excursion. He can rush back into the 
house muttering something about traffic and parking difficulties.

A careful search through my notes discloses no suggestions about 
the next hour or so. It does look as if the husband may be in for a 
little work at this juncture. The man for her is a good sport and 
knows when he is temporarily licked; so he makes the best of it. 
However, he does not abandon ship. He has humility enough to 
admit that his wife knows much more about removing wallpaper 
and painting.

"I'm afraid, dear, that you better get up on the ladder and do that 
part. You know how you want it to look." With similar self-
abasements he keeps his wife running up and down the ladder. 
This can be tiring. Before it gets too late, he executes the master 
stroke of the evening. Suddenly he lifts his wife off the ladder and 
says, "we've done enough tonight. I'm going to carry you upstairs 
to bed like my little baby girl that you are."

This maneuver is devastating. It is the coup de grace to an 
evening's campaign brilliantly executed, he thinks. Moreover, the 
sudden departure leaves the room in a mess with pails of dirty 
water, sponges, and mops strewn around. Next morning a survey of 
the scene by the wife brings misgivings that she had ever 
mentioned the wallpaper's bad condition.

As she lingers over her second cup of coffee and has time to 
reflect on the gyrations of her husband the previous evening, it is 
possible she may realize that she was taken in by a Casanova. As 
her temperature mounts with the task of cleaning up the mess she 
savs to herself, "wait till I see him tonight."

This is a very possible reaction on the part of a wife to the manner 
in which the husband of our example played his part in "Fix It With 
Wife." It looks as though he made it a one night stand.

If too much space has been given to illustrating the several 
methods of having fun playing at Mister Fix It, the indulgence of 
all husbands is implored. However, it is my feeling that the 
problem merits much attention. How many serious quarrels and 
open fights; how many hurts and strains on the family tie have 
been brought about over this business of the husband doing or not 
doing work around the home. Indeed, the inability of the husband 
to steer a happy course in this regard has scuttled many a 
marriage. So bear with me if I seem to drag out the examples of 
preferred husbands having a barrel of fun playing at Mister Fix It.

By way of parenthesis I must inject the thought that I designedly 
keep repeating the expression of playing at Mister Fix It. This 
particular phase of marriage under discussion must be kept in the 
nature of a game, as all of marriage should be. When husband and 
wife lose the concept that marriage is something of a game to be 
played with the exuberance of children, then that marriage 
becomes a drab, hangdog affair. Keeping marriage something of a 
game keeps a marriage tingling with life. The only difference 
between many married people is that some of them have had 
formal obsequies performed over them at the graveyard.

Now that this observation is off my chest, let us get back to the 
consideration of a few more methods of playing at Mister Fix It.

A visitor to the Holy Land may frequently observe an Arab man 
and wife making their way along a road. The wife is literally loaded 
down from the top of her head to her heels. The husband walks 
along unimpeded. Should he, in a moment of tender regard for his 
wife, help her in the least, he invites other male Arabs to yell out 
at him, "coward, coward."

At most, the Arab husband tends his flock of goats, while the wife 
does all the household, or "tenthold," chores. Since the Arab 
husbands have never even heard the expression "Mister Fix It," we 
are at a loss what to call this method other than the Arab Method, 
which does not seem to be any method at all, but more a lack of it.

One result of the Arab's attitude is easily observed. All the Arab 
wives look as slim and lithe as a fawn. However, we are afraid to 
recommend the Arab Method. In a Christian country, husbands 
simply could not get away with it for a moment. In fact, now we 
regret that we ever mentioned the Arab Method.

Another method with numerous happy and satisfied followers is 
known as "Let the Neighbors Fix It." As with the other systems this 
one requires finesse, perhaps more so, because more people have 
to be involved.

Suppose that the wife has had enough of climbing up and down 
the double decker beds of the children and demands that the attic 
be finished off into a bedroom or two. The husband is about as 
able to do the job as he is able to create a formal evening gown. 
The wife does not seem to realize this sad fact. She hints at the 
project, begs, cajols, and even nags the husband about the much 
needed bedroom space. This is the only period of pain for the 
husband during the whole operation. It is a necessary time of 
"taking it on the chin." During this period the neighbors are 
becoming aware of the attic bedroom project. Friends and relatives 
are brought into the picture.

Some advocates of the method are of the opinion that this is the 
time for the husband to get started by himself. The less he 
accomplishes, the more the neighbors and relatives itch to get into 
the picture, and show how clever and handy they are. Because the 
wife wants the work done, she beams upon these helpers and 
sparks them on with compliments. The huband evidences no 
jealousy. After all, he wants the work done too--by someone else. 
His magnanimity will pay off later with the wife, as we shall see. 
As work progresses the husband steps more and more into the 
background. He lets the neighbors take over. Pride in their work 
keeps them banging away at every opportunity.

The wise husband does not turn these work periods into a beer 
party by plying his friends with drinks. He keeps all liquid 
refreshment out of sight--under lock and key, if necessary. Only 
when a worker drops from exhaustion should the husband revive 
him with alcoholic stimulant, sufficient to get him out of the 
house and on his way.

At this point the clever husband is sitting pretty. These well-
intentioned helpers begin to get on the wife's nerves. They come at 
inopportune moments--when she is busy with guests, or a child is 
sick, or she wants her husband to take her out. Some of the helpers 
get too earnest in their work and become cranky and ill-tempered 
when things go poorly. Conceit in their handiness is in glaring 
contrast to her husband's humility. The more she imagines that 
the helpers are looking down their noses at her husband, the more 
she wants to take them down a peg or two and rush to his defense. 
At this stage of the game, the husband is well over the hump. He 
has the work nearing completion and he has his wife looking for 
good points in his make-up. What husband could wish for more? 
He has scored a grand slam. He has his wife magnifying the strong 
and minimizing the weak features of his character.

All because he could not fix up the attic, the clever rascal has 
educed from his wife a greater love. There is no surer sign of a 
growing love, than the effort to find and magnify good qualities in 
another. The tell-tale death rattle of a dying love is the opposite 
inclination to find fault.

Once two old friends were sitting in a row boat discussing the 
problem one had in getting along with his boss. It was dusk and 
both were in a jolly, expansive mood. The pre-dinner martinis were 
sitting well. Some friends of theirs decided to have a little fun with 
them and almost swamped the row boat with the wake of their 
speed boat. As the wave hit the small boat broadside, one became 
momentarily alarmed and grabbed on to both sides of the boat. 
This action elicited from the other the advice, "don't fight it, roll 
with it."

Over his sudden surprise, the second gentleman countered, "don't 
fight it, don't even roll with it, play with it."

This sage bit of advice has never been forgotten and has helped 
one of these men through a number of tight spots.

In applying the above advice to the husband in his role of Mister 
Fix It, obviously he should not "fight it." By fighting it, he produces 
little more than an unhappy home. To roll with some irresistable 
physical force like a wave is common sense. All familiar with the 
operation of small boats know this fact. Merely to roll with a 
problem of human relations may be an easy and relaxed method. It 
may also be a weak method. Rolling with the impact of a problem 
of human relations may connote surrender rather than solution.

There will be times when the husband may have little choice other 
than to "roll" with the problem of working around the home on 
major projects. Yet the wise husband is on guard lest this become 
habitual. In always merely "rolling" with it he is in danger of 
becoming just his wife's "Man Friday" around the house. He is 
much more. He is her husband. Etymologically even, he is head of 
the house.

Because he is head of the home, every house-wife within sight of 
this page, no doubt, is reminding us that his is the first 
responsibility in the home. Conceding that point, husbands have 
all the more reason for they themselves choosing whether they will 
fight at, roll with, or play at being Mister Fix It.

Although we have been joshing the husband some in our examples 
of how to play at Mister Fix It, yet we are most serious when we say 
that the best method of dealing with the problem at hand is to play 
with it. Playing with a problem does not signify running away from 
it. To play with a task means staying with the job, not letting the 
job stay with the husband like a black demon on his back. In other 
words, the husband is master of the job, not its slave. For example, 
he can play a game of golf over the week-end before the attic is 
finished without the roof caving in, or the wife having cause for 
apoplexy. The job of being Mister Fix It does not master him; he 
masters it by playing with it. He brings a little ingenuity into the 
picture, as did the husband in the example of "Fix It With the 
Neighbors."

In playing at Mister Fix It, the husband is conscious that his 
ultimate purpose is to bring happiness and contentment to his 
wife. In succeeding, he will be a happy husband. Happy husbands 
have a way of going with happy wives. Any desired wife worthy of 
the name will give her husband credit for having enough sense 
and integrity to discharge his responsibility in manner best suited 
to his abilities and opportunities. A hen-pecked husband is an 
intolerable disgrace to his calling as well as a fitting reward for the 
wife so degrading him.

Being head of the home, it is the husband's responsibility to bring 
home the bacon. The wife, as queen of the home, has the 
obligation of looking after the multitudinous little tasks about the 
house. Although the large, overall demarcation is clear, the 
specialized duties of husband and wife overlap at times. It is in 
this area where misunderstanding and consequent trouble arise.

Who should put up and take down the screens and storm windows? 
Unless he was an invalid, no self-respecting husband would shunt 
this job off on his wife.

I remember a case in which husband and wife were close to a 
parting of their ways. Other difficulties, besides dispute over 
home chores, were in the picture. Yet, their squabbles over this 
matter had contributed greatly to the alienation of their affections.

"If I take down the screens then she wants me to wash the 
windows. Then it's take out the garbage or wax the kitchen floor. 
For a while she even had me in the kitchen sink. What the devil 
does she do all day? Seems to me she springs into action only 
when I get home from work."

From the other side of the desk came the rebuttal, "Is that so?" 
(Any wife can supply the remainder of her response.) Both these 
people were immature and not capable of much love. The husband 
used a pretty weak excuse for not doing a thing in the home. The 
wife expected him to do everything, so he did nothing.

This husband and wife were trying to out-loaf each other. Neither 
would do one iota more than the other. What a contrast to the 
happy, because unselfish, couple always trying to out-do each 
other about the house.

How many girls have married a young blade never known to help 
his parents with the care of the home? To him home was a 
convenient place to eat, sleep, and have fresh laundered clothes. Is 
a pampered person of this type supposed to change character after 
marriage? Most do not. The main function of others in his little 
orbit is to wait on him. The over-hopeful wife is in for double duty.

The husband truly in love wants to identify himself with his wife, 
to lose himself in her. She is precious and all he has. No wonder he 
desires to protect her. He will not see her tug and strain at heavy 
objects.

When I was hardly more than a boy, I witnessed a mischievous wife 
deliberately drawing out her protective husband. She began to lift 
a heavy bushel basket of fruit from a table. The husband rushed 
over and grabbed the basket, all the while angrily scolding his 
wife. As she stepped aside her eyes betrayed her plot. The 
indignant husband turned to face her and was met with twinkling 
eyes softening with love. They ended in a fervent embrace. The 
husband did not have a chance. What man would want a chance?



4. TOWN SPENDTHRIFT

"How about another beer on me, fellows?" is a familiar refrain 
heard at the local tavern or at the nineteenth hole rendezvous of 
has-been golfers. The cheerful invitation to further conviviality 
emanates from the local joy boy and town spendthrift. He never 
gets tight himself because he is too busy getting tight the free 
loaders of his friendly group. A regular fellow, he is found in and 
adds color to most every community.

The only shame of it is that he is broke by the time he arrives 
home. A lad of this type should never be out of pocket, for then he 
is not himself. This bankrupt condition ill becomes him, and he 
appears to great disadvantage in the home circle. In his cranky 
mood he may even be heard to snarl at his poor little wife, "What 
did you buy that for?" or "Where do you spend all the money?"

He just simply is not himself. The four walls of his home seem to 
crowd in upon him like a debtor's prison. Some people become 
mean when they have a sore throat or a sin-vexed conscience. Not 
our Charlie. Nothing really annoys him except this lack of cash 
around the house.

The town spendthrift never worries about money matters while out 
with the fellows. He needs the quiet of home to concentrate upon 
such an intricate subject as finances. Even trained economists 
have wandered astray in their theories about money. How then can 
a person be expected to grapple with such a knotty problem in the 
hubbub of a tavern? Curiously the tranquility of home provides 
the best environment.

"Why the devil does it cost so much to feed this family? Wonder 
how others manage," he moans out loud as he stares off into space 
with just a wee little side glance at his bewildered budgeteer.

As he frets his way off to bed he racks his brain for a solution. If 
only old Ed, his bachelor uncle, would die. He is loaded and does 
not even know what to do with his money. It sometimes happens to 
others. Why could not he or his wife be left a regular income from 
some trust fund?

After he runs the gauntlet of these far-fetched escapes from the 
damnable financial straight jacket, he ponders over a more 
realistic entry to the land of solvency. Maybe he could hire his 
wife out where she could grapple with the world of commerce in 
some bargain basement and bring home a few dollars.

Charlie had a busy evening at the club hustling those beers and 
cocktails to his buddies, so he soon slips off into the land of 
dreams.

Charlie's wife tiptoes into their bedroom and gently kisses the 
troubled forehead of her husband. Why not? She had just come 
from the children's room where she had kissed her other little 
boys.

Charlie is no cad. The spectacle of his wife wrestling with a mob of 
women over economy-priced ladies' apparel brings him no joy in 
his dream.

Every marriage counselor can remember numerous cases of the 
type described above. So often he is of a generous nature and a 
likeable person. His gyrations from the sort of Dr. Jekyll--town 
spendthrift, to the Mr. Hyde--house "tightwad," provide the 
background for much humor. But tragedy lurks in the shadows, the 
tragedy of a suffering wife with ill-fed and shabbily clothed 
children.

It is as normal as breathing to want to be held in high esteem, to 
be loved and to be considered generous. No one wants to be hated, 
to be despised as stingy and selfish. Stingy and selfish people 
resort to all sorts of stratagems to hide their shame.

The trouble with the town spendthrift is that he seeks his high 
regard in the wrong place. He should look for it from his wife and 
children. These fast friends he is regaling will drop him like a hot 
potato when the flowing liquor dries up. These good time pals will 
come and go, forget and be forgotten very soon. His wife and 
children remain the real part of his life. They merit his attention 
and will provide the love and respect he much wants and needs, if 
he but give them a chance.

Years ago I walked into the washroom of a Pullman. The car porter 
sat there alone looking dejected. I struck up a conversation with 
him by asking if things were as bad as his face indicated.

"You saw that car, didn't you? Well, it's half empty. You are the 
only man in it. All women. Lots of bell ringing and no tips."

From past experience the porter knew that he was on a dry run. 
Women, of course, are notorious for little or no tipping. It is 
difficult for a woman constantly to marshal nickels and dimes in 
order to stay within a restricted budget and then turn around and 
hand a porter a dollar tip for a night on a Pullman.

Similarly she senses no great elation at observing her husband 
handing out an over-generous tip. Before marriage he might have 
impressed a few of his dates in this manner. Now his wife 
considers it evidence of softening of the brain. Nor does his easy 
manner with money spur her on in the everlasting search after 
bargains in shopping. Why should the wife spend an hour of time 
and energy saving a half dollar in her grocery shopping only to see 
her husband flip it away to some stranger in a moment of human 
respect.

I knew a husband, a preferred one for sure, who kept close tab on 
his tips. For every tip he put aside an equal amount in a little 
secret fund of his own. As the dimes and quarters accumulated he 
got a little gift for his favorite waitress, as he used to say.

Once his wife tried her hand at home-made bread. He was so 
tickled over her effort that he, with mock pomposity, bestowed 
upon her a cash prize and blue ribbon as the cook of the year. His 
wife entered into the game and struck a pose holding a loaf of her 
prize winning bread.

That little family episode was the beginning of a new era for 
another family. Home-made bread came back into its own and 
replaced the store-bought chaff and straw facetiously called bread.

I am fully aware that this lucky husband had a wonderful wife. 
Strange, is it not, that wonderful wives have a way of going with 
wonderful husbands?



5. ESCHEWING THISTLES

A minister in the hill country was giving a Sunday sermon. During 
the discourse he used the unfamiliar word "eschew." A hand went 
up in the congregation and a voice asked for the meaning of the 
word.

"Well, brother," explained the minister, "we all know that Jones 
sitting next to you has a fine pair of mules. We also know that 
Jones feeds his mules hay. Hereabout thistles have a way of 
growing with the hay. The mules chew the hay and eschew the 
thistles."

Each human being has his own little garden of life in which he 
reaps what he sows. The wife is no exception. In her garden there 
are roses pleasing to the eye and peaches delectable to the taste. 
Because she is human she will scarcely avoid producing a few 
thorns and thistles.

Her husband saw her garden, liked it, walked into it, took her unto 
himself as his wife, and settled down for life. In the beginning he 
so liked the roses and peaches that he ignored the thorns and 
thistles. Like the mule he wisely chewed the peaches and eschewed 
the thistles.

Then, as the all too frequent story runs, time and fallen nature 
began to take their toll. His wife brought forth neither less peaches 
nor more thistles. The imperceptible change was in the husband's 
failure to distinguish. He became more conscious of the thistles 
which always existed. Only now he began to chew them. Perhaps 
we should say that they began to eat on him.

Little idiosyncrasies and foibles, present but ignored in his wife 
during courtship and early days of marriage, can grow into 
mountainous aggravations. This change can take place if the 
husband falls into the stupid habit of concentrating on the faults 
of his wife. Once he centered his attention on her virtues and good 
qualities. Such an attitude brought him love and happiness. Vexing 
himself over her imperfections brings him nothing but a 
diminution of love.

In the early days of marriage counseling I was surprised to learn 
many marriages came to an end or were unhappy because of petty 
things. For a time I misjudged fault-finding as a minor nuisance to 
be handled with dispatch, until I found it to be the only real 
difficulty between many couples. Mulling over the imperfections 
of a partner has destroyed many a marriage.

A case comes to mind as an illustration of how not to be a happy 
husband through fault-finding. The couple had been married only 
a year and a half. The husband was in his middle twenties. Of a 
serious nature and already on his way to success in business, he 
found his marriage was not working out as planned. He was prone 
to label as a fault any activity of his younger wife that did not fall 
into his preconceived plan of action for her.

Evidently he had spent many hours day-dreaming before marriage 
as to how his wife should behave. He had envisioned his saintly 
wife kneeling in evening prayer with him at bedside. The actuality 
after marriage was a shock. His wife knelt on the bed above him. 
The astonishing sight was not conducive to successful prayer. 
Quite the opposite. He continued to talk but not to God. Something 
had come between him and God. It was about a foot in front of his 
eyes.

Get down on the cold, bare floor with him she would not, 
especially after he had excoriated her.

From her narration of the episode there was an indication that she 
merely had been trying to be mischievous. She resented his rebuff 
at her effort to be coquettish, became stubborn, and would not 
kneel with him on the floor then or any other time.

He accused her of being an immature, brainless, little glamor girl. 
Glamor girl she was, as well as very young, gay, and immature. Yet, 
of the two he was the more immature in spite of all his efforts to 
make their marriage a serious, business-like affair.

He was the more immature, if for no other reason, because he set 
upon a definite program of fault-finding. He had not matured to 
the extent of realization that life is a give and take affair. Little 
faults have to be overlooked, forgotten. Neither overlooking nor 
forgetting real or imagined imperfections of his wife, he magnified 
and nursed them along in his brain.

Her singular posture for prayer was not his only complaint. He 
rattled on for half an hour narrating his wife's shortcomings. When 
he stopped for breath, her only comment was, "you make me sick."

I could not say in their presence that she took the words out of my 
mouth; but I felt a little sick too. Seeing love die always makes me 
sick. And her love was dying.

Although he wanted to keep his wife, her love was far gone--more 
than he realized. He was not only too observant of her faults; but 
he was also on the watch for them. When a husband begins looking 
for reasons to criticise his wife, it is a far cry from the days when 
he looked for excuses to praise her.

The husband in this case once recognized many virtues and fine 
qualities in his wife. Because of them he was attracted to her. He 
was eager to praise her, and his effort was rewarded with a 
happiness no less than hers. If he was at all aware of any thistles 
in her garden before marriage, he sensibly eschewed them. Only 
when he foolishly began to chew on them did his marriage develop 
a big stomach ache.

Will Rogers once said that he had never met a man he could not 
like. There are, after all, very few Fagans and Sykes in real life. 
Most people have some attractive, because good, qualities. 
Habitually, reflecting on the favorable side of a wife's personality 
makes for peaceful, contented living. Stewing over the failings of 
his wife puts the husband on an expressway to unhappiness. The 
road is broad and well-traveled.

The sooner a husband makes up his mind to dwell on his wife's 
attractive features both in the natural and supernatural order, the 
sooner is he guaranteeing himself happiness. Besides, if a husband 
must ponder over flaws, errors, and blemishes then let him turn 
his thoughts in upon himself. He should be able to discover a few 
of his own. Confession is good for the soul because, among other 
reasons, it makes us more forgiving and tolerant of others. Seldom 
will a husband do a good job in the confessional only to return 
home and snap at his wife. The best psychiatric treatment in the 
world for most of us is a little self-examination. And it does not 
cost ten dollars a visit. For many a husband five minutes a day 
spent regarding the beam in his own eye would lessen his pep for 
finding the mote in his wife's eye.

When people live in close proximity to each other for a 
considerable length of time, they learn of each other's 
shortcomings. After a few years of married life a husband, unless 
he is completely blinded by love, knows only too well that his wife 
is human and has her faults. There is a danger that he begins to 
compare the wife he knows with the women he hardly knows. 
Because he is ignorant of any defects in the woman of casual 
acquaintance, his wife may fare poorly in comparison.

Little Susie Q may be a neat trick down at the office, but how does 
she look in the privacy of her home? She always looks very 
fetching with her well-kept hair? Yes, but most husbands would 
cry to high heaven were their wives to spend on their personal 
appearance the money Susie Q lays out each month. All the girls at 
the office seem even-tempered and agreeable? But they are among 
comparative strangers, aren't they? Besides, they have a job to 
keep. If they were partners, wouldn't they talk up once in a while?

The way some husbands vex themselves with the minor faults of 
their wives, one might think that they would prefer living with an 
artistic plaster of Paris concept of sanctity. A man of sense prefers 
a real, living human being for his wife. If she is alive with blood 
coursing through her veins, she will have her share of human 
imperfections. He accepts her as she is and loves her for herself. 
Indeed, her very peculiarities may become, to the husband in love, 
endearing charms.

I am acquainted with a couple happy together today because a 
wonderful man "carried" his wife through a few rough years. Their 
troubles developed gradually and reached a peak after fifteen 
years of marriage. Both were well-educated, intelligent and social 
minded. Gifted with winning ways they were a popular couple in 
whatever circle they moved. His business prospered along with a 
considerable amount of entertaining. Since both liked a good time 
their lives, if hectic at times, were happy.

Then the shadows began to fall. Her social drinking got out of 
hand. Things went from bad to worse until she became a 
borderline alcoholic. Before she stumbled into the bottomless 
abyss her husband rescued her. He saved her by his patience and 
kindness. He dearly loved her for all she had been and still was in 
so many respects. He never lost sight of her many virtues. Unlike 
so many of us, he would not let one defect hide from him 
numerous excellent characteristics.

During those dark days he would have been surprised to have been 
thought noble. Her aberrations must have caused him much 
suffering. Yet, as she told me later, his utter unconsciousness of 
the martyr role gave her no choice except to quit drinking. "My 
husband never condemned me. He protected me and continued to 
praise me for the things he loved in me. He should have lashed 
me. I knew I was a worm. He made me want to be an angel. How 
could I fight a man like that?"

When I hear husbands complaining of petty faults in their wives 
and making mountains out of them, I always think of the above 
case and the contrast.

To paraphrase St. Paul's famous words on love, this husband's love 
for his wife was patient, was kind, was not ambitious, was not self-
seeking, was not provoked; thought no evil. Love is not always 
rewarded in this life, but seldom is this true of love between man 
and wife. Not being deceived by a self-love, this husband truly 
loved his wife. Today he reaps the reward of his loyalty to her. 
Because he stood beside her as a strong and understanding man, 
now he revels in her wifely adoration. Once again they are walking 
on air.



6. MOUSE TRAPPED HUSHANDS

A Notre Dame fan yelled, "Watch out for the mouse trap."

My wife edged a little closer to me on the bench and asked, "Bob, 
what is the mouse trap play?" Between us the mouse trap play was 
a standing joke. So, when Mary asked the question with the mock 
innocence of a little girl not knowing what was going on at a 
football game, I knew that our spat was over. I put my arm around 
her and almost missed the third quarter.

To see the game we had driven almost two hours hardly on formal 
speaking terms. For nearly an hour before we had left home I was 
the fretting husband desperately trying to get the show on the 
road. Mary was like a cat on a tin roof running in circles not 
knowing where to put down, whatever it was she had in her hands.

When I figured that we were already too late for the kickoff, I 
began to sulk. "Don't you think that you ought to scrub the kitchen 
floor before we go?" was my opening thrust for our little fight.

In a huff Mary ran upstairs and began banging drawers. After eons 
she came down, now I remember, looking like a million dollars. At 
the time she did not make sense to me. In as sweet a manner, God 
love her, as she could manage under the circumstances she asked, 
"Now what is your honest opinion of this hat?"

I am positive that my wife had no intention of setting a mouse trap 
for me, and I was just as unaware and off guard. Of course, I 
rushed right into the trap with the answer, "It looks kind of queer 
to me." No one needs to be told why our conversation on the way 
to the game was monosyllabic. I was more irritated with myself 
than I was with her for making us late. My opinion of her hat was 
not an effort to get even with her. It was a quick, honest opinion 
given in a moment of preoccupation over the necessity of driving 
like a mad fool in order to be on time for the game.

"Now what is your honest opinion?" has led many a husband 
besides me into the mouse trap. Even a husband initiated to this 
type of mouse trap can make a fool of himself, besides irritating 
his wife. Off guard and very pleased that his wife wants his 
considered opinion of her hat, his ego bounds into the 
stratosphere. Leaning back in his chair and imagining himself 
another Dior he studies the hat being hopefully modeled by his 
wife.

Expectancy is written all over his wife's face. Does this put the 
husband on the alert? Only one guess allowed. The new-born hat 
stylist criticizes the hat. His wife flounces out of the room 
sputtering something about blindness and stupidity.

Her husband was not blind, but he did act stupidly. He could see 
that the hat was queer, but he had no suspicion that his wife was 
fishing for a compliment.

Whenever a wife asks for an "honest" opinion about herself, her 
clothes, her cooking, let all husbands be on guard. The mouse trap 
play is coming up. Give a quick, honest opinion and nine times out 
of ten the husband will be slapped down.

The wife is not looking for an "honest" opinion. She expects a 
compliment. Now that she is married six months she has to 
maneuver to wheedle a compliment out of her stingy husband. 
Back in courtship and honeymoon days compliments came 
spontaneously. For the rest of her marriage she must angle for 
most every compliment doled out by her husband.

No wife should be expected to beg openly for a little inexpcnsive 
praise. Are wives supposed to ask, "Isn't this hat stunning?" or 
"Don't I look just peachy?" or "Isn't this the tastiest apple strudel 
you ever chopped into?"

"Now what is your honest opinion" has got many a husband into a 
jam simply because he did not tread warily. Apparently the word 
"honest" is their downfall. Any wife would be surprised at being 
considered dishonest for the wording of her question. Has not a 
wife the right to her husband's full flattery and praise? Then why 
should any husband be misled by, or balk at, the word "honest?"

When a husband gives his "honest" and favorable opinion about 
his wife's hat, appearance, or cooking, she knows that he is all for 
her. She needs and has a right to that assurance from time to time. 
This is no time for him to cavil over objective truth. Moreover, how 
can there be any question of objective truth when there is question 
of only an opinion?

Another mouse trap many of us husbands rush into could be called 
the "News Bulletin." Before we discuss the manner in which we get 
into trouble over the "News Bulletin" one fact should be 
mentioned. Wives do not consciously set these mouse traps. 
Indeed, their allergy to mouse traps is well-known. Few women 
know what to do with the mouse once it is caught. So the closing of 
the mouse trap on us brings no more joy to our wives than it does 
to us.

The "News Bulletin" works something like this. Dinner is about to 
begin. Mary pauses at the table on her last trip to the kitchen stove 
and gives out to me an exciting news release. "Did you hear that 
Mabel had twins?" Many bulletins are released by our wives in the 
form of a question. In fact, the outstanding scoop of the year 
would likely be couched in the form of a question.

If Mary would merely announce the news, I might grunt some 
response and stay on safe ground. It's not likely I would rush into 
the trap. "Did I hear? Sure, I heard about it a week ago," I usually 
reply casually, as though the news is ancient history.

The last time I bit on the "News Bulletin" Mary considered for a 
moment plopping the mashed potatoes on my head. The children 
might have been alarmed and made to feel insecure over this 
procedure, so she did a slow burn instead. A caustic, "Well, thanks 
for telling me," was about all she could manage for the time being 
as she stomped over to the stove. Several hours later in the 
evening I wondered why Mary was so sour and uncommunicative. 
Perhaps she had an upset stomach or one of those mysterious 
female quirks?

"This is your favorite dessert" usually indicates that Mary has 
made a special effort to please me. It is possible that she had a 
brain storm that particular afternoon and made Uncle Roscoe's 
favorite dessert. However, the odds would be against such a 
mistake. We must assume that she did make a dessert for which I 
had expressed a weakness. She can well remember me extolling the 
cherry tart of the last birthday dinner over at my mother's.

Imagine the charge she got out of my comment between gulps. 
"Cherry tarts aren't my favorite dessert. It's strawberry parfait." All 
can see that I was a clown for saying so. I had blundered right into 
the mouse trap. The "favorite" was my undoing.

"So . . . you don't like them? Well . . . you liked them at that last 
birthday dinner over at your mother's."

"I didn't say that I didn't like them. Besides, liking cherry tarts 
doesn't make them my favorite."

"Of course I can't make tarts like your mother."

"You said that. Now, let's forget all about it."

"I'll not forget about it." And so on into the night.

Thinking of all the mouse traps I had charged into distracted me 
somewhat during the rest of the game. Thank heavens Mary was 
just as expert in extracting me from the mouse traps as she was in 
getting me into them. That day at the football game was a good 
example. She pounced upon the excited fan's yell to the linemen to 
be on guard against the mouse trap play.

The complete innocence of face fading into arched eyebrow over 
mischievous eyes as she asked what the mouse trap play might be 
turned a sour day into a glorious one. We left the stadium like high 
school sweethearts kindly teasing each other about past mouse 
traps.

On the way home we stopped off at a good restaurant and had one 
of the best dinners out I can remember. During the dinner I could 
not tell Mary often enough how beautiful she was. The more I told 
her the more beautiful she became. By the time dessert arrived I 
was ready to jump upon the table and proclaim her beauty to the 
world.

As we walked up to our car in the parking lot Mary at first puzzled 
and then alarmed me by her actions. She appeared to be pushing 
with all her might the car ahead of ours. No sooner had I grabbed 
her and begun to scold her for endangering herself than I realized 
it was a game. As she relaxed happy and triumphant in my arms I 
accused her, "This is the second mouse trap today. I like this one."

As I held her close to me and nudged her ear with my nose, she 
whispered, "I wish we were home."



7. UNDERSTANDING

Years ago the newspapers carried an item about an eminent 
psychologist. The man had published a study on the 
understanding of women. His work was well received by the 
universities and intellectual circles. One day in utter frustration he 
strangled his wife to death.

We are on dangerous ground, for who can understand a woman? 
But, men, let us get on our knees and in all humility submit the 
proposition that we may come to understand a few things about 
women. Further we dare not propose.

We cannot hold brief with those who regard a woman as a complete 
enigma. Mysterious, yes, in her moods and at times as 
incomprehensible as God. Today she can be cajoled to sit on her 
husband's knee and purr as a little kitten. Tomorrow is another 
day, and it may not work. So what? The wind does not always blow 
south. And we would get mighty tired if it did.

A great deal of the agnosticism in the world is due to a failure to 
see through God. The individual made an effort to understand the 
workings of God. He expected it to be as simple as two and two 
equal four. Perhaps he could not get through high school 
geometry. Yet, because he could not see right through God, he 
became indifferent and shunned any practice of religion. The idea 
never seemed to enter his cranium that if he could see through 
God, He would not be much of a God.

Husbands do not have to be able to see through their wives. They 
would be pretty shallow wives were that possible. If all wives were 
an open book, how could there be any curiosity about the format? 
Although human nature is the same, each husband has a different 
type of wife to figure out. If there were no mystery about her, she 
would be much less intriguing. Has anyone ever read a mystery 
story twice?

Life can become as mysterious as the dark night. We are 
encouraged to keep playing the game of life for we know that the 
night will be followed by the noon-day sun. Yet, light without 
shadow can grow tiresome. A husband can be thankful that his 
wife is not all light, that there are a few dark corners where he can 
easily get lost. Getting lost can be fun. Many little children get lost 
frequently with great glee. When we know all the answers, or 
worse, when we think that we do, life loses its fascination; and we 
lose our charm. When a husband knows all there is to know about 
his wife, or worse, when he thinks that he does, marriage can lose 
its fascination.

Furthermore, just when he thinks that he has his wife all figured 
out, she jolts him with the unexpected. There is something for the 
theory that a husband should face every day with his wife like a 
wide-eyed six year old. Each day is a new day with unexplored 
horizons. The football is played the way it bounces. Now it may 
bound right into out-stretched arms. Then again the ball may fly 
out of reach.

Realization of the woman's unpredictableness guarantees the 
husband against disillusionment. If she bounces into his arms 
today, he runs with her for a touchdown. If she bounds away from 
him tomorrow, he knows that is all part of the game. There will 
always be another tomorrow. Besides, too many touchdowns can 
spoil the game.

So, if a husband leads off with the realization that he cannot know 
everything about his wife, he is on sound ground to explore what 
he might be able to understand about her.

One of his first concepts should be that she is different from 
himself. Most of us have the tendency to judge others by 
ourselves. If we react thus and thus to such and such stimuli, we 
suppose that others will follow the same line of action. Often we 
are fooled. One boy, on being told by his teacher that he is a dumb 
idiot, goes home fighting mad with the determination to return to 
class the next day with proof to the contrary. Another boy will be 
beaten down deeper into despondency.

Many young husbands are surprised and disappointed to find that 
their wives differ from themselves in so many respects. The 
alarming realization actually should be cause for satisfaction. 
Identical gears would clash. Different gears mesh together and 
constitute a unit. Man and woman were made different by God that 
they might mesh together and bring fulfillment of their natures in 
close partnership. So, men, take it easy. God knew what He was 
doing when He made woman. Do not try to make her over after 
your pattern. Accept her as she is and she will dovetail into your 
life in as perfect a harmony as will be found in this life.

Once launched on the sea of matrimony a husband wiIl be assured 
of happier sailing, if he has a chart of the hidden reefs. For certain, 
he will have to learn much the hard way, simply because marriage 
is a personal, individual experience. Yet, unless he is armed with 
fundamental truths he will be in danger of floundering.

Most of us get our necks in a wringer by ignoring or trifling with 
obvious pitfalls. God, His justice, His Providence are obvious 
realities. Yet, how many are, to their ultimate misery, oblivious of 
these basic facts. There is nothing startlingly new about the 
observation that emotionally woman is different from man. 
Nevertheless, countless young husbands come to grief by ignoring 
the woman's emotional nature.

A woman's emotions generally are stronger than a man's and 
invariably are closer to the surface. Sudden frights will cause her 
to take off like a bird. A mouse scampering across the kitchen 
floor can energize her into an athlete of no mean ability. At the 
mere sight of "wee tim'rous beastie" she can pass the current 
champion sprinter.

He wastes his time who tries to reason with her about the silly fear 
of a harmless little mouse. Her reaction to mice is entirely on the 
emotional plane. Cold logic leaves her just as cold. A husband 
expecting his wife to be rational about mice is himself most 
unreasonable. She ticks the way she does because the great Watch 
Maker so designed her. She is twenty-one jewel, and runs smoothly 
and unerringly--in her own element. Husbands unwilling to have 
their wives remain all woman should be herded into some Trappist 
monastery. There they could stew with pure reason to their hearts' 
content.

A man cannot begin to understand a woman unless he keeps in 
mind that she is designed by God to be a mother. As a little child 
she plays mother to dolls. She never really arrives as a woman 
until she is a mother. Her emotional nature is so ordained by God 
to enable her to fill the role of mother. Because babies and little 
children must have constant love and affection manifested to 
them for their proper development, a woman's emotions are close 
to the surface. She is as well equipped to care for babies as she is 
to bring them into the world. A sense of security and well-being is 
given the baby by outward signs of love--kisses, hugging, cooing, 
and so forth.

Is it any wonder then that the wife is emotional, intuitive, and 
herself in need of affection? Yet, some husbands are either so 
stupid, callous, or incompetent, that they never give their wives a 
show of affection, unless it be through sex.

Unless a woman has warped her nature by some phobia such as, 
for example, fear of children, she accepts affection as the sun 
flower accepts the sun. During pregnancy this is all the more true. 
A husband alert to the needs of his wife will promote her 
contentment and happiness during this period by extra solicitude.

Even though she has no particular difficulties such as morning 
sickness, backache, and so forth, she is receptive to added 
attention. Indeed, it will do no harm to baby, to even spoil her a 
little at this time. How a husband can love his wife and be 
indifferent to her needs at any time is not clear.

It becomes all the more difficult to understand the husband 
neglectful of his wife during her pregnancy. Selfishness is the sin 
of myopic idiots. The self-centered and often lazy husband brings 
no happiness to his wife. Consequently, he is miserable himself, 
because it is an inexorable law of our natures that we attain 
happiness only through others. A person absorbed in doing things 
for another is never discontented and unhappy.

Some wives are more affectionate than others and are themselves 
in need of much affection. Obviously husbands also by nature 
vary in this respect. Yet, unless he be completely lifeless, any 
husband can make an effort to fill the emotional requirements of 
his wife.

A kiss, an embrace, a tender word, a show of interest in her and in 
any problem she may have in carrying the child--these and a 
dozen little efforts reassure his wife that he is all for her. In this 
matter of affection little things count so much. It does not harm 
any wife to realize that her husband thinks of her outside of 
moments of sex.

I have heard all sorts of excuses from husbands why they show, 
even, during pregnancy, little or no affection toward their wives. 
These husbands never acknowledge the real excuse--
preoccupation with themselves.

"It's like living with a pregnant woman." I have heard several good 
husbands make such a statement. The tone of voice indicated that 
it was not always so easy. Without doubt his wife's pregnancy is an 
opportunity for a husband to be patient and loving. Should it be 
any wonder that a wife's thoughts and concerns turn in upon 
herself when she is with child? Indeed, she becomes more self-
centered as the baby grows. How else? Where would a husband 
expect his wife to carry the baby?

Much frustration in marriage is due to husband and wife having 
divergent emotional natures. An affectionate husband has a cold 
wife; a warm natured wife has a frosty husband. Any student of 
married life who has had the opportunity over the years of close 
contact with married couples has observed various adjustments 
and solutions to the problem.

First of all, the husband of an affectionate wife should be grateful 
to God for his good fortune. It has always been one of the 
mysteries of life to me why any husband will shrink from his 
affectionate wife. Perhaps by nature I am incapable of 
understanding them and therefore unable to offer suggestions. 
The only thought which comes to mind is to give them a good kick 
in the pants.

For those eager, wrestling minded husbands leading a most 
unathletic life with a prim, brittle, and cold wife more sympathy is 
in order. Usually I feel that these husbands are their own worst 
enemies. Their technique is generally very poor or non-existent. 
They are no sooner home from work than some referee should 
blow a whistle lest their wives find themselves wrestling before 
they have a chance to put up guards. Admittedly, at times the 
direct approach has its merits. But these eager beavers should 
learn from past bitter experiences the existence of indirect and 
more subtle approaches.

Few human beings, cold women included, are impervious to 
attention, admiration, kindness, and tender regard. A wife assured 
that her husband loves her for herself will naturally reciprocate. 
Unless she is an abnormality, her love will readily manifest itself 
through affection.

Some wives demand a great deal of understanding and patience. 
When they are not in the mood for affection it is best not to force 
the issue. This is the time for bowling or a long walk. The husband 
aware that his efforts to be arfectionate on some particular 
occasion will be rejected, is only punishing himself by persisting 
in his actions. By living with her he should learn the signs 
indicative of a receptive mood. I take my hat off to the husbands 
ingenious enough to thaw out their wives sufficiently for a normal 
married life.

A marriage counselor frequently encounters husbands with the 
complaint that their wives give all their attention and affection to 
the children. The accusation is true usually only in cases where 
the wife is keeping her husband at a distance because she wants 
no more children or because she seeks domination over her 
husband through sex.

Much more often than not the husband's complaint is 
unreasonable. The wife must shower her affection on her babies in 
caring for them. The husband keeps as far from the babies as the 
limits of the house permit. In his lazy loneliness he sulks as a 
jealous child. He develops a childish tit for tat attitude--receiving 
little attention, he will give none in return.

If he pitched in with the care of the babies he would not be out in 
the cold. How often husband and wife, in playing and smooching 
with their baby, end up smooching themselves. Nothing brings 
man and wife together better than their baby, unless the husband 
keeps far away from the baby, its diapers, feeding, and so on. The 
wife cannot by her nature stay away from the baby. Besides, 
somebody has to care for the child.

A woman lets details often assume momentous importance, and 
lets her emotions rather than common sense guide her actions. In 
an understanding husband she will find strength and calmness. A 
bewildered, or annoyed, or exasperated husband fails his wife 
when she needs him and his patient understanding.

At times a woman may be more sensitive to hurt, more subject to 
uncertain temper, tired and depressed. The husband not all 
wrapped up in himself will come forward with love and 
compassion to ease her through her difficulties.

The mother of the bride has always been a great distraction to me 
during marriage ceremonies. The mother is dry-eyed now. How 
long will she keep back the tears? Will the handkerchief appear 
during the vows or will she hold off until her little girl presents a 
bouquet to the Blessed Virgin? Few get by the presentation and the 
hymn "On This Day, O, Beautiful Mother."

Asking her why she cries at her child's marriage is like asking why 
it rains or why the sun shines. She is made by God to feel 
poignantly. Tears come easily. A husband need not look upon 
these emotional releases as great problems with which he must 
cope. These tears dry quickly if he but fill his required function of 
comforting her, of sympathizing, of merely being near her in 
companionship. The husband evidences lack of understanding if 
he is irritated by her, or ignores her, or makes fun of her, unless it 
be done with kindness and accepted good grace. Stupidity causes 
almost as much mischief in the world as sin.

Many husbands are utter flops in appreciating the emotional needs 
of their wives. It is natural for a wife to experience fear when she 
is alone at night. If her husband is unusually late or out all night, 
she is bound to worry and imagine all sorts of things.

An extreme case comes to mind typical of many others. The wife 
told how her husband frequently absented himself for several days 
at a time, mostly over week-ends. He never gave warning that he 
would not return home from work Friday evening. He might show 
up Saturday or as late as Sunday night. Often she had no idea 
where he had been or what he had been doing. Occasionally she 
learned that he had been fishing or just out drinking.

The only advice I could give her was to wait for him with a rolling 
pin and hit him over the head as hard as she could. How else can a 
wife deal with a savage? His head was solid bone, and the hurt 
would be only temporary. If she did not love him, what mattered 
the hour? But she did love him, her life depended on him, and she 
worried when he absented himself without explanation.

Husbands who leave their wives in the lurch for hours wondering 
what happened to them, evidence stupidity or lack of love. To my 
amazement some of these peculiar men have naively expressed 
surprise that their wives complained to me on this score.

Women by nature operate to some extent in cycles. Now they are 
easily depressed, now elated. Many husbands miss the boat 
because they are off in their timing. When a wife is in one of her 
mysterious depressed moods, it is expecting a lot of her to be the 
life of the party. To criticize her then for being a poor sport is 
unfair. A husband who learns to recognize these moods and 
realizes that his wife is not in complete control of them will 
himself be able to stay on more even keel.

"In the morning she will, in the evening she won't. You're always 
thinking she will when she won't." The wisdom of this once 
popular song is recognized by wise husbands.

Young husbands are often thrown for a loss during their wives' 
first pregnancy. An expectant wife may seem to begin acting a 
little queer. She is in what we could call the Nest Building Stage. 
During the last months of pregnancy no one can blame her for 
getting restless waiting for the baby. Indeed, she decides to do 
something about it and springs into action by rearranging the 
furniture and getting sundry items ready for the coming baby. She 
knows that the baby will take a lot of her time. In trying to get 
ahead of the housekeeping game she may even begin painting 
rooms her bewildered husband must finish. In general, she throws 
the house into an uproar.

Some of this activity stems from a reluctancy to have another 
woman enter her home and find it poorly kept and dirty. If she 
becomes unreasonable in these prenatal projects her husband will 
weather the storm much better if he understands what is doing 
with her.

Another emotional mystery for the young husband to solve may 
come soon after the baby's birth. For no reason apparent even to 
themselves young mothers become depressed. They cry easily. 
They have the "baby blues." It should not be surprising that the 
young mother is in high gear emotionally at the arrival of her 
baby. At this time her feelings are especially close to the surface. 
It may not take much to open the flood gates. A sensitive husband 
instinctive responds to these sensitive needs of his wife with 
tender love and care.

Best intentioned husbands often fail in supplying the needs of 
their wives simply because of the great differences between the 
sexes. A man is body conscious and therefore interested in things. 
A woman is soul conscious and therefore interested in people.

The other day a young mother was speaking of her daily trip to 
school with a car full of first graders. She told of how the girls kept 
chattering away. The little boys sat sober and silent. Because the 
girls were interested in people, in themselves, they no doubt were 
talking all at once to each other. The boys had nothing to interest 
them, so they merely sat and looked out the window.

Little boys and old boys are more concerned with things, with toys, 
with sports, with tools, the automobile, fishing and hunting gear. 
Men have their "bull sessions" of course, but their talk usually 
turns to things, not people. Women are often unfairly accused of 
gossip because they talk about people. They do so because they 
are interested in people. Whether their talk is malicious or 
innocent depends on their characters.

Some husbands do not understand their wives' need for adult 
conversation with other women. It is considered a big waste of 
time. It is just dandy for him to tinker around in the basement all 
evening with various things. It is a great nuisance for her to have 
the girls over for an evening. All day she has fussed with things--
food, dishes, clothes, and so forth. Once in a while she needs 
release. Yet, some husbands are tyrannical enough to object to her 
having a night out with her friends.

Speaking of tyrannical husbands tempts us to drop a caution to 
young ladies seeking a husband. A healthy woman is attracted to a 
masterful man. Let her not, however, mistake the tyrannical for the 
masterful man. The latter admirable type will merit our attention 
in a subsequent chapter.

How many a young husband has got himself in the doghouse by 
bringing home for supper unannounced a buddy of his? "Ann will 
be glad to see you, Pete. Wait till you see how she can throw a meal 
on the table," the proud but not so smart husband informs his 
bachelor friend. It is three in the afternoon, but does our boy 
friend phone his wife? Of course not. Why upset her?

To the male way of thinking she can take an extra place at table in 
stride. No need to make a big deal out of having a friend home for 
dinner. Why suggest by phoning her that she go to extra fuss? 
Another potato and a couple of chops will do the trick.

So reasons the man because he is projecting himself into his wife's 
position. He imagines that her nature is the same as his. He would 
not get excited over having a friend of his wife come to dinner.

The episode can be all the more interesting if the unannounced 
guest had known the wife previous to her marriage and was 
visiting her home for the first time. This makes for a cozy evening.

The front door is hardly closed on the heels of the departing guest 
before the wife berates her husband. "How could you do that to 
me? I was never so mortified in all my life. My hair was a mess. I 
had been straightening up the basement and was just filthy! I knew 
Pete pretty well before we married. What must he think of me 
now?"

The wife desired wants to be able to show her home to best 
advantage. As queen of the home she was justifiably proud of it 
and her position in it. The husband in our case had the best 
intentions--to save his wife any extra effort. Good intentions are 
not always enough. Because he did not think of her feelings his 
good intentions missed fire. Actually his wife felt that he was 
inconsiderate. The husband in turn resented the imputation, being 
unconscious of inconsiderateness. Husband and wife became 
annoyed with each other because they approached a situation with 
different viewpoints.

The wise husband wants his wife to feel that she is queen of the 
home. He will help her maintain this position. Bringing home a 
guest to her surprise is cutting the floor from under her. She 
cannot be blamed for feeling that she is being treated as a mere 
housemaid.

Life is less vexing for those who accept others even though they 
cannot understand them. Any husband will spare himself many 
upset moments and injured feelings if he accepts what he is 
unable to understand about his wife.

Many wives are callous about keeping their husbands waiting. How 
many an evening out has been spoiled by the wife unconscious of 
time? The curtain rises at the theatre at eight-thirty. They should 
leave the house at seven-thirty. The husband has the choice of 
dragging his wife out of the house by the hair, or of patiently 
waiting and being reconciled to being late. These wives always late 
for appointments can find fifty details to take care of before 
joining their husbands. I for one do not understand them and 
desist from saying more about them because the comments would 
not take to print.

Any husband saddled with a chronically late wife has the choice of 
either killing her or of accepting her. He cannot be asked to 
understand her. The only choice seems to be to accept her. No 
husband can accomplish this except through love. For his own 
peace of soul he must concentrate on her good qualities and 
accept her as she is. Moreover, his humility will be strengthened 
by quietly suffering her inconsiderateness. Without love no one 
can long abide the faults of another. With love, shortcomings are 
accepted or even swallowed up as straw in a blast furnace.

Good natured "ribbing" or razzing" has its place in marriage as well 
as in friendships. Those in love enjoy teasing each other. It is a 
healthy sign of closeness and familiarity. Teasing may evidence a 
winning, mischievous spirit. It is often used by a clever person to 
bring another out of himself. It can be a good method of breaking 
down barriers, of preventing too much standing on ceremonies.

However, the practice can be dangerous and even destructive of 
love. Everything depends on the spirit behind the "ribbing." If the 
teasing is done to hurt, then it becomes the weapon of a person 
being mean. Obviously, no husband can stoop to such a practice 
without doing harm to his marriage.

Husbands should be cautioned to exercise care even about their 
good-natured "ribbing." If it is overdone or ill-timed, the wife may 
be hurt. Common sense, good taste, and above all, an abiding love 
and gentleness should guide a husband in teasing his wife.

The husband given to "ribbing" his wife about something he knows 
she is sensitive, is like a prize fighter hitting below the belt. He 
may think that he is winning the round, but the final verdict will 
show he has lost. Moreover, there is nothing clever about harping 
on the same tune. Most people will accept kind "razzing" about 
their acknowledged peculiarities. However, constant repetition can 
become irritating.

A husband too prone to "rib" his wife should stop and ask himself 
where he is heading. Does he think he is promoting love between 
himself and his wife? Did he overdo teasing when he was courting 
and winning his wife?

Excessive "ribbing" may become a poor camouflage for a critical 
spirit. A person in love seldom criticises the object of his love for 
the simple reason that he can see nothing but good. Love does not 
feed on criticism.

The husband who understands his wife knows her faults and 
shortcomings and must accept her as she is. She should not be too 
brittle to take a kind and loving teasing occasionally. Yet, he must 
be sure of himself and never let his teasing be an expression of 
criticism, spite, or vindictiveness.

A husband does nothing for his wife by reminding her constantly 
through "ribbing" that she has faults. She knows that she is far 
from being perfect; but she does not expect to hear that repeatedly 
from the one who is supposed to love her.

Many a husband has found himself way back in the doghouse 
because, in a thoughtless moment, he compared his wife with 
another woman. First of all, comparisons are odious. Then too, the 
wife has a right to feel that she is beyond comparison in the eyes 
of her husband.

"Betty is a very clever and winsome girl" is a statement packed 
with dynamite. Certainly, any husband thus referring to the wife 
next door is climbing way out on a limb. It is not easy for a wife to 
accept these encomiums paid to other wives without a suspicion 
that an unfavorable comparison is intended. If Betty has an 
exciting figure and that mysterious quality called sex appeal, the 
husband has had it. He has laid a great, big egg and will have a 
time of it covering up.

We began this chapter with the premise that women are mysterious 
and have many dark corners into which no one can penetrate. 
However, in this matter of comparisons, she is an open book. 
Unconsciously a woman regards every other woman as a rival. For 
this reason a beautiful and vivacious woman has few if any women 
friends. Indeed, few real friendships exist between women.

Only with great effort can a woman regard another with objectivity 
She can be sharp in her criticism of the charms of another, and can 
be vitriolic in denouncing the slightest semblance of display of 
feminine assets.

Awareness on the part of husbands of these facts may amount to 
an ace in the hole should the game of love turn to a showdown. 
Since men are babes in the woods in the game of love they must be 
astute in playing their ace. If they play it right, it will help them 
win the game of a happy married life.

Some husbands play their game as though they do not know that 
they have an ace in their hands. I remember one case in particular.

After about ten years of marriage the wife began acting high and 
mighty. Her husband had loved her deeply, if not always so wisely. 
Constantly he had told her that she was the most beautiful woman 
in the world, that he would not see another woman beside her for 
dust. Repeatedly he told her that he could not live without her. She 
was his whole life.

She became too sure of him and began to treat him as a convenient 
lap dog. The more available he was to her vanity, the more she 
took him for granted. She was no longer intrigued by him. Because 
she was a woman of little character, she toyed with a few 
flirtations. His reaction was to redouble his protestations of love 
and devotion. As long as he could not see another woman, she felt 
confident that he would be waiting for her should she decide to 
come back to him.

The poor husband had either overlooked the ace he had or held on 
to it too long and had it trumped. He had allowed her to become 
too sure of him. He lost his appeal for her.

"Competition is good for the soul," I remember a most gracious and 
accomplished lady saying as she found she had a rival. It is not 
good for us to become too sure of even getting to Heaven.

The husband mentioned above was so carried away by infatuation 
that he misled his wife into thinking that she was the only pebble 
on the beach. Actually she was not, as she found out a year or so 
after their separation. He became just as "goofy" over another 
woman. Her flirtations frittered away, and she found herself alone.

As I attempt to write down these ideas about the husband's 
understanding of his wife, little Peter is climbing upon a chair next 
to the dining room table flooded with the mid-morning sun. Peter 
is nineteen months old, already has a badly cut lip, and is scaring 
the life out of me that he will fall again. Peter is the youngest 
member of a family whose hospitality has provided me an 
occasional sanctuary in which to work on this book.

Peter is back again, the lovable little rascal; and I am not getting 
ahead in my work. Now he is gone, as is evidenced from his 
mother's voice in the kitchen. "Peter, are you throwing Cheerios on 
the floor again?"

The phone has rung, and Peter's mother is telling a girl friend 
about Peter's lip and his chicken pox. As she talks she tries to fold 
laundry.

The young daughter of the family, home from school with a cold, 
now has the television blasting. Peter is back and halfway up on 
the table after my paper. The front doorbell is ringing. A quick 
lunge on my part saves Peter from taking a nose-dive to the floor. 
Peter's mother passes by on the way to the door, takes Peter with 
her, and tones down the television now deserted. Janie is upstairs 
playing with her dolls or cookstove. I am playing with my pencil 
and wondering whether publisher and I shall ever see each other 
again.

The washing machine in the basement is buzzing, and the suds 
saving feature of the machine will be wasted unless madam gets 
down there soon. The phone is ringing again. Because Peter is 
momentarily out of sight, I have nothing to do but eavesdrop. The 
lady of the house is discussing the coming wedding of her sister. I 
gather that some important decisions are being hashed over.

The marriage will have to wait. Two boys have just stormed into 
the kitchen from school ready for their lunch. Thus a happy, 
relaxed morning has passed. In spite of chicken pox and cut lip 
Peter has enjoyed himself. I have done nothing. Mrs. O'Brien 
wonders where the morning has gone.

A serious effort to get lunch underway is interrupted by a ringing 
phone. Aunt Susan wonders how Peter is, and so forth. Before 
Susan can be satisfied, the children have gulped down their lunch 
with a few punches exchanged.

Peter takes care of his own eating in good style, but he and an area 
within a radius of eight feet need considerable mopping up after 
the collation.

An inside job of Peter's doing requires attention. Besides, it is nap 
time. So upstairs go Mama and her little darling. In the midst of 
diaper change the phone rings. As much as my ears flap I cannot 
tell who this might be.

After another page of pencil doodling I feel that the little boys' 
room needs investigating. Besides Peter seems to be having all the 
fun upstairs. No sooner up there than I become involved with 
Peter, who has slid away from his mother and is cavorting around 
in the nude. To keep him occupied while his mother is on the 
phone, we both march in and out of the bedrooms in mock, 
exaggerated military style.

Another phone call chucked away, mother takes over and cuddles 
her little boy to bed. By this time I feel that I am exhausted from 
creative work and decide to gallivant around in the car for a few 
hours.

On returning two hours later I find the house full of neighborhood 
children and Mrs. O'Brien seated at the ironing board, phone 
caught between shoulder and ear. Her hands are busy with 
something on the ironing board. I think that A.T.&T. gleefully 
advertise that fifty million people can talk to Mrs. O'Brien on the 
phone. And tremendous efforts are being made each year to 
increase the number.

There is always at work in nature a mysterious force keeping 
things in balance. Science and Industry keep threatening to 
practically do away with housework for wives. All sorts of 
automatic gadgets chug away for her. Will she one day find time 
hanging heavy on her hands, and thereby be in danger of getting 
into mischief? Hardly. The telephone steps in and keeps her 
jumping. Toward the close of day she finds herself struggling to 
get as much done as Grandma accomplished without a single 
electric appliance.

With these profound thoughts I get back to the dining room where 
I can do some more doodling and stare out the window. While 
daydreaming thus I notice that the lawn is dry and cracking open 
for want of rain. Also, a number of children seem to be tearing off 
the front porch.

Remembering having seen pictures of rioting mobs held back by 
fire horses, I feel that I have two good excuses for not writing. I 
can squirt the kids and the lawn at the same time. Both lawn and 
porch may yet be saved.

While I man the hose, Peter in his birthday suit appears out of the 
front door with his mother in hot pursuit. I do not squirt him and 
thus overcome another of life's many temptations.

As Peter's mother grabs him up in her arms she requests, "When 
you see the children send them in, please. I need bread from the 
store and someone to watch Peter."

Evidently the lady of the house is beginning to wrestle with 
another meal. Fifteen minutes pass, and no children show. I am 
hungry, so I decide that I had better go into the house and get 
Peter out of the way of preparations for dinner.

While I entertain Peter the man of the house returns from work. As 
he walks past several baskets of unironed laundry which still look 
about as they did in the morning, he does not say as he greets his 
wife, "What did you do today?" He is an understanding man and 
knows how her day can be a rat race with little to show for it.

The best cure for husbands who wonder what their wives do all 
day is to stay home from work and play cook, housekeeper, and 
nursemaid. The experience would be an eye opener for many.

Husbands successful in their work with any tendency to be 
perfectionists are in danger of being critical of what they imagine 
to be their wives' inefficiency around the home. Unless they 
actually take their wives' place for a day, they are pure theorists. 
Moreover, they are inclined to evaluate their wives' work by what 
they produce--ironed shirts, washed windows, cakes baked, and so 
forth. They forget about how much their wives turn out in a day in 
the way of services rendered--time and effort with the baby, effort 
with the children in directing, teaching, and admonishing them.

There are husbands who would be considerably happier if they 
spent less time wondering why their wives could not do better 
around the house and spend more time figuring out how to bring 
home a better pay check. Sympathetic understanding always 
produces more results than criticism. The first is constructive; the 
latter is destructive.

Many a wife has had most of the spark taken out of her by a 
husband lacking understanding. Her day at home is consumed by 
dozens of little details few of which amount to much. Frequently 
at the close of day she has little to show for all her efforts. If a wife 
has a husband who needs a little education in this respect, she 
should somehow bring it about that he has to take her place in the 
home for a full day.



8. HUMOR

When Smith walked down the sidewalk it was with head up, tail up 
like a grand and stately ass in oriental procession. He had a 
dignity to maintain. He had just been appointed chief dog catcher 
of Slick, a whistle stop on the Frisco. If anyone thinks that there is 
anything funny about all this, Smith did not; nor did his wife. His 
wife found it trying to care for the swelling pouter pigeon now 
living with her. She had to conduct herself with the decorum 
befitting the wife of a man of position.

If Smith and his confused wife provided others with amusement, it 
was because Smith was not amused. He lacked a sense of humor. 
Because he was puffed up with no reason the incongruity tickled 
the funny bone of his neighbors. The best comedians are without 
artifice and are not seen on TV.

What about the pompous Mr. Smiths who have cause to be proud 
and inflated over their success? These are the successful 
businessmen, prominent doctors, lawyers and clergymen, 
mysterious technical advisors and consultants. When one of these 
well-rewarded members of society struts, his pomposity is hard to 
take even by those with a sense of humor. There is not the 
incongruity between his behavior and his success as there is in the 
dog catcher's case. The proud with excuse to be proud are the 
hardest to swallow.

The pompous individual ever and over concerned with his 
importance is the way he is because he lacks a sense of humor. He 
has lost or never had a proper sense of balance. He cannot see 
things in their true perspective. Unable to keep the world about 
him in focus, he is in worse plight in evaluating himself. He 
imagines that his success is all due to himself. He never dreams 
that perchance he owes something to his Creator, to his 
environment, his family, and plain good fortune. If he is an 
erroneously so-called self-made man he may never even give 
credit to his thyroid gland.

A wife closeted with a chap of this type deserves sympathy. She 
cannot have much fun with the serious little boy. Unbending and 
forever protecting his dignity he knows nothing of the lighter, 
gayer side of life. Propriety is his watchword because he can never 
forget himself. He never experiences the exuberance of playing the 
clown or acting a little silly with his wife.

For him life is real, life is earnest. He confuses worth with 
seriousness, not realizing that rottenness and sin are just as 
serious as virtue. He would be surprised and even shocked to learn 
of the horseplay and fun indulged in by nuns in a convent.

A sober husband of this type must find a sense of humor if he is to 
save himself. Only through humility will he succeed, because 
humility is an objective and honest appraisal of one's self. 
Through humility he is able to laugh at himself. Once able to laugh 
at himself he is indifferent to or even receptive to the laughter of 
others at his expense.

A wife blessed with such a husband can well thank God. Her 
husband's sense of humor lessens greatly the wear and tear of 
daily life. He is an easy person with whom to live. Contrarily, the 
humorless husband is too lopsided. With him life is always a grim 
affair.

A husband possessing a sense of humor can let down his hair and 
engage in a little tomfoolery with his wife. Saved from being a 
"stuffed shirt" he obviates or eases many a matrimonial strain by 
knowing when to act silly. He is able to play the clown when 
necessary to prevent tensions from growing and breaking out into 
quarrels.

Most everyone has friends or acquaintances who are particularly 
gifted with a sense of humor. Their perception of the incongruous 
is razor sharp. Because they are of a humble and generous nature 
their sense of humor never degenerates into cynicism. Incidentally 
it is worth observing here how one virtue begets and fosters 
another just as one vice leads to another. A stingy and conceited 
man is likely to allow his fine perception of human nature to 
deteriorate into misanthropy and cynicism. On the other hand a 
humble and generous man is carried on by these virtues to a 
kindly and amused regard for the antics of his fellow man.

Because a sense of humor is so important for success in marriage, 
all husbands could well take a self-inventory. Some are more 
gifted than others. Yet, all can greatly develop their sense of 
humor. A virtue is a good habit which grows only with exercise.

Family life provides innumerable opportunities to a husband to 
see the amusing and funny side of situations as they arise with 
himself, his wife, or the children. If he trains himself to focus his 
attention on only the humorous aspects of what could be 
exasperating incidents, he will be a happier man. The grouch vexes 
himself with only the potentially irritating part of human relations.

One evening I visited a married couple. I ran into a situation worth 
relating. Ordinarily the dishes for the evening meal would have 
been put away by the time I dropped in on them. That evening 
they were off schedule, were only beginning to eat. Laughingly 
they told me what had happened that afternoon to put the kitchen 
in such disarray.

The wife was of an adventurous nature, which sometimes got her 
into deep water. That day it almost got her into water over her 
head. She suddenly decided to fix the leaking sink drain trap and 
faucet which her husband had put on the agendum for the 
weekend.

The d