I don’t know why I didn’t tell them I had a guitar up yonder hanging on that tree. I just reared back and soaked in every note and every word of their singing. It was so clear and honest sounding, no Hollywood put-on, no fake wiggling. It was better to me than the loud squalling and bawling you’ve got to do to make yourself heard in the old mobbed saloons. And instead of getting you all riled up mentally, morally and sexually - no, it done something a lot better, something that’s harder to do, something you need ten times more. It cleared your head up, that’s what it done, caused you to fall back and let your draggy bones rest and your muscles go limber like a cat’s. – “The Telegram that Never Came” – from “Bound for Glory”
My husband knows everything I do, and he doesn’t mind.
He doesn’t mind that I’ve run around the country, chasing Woody Guthrie.
If he traveled for his work, would you tell him what a good, patient, loving, generous wife he had for letting him do his job? Probably not.
I get told that all the time. I do agree that he’s all those things, but it bothers me that men with those traits are still considered “special” when they should be considered “normal.”
He doesn’t mind that I’m fat.
Do I get pitying looks for having a spouse he’s chubbier, grayer, and sleepier than he was in 1998 when we met? No. So why should he?
He doesn’t mind that I’m a social butterfly, gregarious, and tend to fall into flirtation without even realizing it. When he does the, he’s considered charming.
He doesn’t mind that I have parts of my life that have nothing to do with him or our daughter.
How lucky am I to have such an understanding husband?
That’s not luck; that’s the way it should be. From both sides.
He doesn’t mind that I took a Saturday to indulge in the offerings of the West Village.