THE FRUIT OF THE LOOMS CAPER

Maybe I should call this The Fruit of the Looms Fiasco...

We're in Savannah to celebrate our anniversary, and we've just enjoyed a leisurely seafood dinner on the riverfront. Then we returned to our historic B&B.

We're ready to climb up on the king-sized cherry four-poster (I do mean climb; sometimes I had to get Milton to give me a hand up; other times, I took a flying leap and somehow made it) and watch a little TV on the 42-inch plasma screen mounted above the mantel.

Milton's already lying in bed, flipping channels. I'm changing clothes. I notice the window shade isn't at sill level; it needs to come down another inch, so no one can see into our room. I do like my privacy.

I walk over to it and give it a gentle tug.

The whole window shade...

...roller and all...

...swooshes down...

...and lands at my feet.

I let out a shriek.

Milton springs from the bed, and there we stand, him in his Fruit of the Looms and me in my unmentionables, in front of this what?—10-foot-tall-window?—for all the world to see. "You shouldn't have bothered it," he grumbles.

"It needed to come down another inch or so." I smile thinking of my next statement. "I didn't want anybody to see us."

He springs into action like superman in reverse and has his pants on in the blink of an eye. That man can get dressed (and undressed :) ) faster than a streak of lightning.

He picks up the windowshade, pulls a wing chair over to the window, stands in it, and stretches as high as he can reach, to no avail. "I can't reach the brackets." He climbs on one arm of the chair...

...and me, the writer, envisions him...

...falling through the glass and onto the sidewalk with a splat...

...and I can see the headlines...

Pastor Dies in Savannah B&B While Replacing Windowshade Wife Jerked Down.

I shake myself to get rid of the awful image.

I sit down on the opposite chair arm from where he's standing. "I'll hold you down." I grab hold of his pants pocket. "I'll spot you."

He reaches and reaches and grumbles and grumbles. "This thing's not wide enough for the window." He unscrews one end, trying to extend it. He tries to mount it in the brackets again, to no avail. "Why'd you bother it in the first place?"

I look up at him. Is that a snarl in his voice? "It needed to come down," I say sweetly. "I didn't know it would fall."

He works at unscrewing the other end.

"What'll we do if we can't get it back up?" My mind wanders a thousand ways. Towels taped to the window? No, we don't have any tape. The throw on the bed draped over the curtain rod? No, the window's so tall, it wouldn't reach the bottom.

He's tottering precariously on the arm of that wing chair and leaning on the glass at the same time trying to get the shade mounted, and I'm holding my breath. I don't even think to ask God for protection. Thank the Lord for deep-down confidence that He's always there, watching out for us.

Snap.

He got one end in.

Snap.

He got the other end in.

A sweet feeling of relief sweeps over me.

He climbs down.

He makes eye contact with me and starts laughing.

I get this shy, new bride feeling. I don't know why. I just do. For Milton to laugh with me while looking deeply into my eyes, well, that's what happens.

We keep looking at each other, laughing together, enjoying the moment.

(Someone said, "Laughter is the shortest distance between two people." Someone else said, "Laughter can help in times of stress." The Bible says, "A merry heart does good like a medicine.")

Little did I know then that we'd go into another laughing fit the next night, during our anniversary meal at a famous restaurant, but for a different reason. It was when we were playing Milton's Question Game...