Unless you live under a particularly remote rock, you will have heard of the book (or at least the concept) The Five Love Languages by Gary Chapman. By reading this book, (or taking this quiz) you will learn which of the "love languages" you use to show your love to your partner. Your partner in turn takes the quiz as well. The idea is that you can strengthen your relationship by understanding your partner's perferred way to receive affection, and vice versa. The five languages are words of affirmation, quality time, physical touch, acts of service and receiving gifts. As for me I'm satisfied with any/all of them, especially when Earle does an "act of service" and cooks me breakfast in bed both mornings every weekend.
I had a front row seat to observe a happy marriage between two people who didn't need to read a relationship book. Jack and Mary Frances Draper were 37 and 35 respectively when I was born. In my early days, their relationship occasionally had rough edges. Raising childrn, caring for eldrely parents, Dad's job, the farm. Sometimes two smart, self-directed people had reason to disagree. But when it did happen, I always saw the resolution to any moments of unrest: murmured words of apology, hugs, affirmation, simple kindnesses that always paved a loving way forward.
But I also had the benefit of watching that love grow old, to see the edges worn soft by age. The apprection, love, and respect that flowed between my parents was thoughful and tender.
But my Dad, who was an engineer by training and temperament, did a remarkable job of creating a Sixth Love Language.
His perferred Love Language was Projects.
And the best illustration I know involves sewing.
My parents had no central air conditioning in their brick two story home in Seaboard, North Carolina. They relied on a attic fan which generated a major whoosh of a breeze, especially in the staircase. However, it didn't solve the problem, especially when life in the country included working in the garden, hanging clothes on the line, canning pickles and peaches, and blanching butterbeans for freezing, working in the yard, and farming. It was hot. And they sweated. And sweated. And sweated some more.
After my dad retired, my mom decided that at her age it no longer mattered if she wore a sleeveless dress and every one saw her "fat" arms. She found a sleeveless shift (no pants, please!) and gave it a try. She loved it! Wash and wear and a whole lot cooler than the shirtwaist dress she usally adopted. Despite being very fiscally responsible, ("tight as Dick's hatband" as she used to say,) she decided she needed a few more. A shopping jaunt to Roanoke Rapids was arranged to buy more.
But she struck out.
Mom just couldn't find more of what she was looking for. Not a single sleeveless shift. She was quite disappointed.
But Dad saw her disappointment. Mom was a woman who "made do" and didn't complain but sleeveless dresses promised cooler days, and Dad could see the benefit of it.
So, he began a Project.
He took her sleeveless dress and spread it out on a long table and used it to fashion a dress pattern. He made allowances for darts and pockets. Then came a trip to seek out fabric, zippers, and edging. And then my Dad holed up in our guest room in front of his Sears sewing machine.
Yes, his. Mom didn't sew a lick. Nor did I. But Dad's mom, Mabel Draper, was a seamstress without equal. There must be a sewing gene and in our home Dad had it. The same man who could often be found on a tractor or elbow deep in a motor.
And he sewed, and he sewed, and he sewed. And much to my mom's delight, she found she had a whole wardrode of sleeveless dresses. More than a week's worth, maybe 12 or so. They were plaid and calico, and every color. And one even had the cutest little frogs. (We still have that one!)
She lived in those dresses, for years.
And whenever we were out and about folks would ask Mom if she made her dress.
And she would smile and puff herself up with pride and reply "No, Jack did."
And that's love. Which has a language with a vast vocabulary all its own.
