He Married Me Anyway and Loves Me Still

by Donna Poole

“When you grow up, you should marry that nice little Johnnie Poole.”

I don’t know how many times Mom said that to me, but I thought it was too many! I had no intention of marrying the “nice little Johnnie Poole.” But he had every intention of marrying me.

This week was that nice little Johnnie Poole’s seventy seventh birthday. My mom and his mom thought he was perfect, so if they were alive, they’d appreciate the fact that he’s now reached the age of double perfection—double sevens.

Our story goes a long way back, Johnnie Poole’s and mine. Before we even went to kindergarten, we sang in a children’s choir at church. We wore short white jackets with arms that snapped at the wrists. Teachers tied red or black large crepe paper bows around our necks. We looked uniform and adorable except for that nice little Johnnie Poole. He looked adorable with his big brown eyes, but he didn’t look uniform. He was the only child who refused to fasten the snaps at his wrists and the only one who chewed his crepe paper bow while we waited to be called to the platform and wow the adults with our cuteness. That made him the only kid who stood on the platform with red or black lips and chin.

Johnnie Poole’s behavior drove me crazy. Being the preschool control freak I was, I told him every time before we sang to stop chewing the bow and to fasten his snaps. And every time he looked at me with those inscrutable brown eyes and kept chewing. But he grew up and married me anyway.

When we started school, Johnnie wanted to show off his academic progress one day after church. A blackboard was nearby, and he said, “I can write my name. Want to see?”

Slowly, carefully, he wrote, J-O-H-N, put down the chalk, and waited for a compliment.

“That’s now how you spell John,” I informed him. “Listen to the word. John. John. Do you hear any H? I don’t think so.”

He put the chalk in the tray, looked at me calmly, and said, “I guess I should know how to spell my own name.”

And then he walked away. Infuriating boy. Bossy little girl. But he grew up and married me anyway.

Johnnie and I were supposed to get baptized at the same time when we were eight years old, but I had to get my tonsils out, and the doctor said no baptism. He thought being dunked in a tank of water might lower my immune system, and a cold could then prevent the surgery.

After the tonsillectomy, I was in a mood. The doctor had assured me it wouldn’t hurt, but I had a sore throat that felt like the inside of a smoldering volcano. I was mad at the world. And then nice little Johnnie Poole and his parents came to our house. As the adults chatted, he said quietly in my ear in a sing-song voice, “Ha ha ha ha ha. I got baptized and you couldn’t.”

I looked at him, walked into my bedroom, and closed the door. Soon Mom came in. “You come out here and play with that nice little Johnnie Poole.”

“I can’t. I’m too sick.”

“I’m getting out some ice cream. If you don’t come out and play with him, you can’t have any.”

I carefully weighed my options. Ice cream would feel heavenly on my scorching throat, but I’d have to eat it with the infuriating boy. I stayed in my room.

We laugh about it now; we both behaved badly, but I won the brat contest. Still, Johnnie grew up and married me anyway.

When I was in fifth grade, we moved out of the area because Dad’s work transferred him. They sent him back to the same area for a short time when I was halfway through seventh grade. David, a boy I knew, talked to me between Sunday school and church.

“A guy wants to sit with you. He’s a really nice guy. Everyone in youth group likes him. He’s funny, and good looking too. He sent me to ask you if you will sit with him in church.”

“Who is it?”

“I’m not supposed to say until you answer.”

“David, I’m not going to answer until I know who it is.”

“Well, okay. It’s Johnnie Poole.”

“Johnnie Poole? I’ve known him all my life! If he wants to sit with me, tell him to ask me himself!”

“He’s too shy.”

“Well, then, the answer is no.”

But he grew up and married me anyway.

When it came time for our family to move again, Johnnie said goodbye to me after church. And then he returned and said goodbye again. And again. And again. Finally, he asked if he could write to me. We only moved about forty miles away and saw each other occasionally, but I got many letters during junior high and high school signed, “Your friend, Johnnie Poole.”

And I thought of him only as a friend. I dated another boy all through high school. Johnnie got pretty mad when he found out about it, but he grew up and married me anyway.

We dated during college. I remember one Sunday we were at his parents’ home after church. I asked if he wanted to go to town and get an ice cream cone, and he said no. I asked again, and again he said no.

“Johnnie,” his mom said, “if Donna wants ice cream, you should take her to get it.”

His dad wanted a milkshake. His mom didn’t want anything; I think perhaps she was feeling bad. That was the first and last time she ever took anyone’s side but Johnnie’s. He wouldn’t say a word all the way to town.

Johnnie pulled into the parking lot. I expected him to go in and buy his dad’s shake and my cone; that’s how things were done in the sixties. But no. “You want a cone, you go in and get it,” he said.

I took the high road. “Okay. What flavor would you like?”

“I don’t want a cone.”

I returned carrying his dad’s shake, a cone for him, and one for me. He didn’t open my door; getting into the car was tricky, but I managed.

“Here’s your cone.”

Silence.

“Would you please take your cone?”

Silence.

“I can’t hold all this much longer. Please take your cone.”

“I told you I didn’t want a cone.”

But he took it. Then he rolled down his window; this was back when you rolled them down by hand, and he slung that cone into the parking lot. He hadn’t wanted to drive to town, and then his mom had taken my side. And then I did something worse, much worse. I laughed. I ate my cone, and I laughed most of the way back to his house. But he married me anyway.

Oh, I should tell you about an argument we had at college. As things heated up, Johnnie said, “I wish I hadn’t gotten those concert tickets! I don’t want to go with you.”

“Fine, because I don’t want to go with you either!”

We were driving in town. I opened my window and threw the tickets into a snowbank. John pulled over, stopped, and looked at me. “Get out and pick up those tickets.”

“You want those tickets? You get out and pick them up yourself.”

I won the staring contest that followed. John got out and picked up the tickets. We were still the two bratty eight-year-olds even though we were eighteen. But he married me anyway.

John often jokingly asked me to marry him and then produced a ring from a bubble gum machine or a piece of string and laughed. Once we went with his parents and a friend to Georgia. The friend, John, and I were all on top of Stone Mountain, Georgia. The view was incredible, and John asked me to marry him. Back then proposals weren’t group or family affairs with photo sessions. They were quiet, romantic events between two, but we were three.

I laughed. “I’m not falling for that again!”

He’d been serious. He was so hurt he didn’t speak to me the rest of the day. Awkward, because we were with the friend, his parents, and his sister and her husband. Did they notice he was upset?

This should answer the question. His mom asked, “Donna, what did you do to Johnnie?”

Later that night we were alone for a minute or two in the living room. John glared at me. “Do you want to marry me or not? And this is your last chance!”

Marriage didn’t improve our behavior, not right away. John wanted to fold socks and towels the way his mom did. I wanted to fold them the way my mom did. And we had lots of other arguments over things just as important. But he loved me still.

We looked as childish as we acted. Once a salesmen came to the door and asked if our parents were home.

We’d been married about a year when I took a good look at that nice little Johnnie Poole, now called John, or honey. He was working full time and going to college, and he was tired. And I was tired of fighting. I wish I could tell you God got ahold of me, but it wasn’t anything that spiritual. I remember thinking, from now on I’m going to only argue about things that really matter to me.

I found to my surprise few things mattered, and we became a team. We finally grew up and became people God could use to show his love to others, and we became each other’s cheer leaders, comfort, encouragement, support, and best friends.

Fifty-six years of marriage brings breath taking joy and unspeakable sorrow, but we’ve faced it together. Mom was right all along. I love that nice little Johnnie Poole more than words can say, and I’m glad he married me. He’s seventy-seven, and I hope he lives to be at least ninety-seven and loves me still.

The end

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These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Four: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Photo credit: Kimmee Kiefer