Journal from the Edge of Survival: Our Love Language

The gentlest thing in the world
overcomes the hardest thing in the world.
That which has no substance
enters where there is no space.
This shows the value of non-action.

Teaching without words,
performing without actions:
that is the Master’s way.

Tao te Ching

I walked through the dining room and peered out to the screened porch to see Charlie sitting there, head in hand, looking almost morose.

I walked out to join him, momentarily startled by the warm spring breeze and the sounds of birds nesting in the nearby eaves and all the other signs that an actual world existed outside the walls of my pandemic prison. I turned back to peer anxiously at his sagging expression.

“What’s wrong?” I asked him.

“My flibberhoozit won’t measure the libberwizzle without bibbywilling,” he said, dejectedly. I made the appropriate sympathetic face and nodded.

For many years I thought it was important to learn what all these strange words mean in order to communicate effectively with Charlie. After a while, though, I realized that what Charlie was truly communicating to me had nothing to do with the words. It is his tone, his body language, his facial expression that need to be looked at. With those, he is speaking volumes. I have absolutely no need to ever learn what a flibberhoozit is or why one might bibbywill. In fact, if I tried, Charlie would probably look at me as if I had sprouted feathers from my ears and was trying to fly. 

In the usual world, Charlie presents with an almost flat affect. We have a long-standing family joke, in which someone will make the most blank expression they can muster. “This is Charlie, happy!” they will say. Then, without changing expression, they will add “This is Charlie, sad.” And again, without a shift to an eyebrow or a twitch to a lip, they will say “This is Charlie, angry.” Everyone laughs. Except Charlie, but we’re still pretty sure he’s making his “amused” face. It’s just hard to be sure.

But Charlie does indeed have a language of deep feeling, which emerges when he is talking about the one thing for which he has unending passion: Cars (and their many unfathomable parts and doohickies, and of course associated tools, which are as mysterious and unknowable to me as are the Kardashians and their inexplicable fame).

Actually, it’s not just cars, it’s any form of wheeled transportation that inspires passion and emotional expression in Charlie. 

Right now we have four automobiles in various stages of assembly and mechanical competence, 3 motorcycles (I think one of them is actually ridable), an unclear number of bicycles (but probably enough parts to have at least 7 complete ones), and a 1969 super hip Vespa that looks like it should be tooling around Rome ridden by a young, attractive woman laughing and shouting out “Ciao!” to passers by. 

I’m really hoping that thing gets repaired enough to ride, soon, because I’m sure if I plant my fat ass on it and take it to town to the grocery store I will immediately be transformed into Audrey Hepburn, complete with dark glasses and a chiffon scarf and a pencil-thin waist. I just know it. Stop treading on my dreams, dude.

Despite Charlie’s sadness about his inability to measure his ever-important libberwizzle, I was actually a bit elated by this turn of events. His 9-hour jaunts in the garage, buried elbow deep in the private parts of an automobile, mean that he is actually feeling quite a bit better after his battle with what may or may not have been the zombie plague. He has risen victorious with neither an addiction to ventilator air or an unnatural hunger for brains. He is back to making love to his iron mistresses. Yay!

I think Charlie’s deep devotion to this hobby makes me what they call in the vernacular of those who know of such things a “wheel widow.” But rather than lament his preference for spending his time in the garage and the workshop, I have learned enough to actually value some of the side-effects and benefits of his obsession. And not just the fact that I haven’t had to worry about car troubles for decades…

…and as far as I’m concerned, all cars remain immaculately clean, full of fuel, and in perfect working condition by magic. Charlie is my fairy car father. Everyone should be so lucky.

You see, there is something about these machines that allows Charlie to tap into the deeper recesses of his soul to find and express all of those emotions which are usually a bit elusive to his spectrum-tinted personality. And I know that these special expressions are not necessarily limited to the mechanical work that enabled them. This is the blessing of mechanics in our lives.

Forget Quality Time or Words of Affirmation… Charlie’s love language is cars. 

I didn’t ever need to learn the technical terms or even begin to understand what a blippenfocker or a jiggetyliffin is in order to love Charlie the way he wants to be loved. All I had to do was learn to read the powerful if slightly indistinct emotional expressions behind them. They are a gift, like a secret codex that magically becomes unencrypted when he has a tool in his hand and grime smeared across his cheek. 

So when Charlie showed his deep disappointment at the failure of his measuring tool, I knew it didn’t matter what he was measuring; it only mattered that he felt disappointed and was sharing it with me. It might not have even been solely about the tool, which was only marginally relevant. It was the feeling being gifted to me that mattered. I opened my heart and received it with gratitude.

I patted his back. “Gah, that must be so frustrating. Can you order a new one from Amazon?”

“Yeah, I’ll do that,” he said, and looked a bit better. He didn’t need that solution, of course. He just needed to know that I was on his side and was here to pat his back when needed. Love language communication accomplished.

The next day when I went to check on him in the garage, he was just emerging from the bowels of his latest favorite toy. My timing was perfect.

“Guess what!” he said, with elation clearly stamped across his usually taciturn face. I knew I probably wouldn’t understand whatever words he was about to say, but the joy he was showing in a rare moment of pure emotion almost moved me to tears.

“I now have a working dandyfluggle!” he almost shouted.

I threw my arms up in the air. “Woo hoo!” I shouted back.

“I am the man who accomplished a fully repaired DANDYFLUGGLE!” He threw his arms in the air to mimic mine.

I’m sure he knew I had no idea what he was talking about. It didn’t matter. We did a little happy dance together.

Later that night, as we sat side by side on the couch watching TV, I finished up a particularly complicated crochet project. 

“Look!” I showed him, even though he hates crochet. He can’t understand why there are so many holes in things that are crocheted. It seems weird and useless to him. But he politely obliged with a Mona Lisa half-hearted attempt at a smile, and I knew that for him this was a major effort and he was trying to be supportive, and for that I was grateful.

“You realize, between this and your working dandyfluggle, we are in essence THE southern California “it” couple now. It doesn’t get much cooler than this.”

He chuckled. “Yes. Yes we are.” I could tell that he was thrilled I remembered his grand success.

I raised my hand, and he high-fived me back.

I snuggled up against him and we watched the next episode of our latest binge show, happy in our personal successes and shared victories.

I think we have this love language thing down.