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I THOUGHT I MARRIED
'^T'he first week we were married my husband hit me over the head with a picture frame. And all because of something that hadn’t even been my fault . . . but I’m getting ahead of my story.
It all really began — the picture-frame fight, I mean — because of course I had no idea that Jimmie snored. Even though our home was right smack under the Hollywood freeway, where the trafiic made more noise than a jamboree, you could still hear Jimmie’s snoring. No sooner would he crawl into bed than he’d snuggle over to his side with all the covers, close his eyes and rock the bedroom with the most perfectly modulated “Grroor — whee, grroor — whee.” And he would sleep like a log. Me? Well, I just had to get used to it — but not without effort.
I remember one chilly morning, right before dawn, hearing what sounded like an overworked pneumatic street-drill coming to me over the waves of sleep. In a dream-like sort of way it seemed as though these drills were people marching towards me and I, in true dream
fashion, was unable to move an inch and, to top it all, was standing shivering in a sub-zero cold.
It was too much. So I must have unconsciously put an end to it all by waking up. And then I knew. It had been Jimmie’s snoring — snoring as he’d never snored before. He’d taken all the blankets again, too. So I began my counter-attack by tugging for my share of the bed-covers, totally ignoring his sleepy protests. Then I decided to put an end to the snore — but for this I chose a more subtle approach. If he could make noise — I could, too.
So, feeling very abused, I began pounding on the wall behind the bed. “Hey,” I said, “how about a break, huh?”
But no sooner did my fist hit the plaster than our marriage license (framed and hanging precariously from a thumb tack above the bed), came tumbling down — arriving on the bed by way of a bounce off the top of Jimmie’s head.
He sat bolt up, looking bewildered. [Continued)
by MRS. JIMMIE RODGERS
as toJd to GEORGE CHRISTY
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