by Barron B. Hoffbeck (no. 12513)

There’s an old Irish expression that goes “the older the fiddle, the sweeter the tune.” Dear reader, this columnist is hardly a Stradivarius but I’ve seen enough Eden Prairie winters to know the that the most beautiful music of all is truthfulness. How true it is as Lord Byron so eloquently put it, “There’s music in all things, if men had ears: Their earth is but an echo of the spheres.” Dear reader, I confess to you that it was I who had to learn this month…to finally face the music.

You’ll recall Yegor–the Ukrainian handyman who planted the seeds of yearning into the primrose path of my heart. This 5’6 block of gristle, 5 o’clock shadow, and t-shirt stepped out of Angie’s List and into my world when I hired him to let out the door frame on my downstairs bathroom to accommodate my mother’s mobility scooter. He never finished (sadly, my mother passed away in July) but he let out something more–love.

And yet, through our courtship, doubt seemed to linger. The human heart is vast and fuliginous and even love’s brilliance can cast shadows among its hallowed ventricles. Yes my beau beloved confides in me his secrets (a disdain for “Tatars,” a boyish fear of thunder, a longstanding subscription to “Razzle”). However, I long suspected that he held something back–some insidious secret fermenting in the night.

Heavy weighs the crown; as a member of the premier secret fraternal order of the modern world (and former standing secretary of local Lodge 129), a certain degree of discretion must be exercised. Usurpers rarely ask politely. Just as it’s in an asp’s nature to bite, so too is it a Queen’s nature to protect what’s hers. A stiletto in my umbrella handle and a garrote in my handbag are just another mundane reality of being Barb.

So when Yegor needed to pause the Midsomer Murder DVD to take a phone call in the garage or to fly last minute to Buffalo to visit an “ailing nephew”, of course it tickled my suspicion. Just who was this man nibbling my snickerdoodles and to whom did he owe his loyalty–the Guardians of the Orb? The Kiwanis? The Eagle Scouts?

Finally, with our our wedding date weeks away, I could take no more idle speculation. I vaccilitated between a call to the Preemptive Consequences Committee or the tried and true DIY method of flunitrazepam, a 200 watt bulb, two gallons of distilled water, and a coil of twine. By hook or by crook, the truth would be mine.

I sat in the parlour, steeping a hot mug of moroccan mint tea with a side dish of malice, planning the best way to force imagined indiscretion from my beloved’s breast when I heard the tinny trill of music played from a cellular phone speaker. Yegor, bless his heart, sleeping soundly on the La-z-boy, had set “Wichita Lineman”–our song–as his phone ringtone. I looked warmly at this big galoot snoring soundly in the noonday sun, oblivious to the phone calls of the world outside, filling our lives with this joyous song and I said to myself, Barb, it’s time to face the music.

I’d been so caught up in conspiracy and skullduggery and I failed to stop and actually talk about what was bothering me. So finally I woke him up…and I asked him–did he have a secret he needed to share with me? I asked not out of distrust but affection. Tearfully, and with some gentle cajoling, he finally admitted–he’s a semi-retired mid-level sales representative for Cutco. “Is pyramid scheme! Is so shameful!” he choked out between sobs. Cutco! So this was the burden he’d been bearing alone. I assured him that MLM marketing schemes are nothing to be ashamed of and that I was involved in a group that actually helped invent such practices. I realized then that he had no idea about the Order of the Grand Lock. He let me into his world…and I finally let him into mine.

Yegor completed his Grand Lock initiation rituals two weeks ago and shortly thereafter we had a simple courthouse wedding surrounded by friends and lodgemates. The reception at Lodge 129 was exactly as I always dreamed it would be (save for an unfortunate mess in the peach tart caused by Locksmith S. Markett’s macaw).

At the end of the day, the piper must be paid. But dear reader, I plead to you–look in your heart when the going gets tough and have the strength to face the music.

Toodle-oo for now.

From Volume 872 Issue 40 – Subscribe here, members, to be the first to get the next newsletter!