The title of this essay comes from a song in the stage production of Camelot.  It opened on Broadway in December, 1960.  That means that the production of the Broadway play is now 50 years old.  When I hear the songs from that show, in particular as performed by Samuel Ramey, it brings back memories that are at least a half century old.  Nonetheless, I have lifted a title from one song called “How to Handle a Woman.”  I believe that it is a fitting tribute to Miss Chicka, my wife, who fully deserves this praise.
By the time that I had arrived on this earth, six children had been born to the Carr family ahead of me.  That meant that the arrival of a new child was old hat.  There was no gathering of females to say, “Look at him smile,” etc.  The only reason to marvel at the birth of this new child, namely me, was its weight.  I have been led to believe that the weight at the time of my birth in 1922 was something on the order of ten pounds.  But that is nothing to get excited about and so my parents, I suppose, would say, “Oh yes, we had a new baby.  So what else is new?”
I make this point to show that gushiness does not come easily to my mind.  As a matter of fact, that emotion is largely non-existent.  And so when I tell you that this essay is a tribute to Miss Chicka, my wife, you will know that it has been given a lot of thought.  And all those thoughts comprise the reason for the title of this essay, which is “…Love Her, Love Her, Love Her.”
Miss Chicka and I have been married for 25 happy years now.  We were not teenagers when we exchanged those vows before the mayor of Millburn, New Jersey.  Because we were not teenagers, old age has crept up on me in the form of disabilities.  And in the terms of disabilities, it has affected Miss Chicka as well by introducing her to cancer.  But this is not intended to be a play-by-play announcement of the course of our long marriage.  For the play-by-play, you will have to go elsewhere.  This essay as I said earlier is meant as a tribute to the constancy of Miss Chicka’s devotion to me.
When I look at the list of my failings over the past 25 years, it would make it appear that Miss Chicka has spent a good part of her life in hospital waiting rooms, waiting to hear at least in two cases whether her husband was going to survive.  As a point of fact, like an old penny, I have survived.  That survival is due greatly to the efforts of Miss Chicka.
As most of you know, seven years ago glaucoma decided to exercise its grim wiles on my eyes and since 2005 I have been completely blind.  More than that, old age has begun to creep up on me as I near the age of 90.  As I abandon the tasks that I used to do easily, such as taking out the garbage, those tasks have been willingly assumed by none other than Miss Chicka, my wife.  I used to set the table and butter the toast.  Buttering the toast is now beyond my reach because when I locate the butter I lose track of where the toast is located.  I made two or three attempts to continue this work but found that sloppiness was the net result.
As I have grown older and been able to do less in the way of keeping the household running, Miss Chicka has taken over those jobs with absolutely no complaint.  It gives me sort of a helpless feeling to know that my wife is performing the tasks that I should be doing.  But Miss Chicka does those tasks without complaint and seems to say that this is all part of the bargain of marrying you.
And so this essay is intended as a salute to my wife for doing more than her share of the responsibilities of the marriage.
Now we come to the title of this essay which puts in words the emotions that are felt here.  Jay Lerner and Frederick Loewe are a product of the Broadway stage.  In 1962 when they wrote “Camelot,” there was one song that captured my fancy and still does some 50 years later.  That song is “How to Handle a Woman.”  In tribute to Miss Chicka, my wife, I would like to borrow some of the lyrics to “How to Handle a Woman.”  I do so because Lerner and Loewe are professionals and this essay deserves a professional touch.
As I recall it, “Camelot” is about King Arthur, his wife Guinevere, and Merlin the magician.  As it happened, Lerner and Loewe picked a baritone who rendered the song in question on the stage using a monotonous tone.   They should have chosen someone like Ezio Pinza or the great bass Samuel Ramey.  But fortunately while Lerner and Loewe overlooked outstanding basses and baritones, Samuel Ramey did record “How to Handle a Woman.”  Its lyrics are these:
How to handle a woman?
There’s a way,” said the wise old man,
“A way known by ev’ry woman
Since the whole rigmarole began.”
“Do I flatter her?” I begged him answer.
“Do I threaten or cajole or plead?
Do I brood or play the gay romancer?”
Said he, smiling: “No indeed.
How to handle a woman?
Mark me well, I will tell you, sir:
The way to handle a woman
Is to love her…simply love her…
Merely love her…love her…love her.”
 
When Samuel Ramey or any other good professional singer reaches those lines, “Love her, love her, love her,” I can only say, “Amen.”  Hey man, I am doing my best to do that.
 
E. E. CARR
June 12, 2012
Essay 670
 
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I would agree with Pop here, particularly in the sentiment that he probably would not be alive today if not for Judy Chicka. All Shepherds, Carrs, and Nollmanns owe her quite a bit. It almost goes without saying, but the fact that she’s not a blood relative doesn’t change things for a second; she is as much family as anyone could be. Why she chose this particular family to become a part of, on the other hand, is honestly pretty baffling. In any event, I can attest that my grandmother is a wonderful woman, and I was very glad to discover at least one of Pop’s hundreds of essays was devoted primarily to that fact.
Note: Edited 8/31/12 with some edits that Pop made to this essay.