Morgan arrived at the little lake cabin around lunchtime. Her sorority sister Grace was driving the car. The car wheeled into the gravel driveway. When Morgan crawled out of the passenger seat, we all rushed her and embraced.

Everyone was laughing and carrying on, hugging necks, and back-slapping. Dogs were turning circles and barking with glee. And during all this social excitement, someone may or may not have accidentally peed in the kitchen.

Now, I won’t say WHO in my family circle urinated directly on the kitchen floor. But I will say that I am almost certain—at least in this particular instance—that it wasn’t me.

Next, Grace and I carried Morgan’s bags inside, while my wife gave Morgan the dime tour of the antiquated lake abode.

Jamie showed Morgan where the wooden floorboards warp and where, precisely, she should watch her step. She showed her the vintage bathroom, with a toilet that predates the Truman era and a rust-covered bathtub with flaking paint, and a tiny lizard who lives in the overflow drain whom we have

named Albert. We showed Morgan exactly which hazardous ungrounded electrical sockets to avoid, and made certain everyone understood the finer points of electrical injuries and basic CPR.

Then, while everyone got settled in, my wife cleaned up the pee in the kitchen.

“I’d like to know WHO peed in my kitchen,” she said in an ominous voice, glaring at me and our three dogs.

“I would like to know as well,” I said.

But my wife was now glaring solely at me.

“What are you looking at me for?” I asked.

Glare.

So I went onto the porch and hung out with Grace and Morgan. The porch overlooks Lake Martin and is the perfect place to spend a serene…

On our first date, we went to a bookstore-slash-coffee-shop. I asked the young lovely if she wanted something to drink. She replied that she would like some water, please. 

So, I found the coffee station, which featured a small pitcher of free tap water. I poured a Dixie cup full. I gave the water to her. 

My date handled the tiny cup like I’d just presented her a container of warm sputum. 

“What’s this?” Jamie said. 

“Water.”

“Didn’t they have any bottles of water?” 

“I think they sell bottles, yes.”

She glanced at the Barbie-sized cup in her hands. “Are plastic bottles against your religion?”

Shrug. “They’re expensive.”

“So it’s a moral issue?”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“What would you say then?”

I smiled. “Would you like a bottle of water?”

“No,” she said.

“Let me get you a bottle of water.”

“No, thank you. Not if they’re ‘expensive.’ Heaven for-BID.”

“I’ll be right back.”

“No. Don’t bother. I don’t want a bottle of water. I couldn’t have you spending a whole DOLLAR on your date. That would

be a bridge too far.”

Jamie tossed back the water like it was commercial-grade tequila. She slammed the empty cup on the table. “I’ll take another, Mister Rockefeller.”

And I knew I would marry her. 

In my defense, this happened nearly a quarter century ago. Bottled water was still a relatively new thing to the American public. It was considered bougie, at the time. This was an era when bottled water was typically reserved for persons with a credit score of 780 or higher. 

Moreover, when you came from the other side of…