Before he took me into the city, we went shopping to buy city clothes. He bought a hunter green raw silk shirt with long sleeves, and I got a pair of black leather boots with pointy toes, high heels and silver studs.
It was St Patrick's Day, and I was home from the boys ranch for a few days. I didn't get home from the ranch in time to see the parade; we arrived later in the evening and we got a room in the round hotel across from the St Louis Arch. We had an awesome view, and we put a bottle of expensive champagne on my credit card. He put on tan slacks, the raw silk shirt and brown loafers. With tassels. I had the boots, and presumably I had on other clothes, but I don't recall the shape.
I recall walking down the cobble stone street holding his hand and allowing the city to stab itself into my vein. We rode the metro and walked along the Pier. We looked at the gambling boats on the Mississippi river, and we stood beneath the arch and I made him kiss me. We pushed our way into bars packed with shiny city people that smelled of expensive perfume and gleamed as if they were made of plate glass and steel. I stood next to ladies in business suits with smooth sleek hair pulled back in scrunchies (This was the early 90's) and we drank green beer and twirled on dance floors. My eyes that were fresh from the country feasted on the lights, my skin that was used to fresh air beaded with city perspiration, My mouth looked at the way it formed vowels and my heart beat with the thrum of the hundreds of bands celebrating St Pat.
We called a night to our evening when we were out of cash, and so we walked the many blocks back to our motel. My mighty duck feet were protesting inside the pointy city boots--that weren't so city afteral--so I took them off and the thick athletic socks that I wore beneath them. I tossed the socks into a dumpster, and held the boots over my shoulder the way I had once slung my ice skates. Cobble stone sidewalks aren't conducive to bare feet, and soon I was putting my boots back on. After I had my feet placed inside, we stopped at a cross walk. Martin stood behind me, put his head between my legs and lifted me onto his shoulders. I protested! I asked him to put me down, and then I just rode the city streets on the shoulders of my man. People spoke after us: "Alright man, take that back to a hotel and tap that ass!" and "When you are done carrying her, will you come back for me?"
He set me down at the door of the hotel, and we went inside, finished our expensive bottle of champagne and and and...I ended up calling my boss at the boys camp to report, "My car has broken down, and I will not be in today."
The next St Pat's after that we got married.
Next weekend we are taking the boys back to MO. Martin has suggested that we leave my kids with my sister and we make the whole trip in four days. Two of those days would be kid free. When he suggested this most masterful of plans I thought of how nice it would be to have two whole days alone with my beloved.
"We could have a second honeymoon. On the way home we will be kid free, and we can stop to see the World's Biggest prairie Dog and the five legged cow!" I declared.
"We could drop the boys off, and then spend the night in St Louis. There might be something going on." He suggested.
He is pretty smart to evoke the memory of St Louis inside of me--but I am still adamant about seeing the farm animal menagerie.
Which just goes to show, you can take a country girl to the city in high heeled boots, but eventually you are going to have to carry her to the five legged cow.