My wife, The Queen B, and I recently saw a wonderful movie called, &uot;My Dog Skip.

Wednesday, July 11, 2001

My wife, The Queen B, and I recently saw a wonderful movie called, &uot;My Dog Skip.&uot; It is one of those &uot;dog/boy/coming of age&uot; films that is guaranteed to bring a tear to the viewer’s eye. It is a movie filled with happiness and sadness – just like real life. It was a movie that my wife and I found well worth seeing.

One of the best things that has happened to society (at least to the society that calls rural Minnesota its home) during my lifetime is that it has become okay for men to cry. I never saw my father cry. To his generation of men, it was a sign of weakness to shed a tear. Males were to keep a stiff upper lip and keep all the pain and suffering all bottled up inside. That was definitely not a healthy habit. They could not even utter a tiny sob while watching such film classics as &uot;The Yearling&uot; and &uot;Old Yeller.&uot; That is cruel and unusual punishment. It’s probably a good part of the reason why women outlive us.

My wife and I had not been married very long when we went to see a movie called, &uot;Where the Red Fern Grows.&uot; We went to a lot of movies in those days. I’ve forgotten how we found the time. I could always tell if it was a movie that I wasn’t going to like. If I woke up during the movie and my wife was crying, it was a pretty good clue that the movie wasn’t for me. &uot;Where the Red Fern Grows&uot; was different from the standard fare of tear jerkers. This was a touching movie featuring a boy and his dog coming of age in America. There were parts of the movie that were almost too sad, especially if the person watching happened to grow up with a best friend of the canine variety. I was watching the movie when I began to get that knot in my throat and my eyes filled with tears. I took a sip from the two-gallon container of pop and took a bite of popcorn from its five-bushel basket. I am guessing that there is no diet plan that recommends eating all of your meals in a movie theater. The eating and drinking didn’t help. The lump in my throat had grown to such a large size that swallowing was difficult and nearly impossible. My sweet wife, sitting next to me, was crying up a storm. I was a young married man and felt that it was improper for a man to cry. It just wasn’t a manly thing to do. I had heard talk of the importance of men showing their feminine side, but it was just talk as far as I was concerned. My wife asked to borrow my handkerchief and began to soak it with her tears. Then she looked at me, sitting in the darkened theater, my face illuminated only by the images on the big screen. She stared at me for a bit before whispering in my ear.

&uot;Are you crying?&uot;

What a question to ask a macho man. Crying? What nonsense. If I hadn’t been so weepy, I would have told her that she was crazy. I turned my head slightly, so my wife would be unable to see the teardrops glistening as they rolled down my cheeks. I could not believe that my wife would even imagine that I would be crying over some stupid old movie. She touched my face gently and turned my face towards hers.

&uot;You are crying,&uot; she said. She smiled.

I stayed out of my wife’s doghouse for nearly a week after that. That was a new record for me that holds until this day. My behavior had not improved one bit. All I had done was to have cried. I remember thinking that I was onto something big.

Men can cry today. Oh, we’re still not supposed to cry over a soap opera or while meeting an old friend on the street, but it is okay for us to cry. Especially at funerals and at movies featuring a boy and his dog coming of age in America. Or when a child or grandchild takes that first step or says that first word. Men have discovered that crying is a good thing. Crying allows others to perceive us as kind, sensitive and caring. I am so glad that we are allowed to cry. I just got the bill for my car insurance.

Hartland resident Al Batt writes columns for the Wednesday and Sunday editions of the Tribune.