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Superman on Earth

8. Mrs. Superman

I was thirty-something and full of doubts about everything, most of all about myself. She was with me. We were sitting on the couch in the far corner of our large, full basement. I wish I could remember exactly what we'd been talking about, how we got to the point in the conversation we did. I can't. I'm not even sure of the statement I made at the climax. I'm pretty sure, though, that it was something bitter, regretful, and despairing. Something like, "I guess all I've ever really wanted to be is Superman."

Let's leave the statement hanging there, the last word balloon in the last panel on the page. Let's not turn the page to see how she replied. Let's go back to the beginning of the story.

I met Barbara Ellen Sigle as she sat under a tree writing a letter. She'd arrived at Kentucky Christian College the year after I did. I'd seen her around. I'd even spoken to her, or rather, answered her. She called to me one bright spring day as I was walking by her dorm. She leaned against the open door, a tall, attractive blond with books at her breast, the breeze tossing her hair. She said, "You're Gary Robinson, aren't you?" Well, there was no denying that. One question, one cheerful, monosyllabic response, an exchange of smiles, and that was that for several months... until the following September under that tree. In the damp warmth of a late summer evening, with mosquitoes strafing us, we talked. Eventually, I moved on - but, in a greater sense, I never moved on. The fly had put one toe on the flypaper. The duct tape was about to go round the pipe. I was on the verge of being stuck on this woman but good.

Later on, she told me that she'd gone back to the dorm and told the girls that she'd met somebody really nice. She also told me later that, when I asked if I might sit by her in church the following Sunday, she thought, "He's the one." If only I'd been thinking the same thing at the same time about her! It would've saved us both a lot of heartache during the first few months of our relationship. I was afraid of commitment. It's a hackneyed phrase and I hate using it, but it was true. I walked away from her one night. I thought it was for good. My roommate told me I sat up in my bed and yelled in my sleep. So much for walking away!

We were married in June, 1977. As you know, few marriages consist of heavenly twins. Thankfully, few are gruesome twosomes. Most are somewhere in between. The unions that last are collaborative efforts, giving a little, taking a little, and letting poor hearts break a little. John Gray says men are from Mars, women are from Venus. With us, of course, it's more like Barb's from Earth and I'm from Krypton.

Thankfully, she knew about my obsession - er, hobby - from the start. Not long after I met her, I drove her home and met her folks (not to mention her five sisters). Fortunately for me, it was a five-hour trip. Time alone with Barb! Unfortunately for her, it was a five-hour trip. Time alone with me! I talked for an hour about pop culture, including, of course, my favorite Man of Steel. At one point, I asked, "Do you think I'm talking too much?" The girl was honest; I had to give her that.

Sadly, some husbands keep mistresses - football, golf, a car, maybe even another woman. In our case, Barb soon learned she'd have to share me with another man - a super man. In The Great Comic Book Heroes, Jules Feiffer writes of the strange relationship between Clark, Lois, and Superman, calling it "a schizoid and chase menage a trois." Something like that has always held sway over our marriage - except here the third partner is pure fantasy. Yet, I don't remember her ever trying to break us up.

I don't think she's ever bought a funnybook for herself. She wasn't a fan when we married and I certainly haven't made her one. She's too grounded and practical for that. Barb's what financial guru Dave Ramsey would call the "nerd" to my "free spirit." As far as I can tell, no fictional character has ever so captured her imagination that she was unable to break free. She enjoys movies, but she's no movie buff. She likes certain TV shows, but not enough to remember when they come on. But then, as I said, she's an Earth woman. And I thank God for that! This Earth woman deals with real people and real problems, getting real and positive results. This Krypton man, well, he tends to fly around a lot, impervious to reality.

If Barb's a fan of anybody, it's real people - her friends, her children and, thankfully, me. I remember the night we saw Superman: The Movie. I was riveted, enthralled. It was all I'd hoped it would be and more. Believe me, for this Baby Boomer, George Reeves will always be the man. But, man, what a movie! I'd see it several times on the big screen, watch it a dozen more on video. If I'm alone on a long car trip, I pass the time by reciting the dialogue. But, you know, I never saw the film alone. Barb was always with me. She never begged off, claiming a headache. She never laughed down the idea of going to see a movie about a man sporting a pasted-down cowlick and red shorts over a blue leotard. She never responded like my mother did when I asked her to come with us: "Oh, Gary, Superman?" Barb went with me every time. She went cheerfully - even to a late drive-in show, our fourth or fifth viewing. She fell asleep on my shoulder in the car, but she was there with me just the same. She wasn't becoming a fan. She was just loving her husband. No line of dialogue has stayed with me like what she said after we saw it the first time, nearly 30 years ago: "You're my Superman."

Truer words were never spoken. If I'm Superman in any way, shape, or form, it's only because I'm hers. She's always flown with me, the wind beneath my cape. She gave me money for comics. She gave me two children to read comics to. She not only gave me her time in front of the TV, she actually gave me the idea she's interested in Smallville. Above all, she has always given me permission to be myself.

I know a fellow whose wife holds his hobby in contempt. His figurines are clutter. His substantially reduced comics collection is an annoyance. He can't even watch Smallville while she's in the same room. Talk about a "no flights, no tights" policy!

In stark contrast, there's my wife. If my devotion to Superman ever annoyed or embarrassed her, she's never mentioned it. When word drifted back from the pews that the pulpit was no place for Superman, she never suggested I quit using such illustrations. Instead, she defended me. When I appeared in classic "shirt-open-S-revealed" mode in a big photo in the Akron Beacon Journal, my best friend said it was my worst picture. Barb laminated the thing and showed it off. When she was an elementary school librarian, she asked if I could do something with Superman for Right To Read week. Not only was it her idea, she aided and abetted the project every way she could.

When I told her I wanted to write the memoirs of a Superman fan, wondering who might publish such a thing, she didn't blink. "You'll find somebody to publish it," she said. Amazing woman. She always speaks as though coming down from Mt. Sinai with a message written in stone, not a message of law but of love. She's a blond Moses, parting the seas before her fearful husband.

So now we're returned to the page where we left off. Our hero leans forward on the edge of the couch, hands droopingly clasped between his knees. The white balloon hanging above his head reads, "I guess all I've ever really wanted to be is Superman." And what does our hero's wife say? Turn the page.

"I'm glad you want to be Superman."

Or maybe it was, "What's wrong with that?" To tell you the truth, I don't remember Barb's exact words. Nor does she. But if that wasn't what she said, it's close. And I've never needed to hear anything from anybody like I needed to hear that from her. The Proverb says, "A word fitly spoken is like apples of gold in a setting of silver." The gift my wife gave me that night is of that famous kind that keeps on giving. Even Superman needs encouragement, especially from his Lois.

How does that Five For Fighting song go?

I can't stand to fly
I'm not that naive
I'm just out to find
The better part of me

I'm glad that, long ago, on a warm evening in September under a tree on campus, I found her, my mate, my completer, ever and always the better part of me. It's my fervent hope you've got a woman (or man) like that. If you do, you'd better treat her right.

Thanks again, Honey.

Don't miss the next thrill-packed episode: Truth, Justice, and The Right to Read.

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