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Some men should not be left alone. Not because we don’t trust them. Not because they can’t find anything when you are gone. There is another reason.

If you do, what happens is this: bad things happen. At least, this is what my wonderful husband says when I go off on a plane somewhere.

He’s not the type of man who needs to get away by himself. No fishing camp for him. No hunting lodge. No weekend with The Guys. Tennis after work perhaps, but home for a late dinner. Will travel for business if he must, but as much as he hates hotel rooms far far away, what he hates more is coming home to an empty house.

While I decide if I should refer to my spouse from now on as MWH*, let me explore the phenomenon that he maintains is the absolute truth. *My Wonderful Husband

MWH THEORY OF EMPTY HOUSES AS IT RELATES TO HIM AND WHAT HAPPENS WHEN HE IS LEFT ALONE

It’s like living in the middle of a Yeats’ poem, he says. “Things fall apart, the center cannot hold.” It doesn’t seem to matter if it’s an afternoon shopping extravaganza with friends or a longer journey I might make to a convention or a workshop.

If I’m gone, A Situation Arises. A Situation that must be dealt with by using lots of rags, ladders, a wet/dri vacuum, and phone calls to service people who of course won’t come on a weekend. Bills follow.

All of the following happened in New England before our move south.

The first time seemed like an isolated occurrence, not the start of a pattern. I came back from an afternoon of bargain hunting soon after we began sharing a home. When I drove in the basement/garage it registered somewhere in my brain that a heavy mist seemed to be rising from the cement floor. Odd, but I didn’t think much about it. A foggy basement seemed a rather nice and moody place. MWH ran down the stairs with The Look on his face.

“Hi!” I said. “How was your day?”

Picture hysterical husband with The Look starting to sputter. “Didn’t you notice the cellar?”

“What about it?”

“Steam? From the floor? You didn’t notice?”

“I guess. Huh. No pipes in the floor; I wonder what caused that?”

“Oh, I can tell you. Yep, I can tell you all right.”

Our elderly washing machine busted its hose, spewing water all over the place before it got noticed. Lots of mopping and draining followed. I gathered that my timing was perfect in that it had taken hours to clean up. He finished just as I arrived. Frankly, I like when that happens.

Since that time, while I was out and MWH was home, the following things occurred:

A spring thaw and rain on the ice jammed roof caused a melt down that showed itself by first trickles of water coming in around the fireplace/wood stove, then streams. He called a friend who came over with a ladder and MWH got on the roof with an ice pick. It was dark, raining, turning very cold and MWH is afraid of heights. Both Richard and MWH spent hours stuffing towels around the crevices inside, taking down heavy pictures and mirrors that might give way in the soaking wallboard, plus chipping away at the ice outside. I drove back into town a few hours later. This time MWH said, “You planned it. You must have known about the ice jam and gone out of town so you wouldn’t have to deal with it.” Suspicion squatted on his face.

THEN

An unexpected snow storm dumped so much wet stuff in our part of the state that trees buckled. The power went out. Which meant the heat was out. And a tree fell on the roof taking cable wires with it. None of this would have happened if I’d not gone to Boston for the weekend.

THEN

Appliances began committing suicide. The refrigerator died while I was at a conference. The dishwasher overflowed, hemorrhaging soapy water all over the kitchen. (Now that time, I think MWH might have used dishwashing liquid instead of dishwasher liquid, but he’d never admit it.) The microwave blew a fuse mid-lasagna one time. But even little things like the latter started to seem like a plot or certain proof that if I went away he should definitely come with me or find somewhere else to be for the duration.

If I was heading off somewhere, he would predict some kind of household revenge.

I just got back from a week away. First one since the move. We talked by phone every night and I listened carefully for disaster. Work related things happened that weren’t great. He’d run out of the food possibilities that I’d left and was sick of foraging.

But fire ants remained under control. Squirrels had not eaten their way into our attic. No mention of a plague of locusts. Hmn. I began to worry that my homecoming would not mean he could get respite from the Forces of Evil. I could be out of a job.

He met me at the Delta gate with a huge smile of general relief. What it all boils down to is the very lovely point he makes when ever I’m off some where. It’s the lyric of an old Bill Withers song you might recognize: “Ain’t No Sunshine When She’s Gone (and this house just ain’t no home, anytime you go away.”

Which makes me ask myself, Why would I ever want to go away?

Because coming home is the best part.