Crossword Puzzle Clue: Can you dig it? (Past tense)

Our window of opportunity was very brief...barely 48 hours. Sydney's fiance enjoys venturing from his home state of California almost as much as I like leaving Wyoming County. I was focused on making this the most enjoyable visit EVER but Canada, constant rain, and my own character conspired against me. 

"You know," Savannah informed me, (ever-so-helpfully) minutes before Sydney and her beau's arrival, "he doesn't particularly care for it when you call him Douglas." I stared at her in dismay. Oh no. What was I going to do? It was locked in now. I quickly activated some visualization exercises to adjust what was now concreted in my brain. I repeated his name rapidly in my head until it became nonsensical. Then my verbal-linguistic side wrestled for control and I now had a picture of Douglas holding a shovel, digging. I moved him back to my last visit to San Diego and watched him wrestle his blooming rose bushes and reluctant lawn into submission. I nodded confidently as Sydney and Douggg (I stomped on his name like a brake)...walked out of the airport towards us. "Sydney!" I exclaimed, erupting out of our idling van like a discharged cannonball. "Douglas!" Oh no.

San Diego always makes a great first impression with its stately palms and elegant bird of paradise
plants framing their airport exit against a brilliant blue sky backdrop...whose closest competitor, the mighty Pacific, would pause to wave a welcome at each approaching guest. Now...here was Douggg...taking a hesitant breath of our "airmageddon," trying not to look confused by our soot-colored sky. Wanting so much for him to feel comfortable and at home in his new surroundings, I immediately transformed into Tour Guide Barbie, pointing out all the interesting features of our area. I ran out of things to say much faster than I anticipated. My daughters weren't all that helpful...my dissertation on the world-wide economic impact of the Erie Canal fizzled when they pointed out that railroads and the development of highways and the Saint Lawrence Seaway quickly replaced the construction that really never saw a return on its investment (before they both immediately broke out into song..."15 miles on the Erie Canal...!"). Trying gamely to act interested (despite coming off a West Coast red-eye), Douggg squinted through the smokey haze out his window and then whispered to Sydney, "Is she talking about that ditch?" Before she could warn him, I'd pounced. "Funny you should say that," I smiled, re-energized, "During construction, nay-sayers called it Clinton's Big Ditch." I paused dramatically while Sydney and Savannah silently begged him not to do it. 

But he did. 

Do it. 

Because he's polite. 

"Why did they call it that?" Douggg asked, patting Sydney's hand gently as she whimpered.

After having received a remedial course in Erie Canal Construction 101, Douggg then got to visit another local hot spot. And I'm not kidding. The temperature in my mother's little apartment rivals that of tropical rain forests. He was gracious and gallant and kind. As we assembled for a group photo, my mother good-naturedly complained about being the shortest. Douggg responded by immediately taking a knee. 

There are three surefire ways to work yourself into my heart (if you haven't already plied me with junk food).

1.  Being kind to my mother (check)

2.  Looking at my now-elderly dachshund but still be able to see her bright spirit, gentle soul, and sparkling personality (AND bring her a fun, new toy) (check)

3. Make an effort to connect to my husband in a genuine way:  Presenting Brad with a certified piece of The Berlin Wall. Flashback: 1989. Brad, in Germany, on the phone with his new wife. They can barely hear each other over the celebratory noises and the sound of construction in the background. "Grab a piece," Amy shouted over the distance that separated the couple. "I'm not a tourist," her husband scoffed, uttering words that would mock him for decades later by his disgusted family members. (check)

My ace-in-the-hole was our local state park. Letchworth does NOT disappoint. It was tough to differentiate between Canada's cancer clouds and impending rain...Savannah carefully monitored the situation as we drove to our destination. "It says that it's going to skirt us," she reported as Douggg caught his first majestic glimpse of the gorge before the downpour swept us back into the van. Brad attempted to be Tour Guide Ken, shouting, "If you could actually SEE out your left window, we are passing the middle falls." I suggested that we take refuge in Mary Jemison's cabin. I paused dramatically while Savannah, Sydney, and Brad silently begged him not to do it.

But he did.

Do it.

Because he's polite.

So we rode out the hour's-long storm with a remedial course on The History of Mary Jemison, White Woman of the Genesee. 

Before you knew it, it was time for them to go. I was devastated...having failed miserably to entrance Douggg with our local history, lore, landmarks, and landscape. He admired our laundry chute but I don't think this one small architectural oddity will be enough for him to demand repeat visits. Canada and my new, weird way of pronouncing his name had crushed my chances of getting Douggg to love Wyoming County and establish it as his home-away-from-home. 

But I'd forgotten something.

Something important.

There are actually FOUR surefire ways to work yourself into my heart (if you haven't already plied me with junk food).

4. Love my girls for exactly who they are 

So, as our last Mosiman Big Ditch measure, we attempted to take Sydney and Douggg out for a nice breakfast before dropping them off at the airport. "You can just drop us off," Douggg practically begged, happy to forego the 35 minute/50 mile radius hunt for an open eating establishment on the 4th of July. Yes. The poor boy would have much rather have sat at the airport for 3 hours waiting for his plane than to be stuffed in our van as I wrestled with non-existent GPS navigating skills and Brad snapping at me, "You are NO Meriwether Lewis." So we ended up at a poor man's Perkins in a booth featuring a windowsill fly as our welcoming host. "You know what a fly's opening line in a bar is?" I asked. "Don't do it," Brad warned, shooing it away before shoving me into the booth. "Is this stool taken?" Brad frowned as he handed everyone their menus..."So, is everyone hungry?"

Thirty-seven years ago, a pair of newlyweds stopped for breakfast and the new bride "waffled" over the menu selections. Her beloved never wavered, encouraging her to order what she wanted and, when she was stuck between two choices, grandly invited her to get both. 

And now, years later, I watched as Douglas didn't even twitch when Sydney ordered grilled cheese and fries...in fact, he listened, enraptured and delighted to her questionable rational that, because grilled cheese contains all of the key ingredients, it should possess dual citizenship as both a lunch AND breakfast food. She then somehow managed to subtly slide an order of chocolate chip pancakes into the line-up as well. I had spent a good portion of Douggg's visit assuring him that Sydney Lynn had been raised to use napkins AND that we had, in fact, taught her how to use a knife to properly cut her food so that she didn't have to rip and gnaw her meat like a ravenous hyena. But Douglas doesn't care about those things. While Brad and I watched, horrified, as the child we reared together rolled her pancake, hacking at it unrecognizably with her knife...Douglas gazed at her with mild amusement, entertained by her harmless cuisine-related quirks. This was a man who would be by her side as her partner, behind her as her (2nd) biggest cheerleader, and scouting ahead to make sure they could skirt the rain whenever possible and that there was an open breakfast place nearby. 

Check.

It was a short visit but it meant the world to us.

"Thanks for coming, Douglas," I said, squeezing the stuffing out of him as he exited the van. "Come back home soon."