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“Feeling Sequimish”
Mark Couhig
Contact Mark at mcouhig@sequimgazette.com
Mark Couhig has been a writer for more than 50 years.  
His first experience with the written word arrived at a very early age when he was required to painstakingly hand-trace dotted lines in a notebook, a process that led first to a mastery of the straight, purely angular letters of the English alphabet. He soon turned his attention to the curved letters, exhibiting a full proficiency in that skill by the end of his seventh year.
Before another year had passed, Couhig had begun to cluster letters into meaningful compositions, an accomplishment for which he was awarded a coveted gold star, the first-ever public acknowledgement of his extraordinary aptitude with words.
In time he would take these words and strategically create further clusters, which he called “sentences.”
Paragraphs soon followed.
In the third grade Couhig learned the skill of cursive writing, allowing him to greatly expand and accelerate his output.
Over the ensuing months and years Couhig’s now-renown facility for dramatic narrative developed. He was able to work the delicate filigree of fiction — dramatic, purposeful action that engages the reader — to a degree that astonished Ms. Sweeney, his teacher and mentor. Of one of Couhig’s early works, “Run, Tom, Run,” she wrote, “I’m so proud of you.”  
As his facility with words grew, so too did his worldview, aided in part by his assiduous readings of “The Weekly Reader,” which he continues to regard as a formative influence in his later, more mature works.
In the fifth grade, Couhig’s repertoire and love of the written word translated to a sterling turn on the stage as Shepherd No. 3 in a new and dynamic dramatic reading of the Gospel According to Luke, a popular work of the time.
Approximately 50 years later Couhig moved to Sequim where he writes a blog.  

It is entirely possible I am not the world's greatest lover

Published on Tue, Aug 21, 2012
Read More Couhig


It has always struck me as singularly unfair that many of the rules that apply to the rest of humanity also apply to me.

 

After all, I am extraordinary in any number of ways, particularly in character and intellect, and too in the virtues; for example, my humility.

 

People could take humble lessons from me, and should.The world would be a far better place if they did.

 

For one example of my outstanding humility, consider:  It has lately occurred to me that I may not, in fact, be the world's greatest lover.

 

You can imagine my surprise. 

 

I have long recognized that I lack certain gifts that we as a society recognize as the indispensable qualities of a great lover: rugged good looks, fitness, a proper sneer, a working knowledge of the use of cutlery, a car with a working muffler. Often, a job.

 

I have always assumed that we, as a society, were wrong.

 

That is because if you ask women what they seek in men, virtually none mention cutlery but all say they want a man with a sense of humor.

 

As it happens, I am funny as hell.

 

Now make no mistake, I have loved many women and many women have loved me. On occasion the two were, propitiously, one and the same.

 

But as often I have failed.

 

This was brought home to me recently when I was Facebook-friended by an old college friend, a girl I may have dated once way back when. Since that time our relationship has consisted of little more than an occasional stalk that I would undertake when the mood struck. Hardly a relationship I would describe as serious, and the judge agreed.

 

Her real name is unimportant, so let's just use it:  Janine.

 

After friending me, Janine wrote cordially to say that she wished we had been better, closer friends in college.

 

This left me more than a little unsettled.

 

"Do you not recall," I asked, "how many times we hung out together?"

 

Not so much, she responded.

 

"And what about our date?" I asked.

 

"Not at all," she responded.

 

"Did we kiss?" she asked.

 

Hmmm, I thought. It's certainly fortunate that I have these vast powers of humility at my beck and call because from her comment I can properly assume her to mean that had we in fact kissed that moment would not have been seared into her very soul.

 

Hmmm, indeed. 

 

Let me explain how all this happened: It was 35 years ago. I had graduated the previous year, and she, wishing to attend a private formal function to which I had rather exclusive entrée, asked if I would bring her to the ball.

 

"Of course," I said.

 

To further elucidate: I agreed to drive 500 miles round trip in a very noisy car that was exceedingly toxic with carbon monoxide in order to escort her to the soiree. I also took her to dinner beforehand.

 

That evening she seemed delighted to see me. "Wow, you look just like Lou Grant," she said. (At the time I was the editor of a small town newspaper in Louisiana, thus the allusion to the Mary Tyler Moore Show. I was also balding and overweight, lending heavily to the matter of verisimilitude.)

 

We dined and then we gathered at the ball amongst many good friends. We laughed.

 

Please note: I purchased alcoholic beverages for her.

 

And then, around 9 p.m., she came to me with an intimate request. She shuffled me off to a dark corner of the room where we could speak quietly.

 

"Would you mind," she whispered breathily into mine ear, "if I take off with my friends? We're going to another party."

 

Fortunately for her, I am keenly, perhaps superhumanly humble. I said, "Not at all. It has been my pleasure."

 

And off she went.

 

Now, as my Francophone friend Janine knows, every good story has a good denouement, which translates literally as untie the knot. The story's point is not just revealed, but enhanced.

 

It is also often referred to as twisting the knife.

 

Some years later I ran into one of Janine's old beaus at a party. "Hey," he said to me."You dated Janine, too."

 

"No," I assured him."I did not date Janine."

 

"Sure you did," he said. He could not have have been more cheerful.

 

"No," I said.

 

"Yes," said he.

 

Finally we agreed to disagree. I was left unsettled by the conversation, however. There was something in the back of my mind, a niggling thought that I managed for some weeks to keep below the surface of consciousness.

 

And then it swam up.

 

Is it possible, I wondered, that we were "dating"? Because if that demi-date constituted a "relationship," as people say these days, then it necessarily follows that I was dumped some three hours into our romance.

 

My immense humility precludes my taking pride in that event, but I ask you, dear reader: surely that must be a record?

 

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