The “Yes No” dress, one of Maria’s earliest creations as an artist, hangs outside of her studio like a flag, day and night, rain or shine, snow or wind.

It is fading, but it often calls out to me to take a picture of it. It is changing colors, getting a bit worn, but hanging in there. It has a lot of mojo.

The dress has great meaning for me, Maria made it before we married, and I took the “yes, no” idea quite personally.

No was not marrying any man who did not support her work or didn’t want to be touched or dominated or undercut.

Yes was becoming an artist, after years of struggle and obstruction.

No was having a child, doing housework or domestic work, or crawling up on any more slate rooftops.

Yes was living on her own and taking care of herself.

No was being told what to do, especially by a man. And being told she should not be an artist.

Maria and her very big dog Frieda did not like men or met too many good ones. They were both tough and willful.

In fact, they were both avowed man-haters. Frieda tried to kill me for the better part of a year. Enough beef jerky to fill a buffalo’s belly and a lot of patience turned her around. She decided not to tear me to pieces, and I appreciated it.

Maria took this as a holy sign. A big factor in “yes.” If Frieda, her protector,  approved, how bad could I be?

I wanted to be with Maria and I wanted to marry her. Some people don’t need it. I wanted it. I needed it.

I plied her with conversations, wine, cheese, popcorn, a warm fire, and chocolate. I said dirty things to her. I flipped her dog and brought her into the house.

I asked her to marry me every day for two years, and every day she pointed out that we were not yet divorced. Eventually, we were and she said yes. I don’t know if the “yes-no” dress had anything to do with it or not.

But just in case, I reach up and touch the dress every time I walk past it and bow or nod and say “thanks for saying yes.”

Just in case. I sense some power in it.