I had to pull out the old trusty calculator to make sure I had the math right. The screen said that in order to have been married for 66 years, they had to have married back in 1953. For those of my generation, that doesn’t seem like that long ago. But then again, they weren’t born in 1953, they were married in 1953 and that would put them in their mid to late 80’s.
They stood in the bridal party line waiting their turn to walk out the front door and down the aisle to watch their granddaughter get married. Behind them stood women in beautiful flowing gowns and sharp men in dress blues. While waiting for the officiant to make his announcement to silence their phones I had the occasion to banter with the only grandparent couple in attendance. They stood side by side, hand in hand. They leaned in close to hear what I was telling them and the gentleman proudly remarked that they had been married for 66 years. His blue eyes twinkled with pride.
I’ve said this before, but my husband and I celebrate each 20thof the month, because we married a little later in life and in March, we celebrated 200 months. “Two hundred!”, my husband exclaimed! Like it was 200 years, not almost 17. I told him about this wonderful couple and we calculated that their 66 years was equivalent to 792 months. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, right?
I can’t even imagine how many times this couple might have argued over the years because after all, they are only human but that’s an awful lot of making up, too. Think about how many times in a given year you’ve created a grocery list, kissed each other goodnight, paid bills or filled up your car. Now multiply that by SIXTY-SIX. Think of the memories stored up though, the number of posed pictures, children’s school plays and teenage drivers tests and high school graduations. Then there’s the grandkids kept coloring sheets, babysitting gigs, overnighters and more graduations and then along come the great grands. Who knows how many jobs held and lost, houses hunted, bought and sold, and dinners cooked and burned. Six decades of possible misunderstandings, nights of going to bed angry and injured egos that came ‘round to say, ‘I am so sorry’. And six decades of hugs, warm kisses, quiet resolve and waking to find them still right beside.
I’ve heard it said many times, that life is a marathon not a race. Marriage is a marathon, too.
When babies are about 6-8 months old, they go through something called separation anxiety. It’s a realization that they are a separate being from that of their mother. When she leaves, they’re not entirely convinced she’ll be back. It’s a brand-new awareness. Babies going through this necessary time in their short lives are riddled with anxiety until maturity finally catches up and the baby understands that moms and dads do come back and there’s a sense of safety and of knowing. Mom knew all along she’d be back and mom knew that those tears were for naught but some things just have to be learned.
Young married life is so, so similar. There’s angst because you haven’t spent enough time to know that some tears just aren’t worth shedding, and most arguments are an inability to compromise and a lack of experience. The sixty years married knows well what’s worth the fight and what’s to let go, they know well that deep, deep bond that only time, held tongues and forgiveness can bind.
The reception was the very picture of love, of family and a dance floor packed with energy. As I surveyed the crowd and saw the joy in the faces of guests swaying to the music, I found my aging couple in the midst of the young, still holding hands and keeping a beat. For a brief moment, I imagine for them, it was 1953 all over again.
Keep dancing,
Elaine
