When she was nineteen and he was twenty, Reader, he married her. This June marks the 50th anniversary of their marriage. And they still like each other. Best.
It’s the neatest thing.
It was a gift not everyone gets, to grow up in a place where every day they see what a good, strong, crazy-for-you marriage looks like. The very air I grew up in was love-soaked —their happiness with each other, with us, was a palpable presence.
I am not saying butterflies came and cleaned our toilets; the world is a broken place, and we lived in it, so we had our share of terror and loss. All I am saying is this: my father never left the house—or the room—without kissing my mother. He still doesn’t.
I say again, it is a gift.
The week of the anniversary, Maisy was at her first sleep-away camp, Sam was on a youth trip with his church friends, my nephew is a grown man with a job, and my niece was on a mission trip in Honduras.
SO my brother and I planned an ALL GROWN-UP vacation to Savannah with them to celebrate, just the six of us, My parents, my brother, and our spouses. It was an amazing week, and also…VERY. VERY. WEIRD: a taste of what life might be like in the black unimaginable later on when my PREH-SHUS BAY-BIES abandon me and go off to have COLLEGE EDUCATIONS and LIVES.
I think we’ll be okay. *grin*
Okay, we missed our little boogers, but it was SO nice to linger chatting over coffee with no one losing the ability to remain seated and leaping up and down or flopping about bonelessly in their chair, nose picking or trit-trotting back and forth to the bathroom one hundred million thousand times.
Delightfully indulgent to go on as MANY TOURS OF HISTORICAL HOUSES AND MUSUEMS AS WE WANTED, willy-nilly, one after another sometimes, tour after tour, gazing at painting after statue after delicious painting, and READING THE WHOLE PLAQUE FOR ANY THAT INTERESTED US, with no one saying they were bored or asking if we could go get ice cream instead.
Lovely to drink a leeeetle too much wine in a foreign city without worrying ones inattention to detail will end in your child being selected by the Foreign League of Child Abductors.
AND of course, with no kids there, I was free to continue the game of DIRTY MONUMENTS Karen Abbott began playing with me in France, sending me foul sounding street names and suchlike —and let me tell you, that is a hard game to even PLAY against a Paris-foe because EVERYTHING sounds slightly dirty in French…
But we did find the above AMAZINGLY dirty monument, which, due to the bare breast and the words THE HERPOIC POLE (snork!) and the guy holding a SPEAR while looking at the breast and kinda fondling his own chesticle-area, narrowly beat out one that began, “The citizens of Savannah erected this shaft…” (SNORK!)
Yes. I am a twelve year old boy.