Jeanne and I visited our friends Suzy and Michael in Florida over the weekend. They were hosting a baby shower for their daughter-in-law (their oldest son’s spouse) who is due with their first grandchild in September. We flew Providence to Philadelphia to Tampa and were blessed with an unexpected upgrade to first class seats on the Philly to Tampa leg. First class is awesome.
It was just after 7:30 am; as we sat in seats 4A and 4B, watching the losers file past headed for the cheap seats in the back, the first class steward asked if we would like anything to drink. We ordered mimosas. Shortly after takeoff, the steward returned offering more refreshments; Jeanne ordered another mimosa. I thought I would set a good example and ordered a black coffee, but when he said that he would be happy to add a Bailey’s Irish Cream to my coffee, I couldn’t resist. Bailey’s Irish Cream was one of the few alcoholic beverages that my Baptist-born-and-raised mother would drink.
Half an hour later, it was breakfast time. With breakfast Jeanne got yet another mimosa and I ordered another Irish coffee. (Brief aside: the drinks were not very strong). Around this time, Jeanne observed that this was the most enjoyable trip in first class she could remember taking (she’s travelled more than I have), adding that “it’s like a second honeymoon!” Before long, after breakfast had been consumed and trays had been cleared, the steward returned once more with a tray containing two cups of coffee as well as mini-bottles both of Bailey’s Irish Cream and Woodford Bourbon (which is one of my favorite bourbons). I think Jeanne took the Bailey’s—I drank my coffee, poured my bourbon nip into the empty cup, and once again gave thanks to the upgrade gods.
It was around this time that I checked my watch to see how much longer we were going to be in the air and was surprised to see that it was July 17. I turned to Jeanne and said, “Happy Anniversary!” She smiled and we gave each other a high five. Yes indeed, both of us had forgotten until that moment that this was our anniversary, number 37 to be exact.
Before you get all judgmental, let me place this in context. Whenever someone invites us to tell the story of how we met and became a couple, we ask “do you want the five-minute or one-hour version?” I’ll give you the three or four paragraph version. Jeanne and I actually have three annual dates that could mark our anniversary: July 17, the day before Thanksgiving, and Christmas Eve. Here’s a quick the five minute version.
Day before Thanksgiving 1987: This is the day that Jeanne met me and my two sons, ages eight and five, at my parents’ house In Jackson Hole, WY for Thanksgiving. She had known my parents for ten years; I had been divorced in June 1987 after eleven years of an unhappy marriage. Within six weeks of meeting we were living together in Santa Fe while Jeanne finished the final semester of her master’s program at St. John’s College.
April 1988: My ex-wife took me to court seeking full custody of our sons (we had joint custody). Big Bird was on the job and Jeanne and I won full custody of the boys. Around this same time it became clear that I would be starting my PhD program in philosophy at Marquette University in Milwaukee, WI in the fall, which set an extraordinarily challenging late spring and summer in motion. To fill you in on all of it would turn this into the five hour version.
July 17, 1988: Jeanne and I stood in front of our four parents at the home of friends in Pennsylvania and exchanged promises. My father was an ordained minister, so the promises exchanged were official. It was a quickly organized, impromptu event because my mother was dying of cancer and might not live to experience the real, full-blown wedding planned for a year or so down the road.
Late August 1988: Jeanne, the boys, and I set up our blended family home in Milwaukee, more than a thousand miles away from family on either side.
October 1988: Within two weeks of each other, my mother died of cancer and Jeanne’s father unexpectedly died of heart failure.
Christmas 1988: Jeanne, the boys, and I travelled to Bakersfield, CA to spend Christmas with my brother, sister-in-law, and their two children about the same age as my sons. My recently widowed father was also there. Jeanne and I brought the official marriage certificate with us from Milwaukee for my father—the officiant at our ceremony in July 1988—to sign as well as for my brother and sister-in-law to witness and sign. Since too much time had passed since July for December signatures to be effective, we put Christmas Eve down as our wedding date on the certificate, which we filed officially in Milwaukee a week later.
The expected and hoped-for big wedding celebration never happened. As you can see, life happened instead. So when should we celebrate our anniversary? July 17, when the promises were witnessed? Christmas Eve, the date on our marriage certificate? It soon became clear that the real day to celebrate is the day that we met, the day before Thanksgiving. And so it has been for more than three and a half decades. This past July 17 was not the first time that the day went unnoticed.
Every time we tell the story of our first year together, someone remarks how surprising it is that we survived it. But here we are close to four decades later still going strong. Toward the end of Rachel Kadish’s Tolstoy Lied, the main character reflects on what she has learned about love.
Love–real love–is not cinematic. It’s the stuff no one talks about: How trust grows rootlets. How two people who start as lovers become custodians of each other’s well-being.
I am grateful beyond measure that I met this beautiful redhead at my parent’s house almost 38 years ago (!)—it is more than I could have hoped for and more than I deserve. And so I ask, as it says in the Book of Tobit, mercifully grant that we may grow old together.
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