Lean in a little closer

Yesterday I flew in to town on what people may call a "puddle jumper:" a small comercial airplane. Maybe 25 people were on the plane, all told. As I got to the very back of the plane I noticed that there was a man in my seat--my window seat--the very back corner seat. He was disheveled and was intent on looking out the window. He also already had his seatbelt fastened. In my seat.
Excuse me sir, you're in my seat.
He jerked his head around. Oh, are you supposed to sit here, ma'am?
I nodded and he slid out of the seat so I could climb in next to the window. As he slid in beside me, my nose told me that he was well acquainted with alcohol.
His red nose and the sores and blackheads all over his face and neck filled in some of the details.
Where are you headed today? I asked.
Penneldon, he slurred back, a little too loudly. The woman ahead of us winced.
He smiled broadly at me. I could see the remains of his last meal caked on his front tooth. How 'bout you, ma'am?
Oh, just to--
--Yeah--I grew up there and lived there all my life. Before I could reply, he continued, I'm just coming back from Alaska. I've been up there for four months. Just got out today before the ice came. I could uv been snowed in then I never would have been able to get out.
Wow!
He leaned into me, pressing me even further into the corner. So I am very glad to be sitting beside you on this plane today!
I smiled back. I hope he'd noticed my wedding ring. His breath was nauseating.
Just then, the woman across at the end of the next row leaned over and started to engage me in conversation. She was an acquaintance, and we had mutual interests. As I responded to her questions, looking past my seatmate, he grunted in approval, and a couple times chuckled at my comments. Then, realizing that he was obstructing my view of the woman, he leaned back in the seat and averted his eyes.
A few minutes later, he lurched around in his seat to face a teenager next to him.
How old are you? His voice was entirely too loud for polite conversation.
Thirteen.
Thirteen! he bellowed. I remember being that age when I used to live here. The kid cringed and focused on the man's mouth as he spoke.
Maybe my seatmate realized something about him was inappropriate, because he suddenly fell silent. A few minutes later, his head was back on the headrest and he was asleep, mouth wide open.
I busied myself with grading papers. As I wrote, the man leaned into me as he slept. His arm and left leg were pressed against me, and his head began to lag toward me. Oh please! I silently thought.
But just then the flight attendent came through offering beverages. He lit up and ordered wine. I should have known. He looked delighted as he slugged it down.
I decided to engage him about some topic--the town in which he grew up. Every response he made was shallow, agreeable, and extremely loud. So I returned to grading papers and he drifted off again, leaning into me once more.
What would Jesus have done with someone like this? Engage him in conversation about his eternal soul? Touch on the very pains that made him turn to drinking? Reassure him somehow? Would Jesus have talked to him about other aspects of his life to point out that his value and experience is about much more than what he ingests? Would he have offered some suggestions about how to stop drinking? Should I talk with him as a therapist, a representative of Christ, a nurse, or a friend? Which language would be appropriate? Should I ask him about his family--children, wife, mother, father? Would it be appropriate to ask him about his line of work? Would that just be mockery, since I couldn't see how he might even hold a job, as saturated with alcohol as he was. I sat, studying the tip of my pen, as I tried to think how to interact with this man that would make some sort of difference in his life--or in mine.

All I could come up with was that I didn't want to treat him in a less than respectful, honoring way--even if he is a drunk, or whatever else he might be. I'd been pleasant to many irresponsible, womanizing, drinking, controlling men on airplanes before. They just hadn't been as drunk as he was.

As I pondered what to do, it dawned on me that I might be like this man in many ways. I eat too much--gluttony, it's called--and it doesn't seem to go away, but get worse and worse with time. What makes me so different than him? Clean teeth, minty breath, clear skin, ability to think clearly, a bank account, and probably much less pain in my life. But if the flight attendant had offered us chocolates, I'd have gobbled one down and wished for a second. So what should I do about this guy? Who was I to do anything? What made me better?
Maybe the only thing I could do would be to stay with him--sit with him shoulder to shoulder, and feel the commonality of being just one more member of the human family for whom Christ died. And so the drunkard and the glutton rode quietly together for the duration of the flight.

As we lurched and soared into our final destination, two people, greatly in need of God's grace, sat shoulder to shoulder, waiting to see what God would do in their lives. Wherever he is now--waking up from a bender, or on his way to church, God is as merciful to him as He is to me--loves him no less and no more than me. He is no better and no worse than me. We all need what Jesus came here to give us. Every one of us.

Still chuckling

I just received this missive from my father that I'm passing along. I just love the way my parents do things together and support one another in so many of life's circumstances.

Hi Y'all:
Mother wanted me to pass on the exuberances of this a.m.
She had been selected for jury duty starting today so we promptly arrived at the court house around 9:00 a.m., went through the detector looking for hidden weapons and then upstairs to the jury room where we watched a film, watched several different people (i.e. court stenographer, a couple sherif deputies, the prosecution and the defense along with some young chap in a nice suit) under surviellance by a female deputy that was short, squat, and built very substantially.

"All Rise!" was the command as the honorable Peter Craft* entered the room. He made some announcements, explained what the rules wre for the court decorum and then called the first twelve potential jurors for examination.

Questions like:
State your name and pertinent information as to what you do, if employed.
How do you feel about drinking and driving?
How do you feel about sentencing and finding someone guilty?

Several answered how they were feeling, what experience they had with alcohol etc.
Out of twelve juriors, nine stayed and the rest were excused.

The second batch entered and they got pretty well cleaned out.
The third batch entered and then the fun began again. The judge would call each one by name and then start out asking questions.

"Elvira Coolan?" Elvira answered "ELVIRA COWLAN"
"Tell us a little bit about yourself, Mrs. Cowlan"
"I'm Elvira Cowlan, housewife, and have been married to the same man for 55 yrs."

The judge: "Well, I've been married for 48 years, but what my wife doesn't know,...well" ...with some snickers from the courtroom.

Your heroine said "My husband is a good man and is sitting right over there. I left my job at the Bushwick Savings Bank in Brooklyn, N.Y. and since then we have raised 4 children." [ooooh! I just know she was seething when she said this!]

Judge: Well, that seems commendible. And tell us Mrs. Cowlan what is your opinion of alcohol and driving?"

My Heroine: "I am a teetotaler and I believe 'If you commit the crime...you should pay the time' unless you have someone in high places, then you can go Scott free."

JUDGE: "Well, I believe we won't need you Mrs. Cowlan. You're excused."

WOW! I was proud of her. And we walked out. Mother didn't want to be in that horrid old jury room anyway. [What was significant about that and the judge is that his son was involved in a drunk accident several years ago in which one of my former students and her sister were killed for failure to stop at a light, and drunk to boot.]

With that, we left, "free at last..Free at last, Thank God I'm free at last."

*Names changed

The Sum of Life

My husband watched an episode of the show, The Sopranos. Why don't we have a television program named "The Counter Tenors"? How about "The Altos"? What would you name a television program that depicts your life?
On any given day I often ask my students to summarize what they've learned in class by providing a byline or title for what they've learned from the lecture in the style of some sensational magazine. Here are some examples: "Nanny Techniques Revealed!" or, "Encopresis Soon to be Extinct!" "I am Joe's neurosis." It's always fun to hear what they think about the counseling topics we discuss in class.

What title would do justice to the story of your life? I suppose this is the question that people have to answer when they decide on their own epitaph. What would you write about yourself? Would it be thought-provoking, serious, or funny? How about this epitaph?

Here lies Ann Mann,
Who lived an old maid
But died an old Mann.
Dec. 8, 1767

(more epitaphs here)

It's not to be macabre that I bring this up, it's to facilitate thought about a number of things: the impact we leave on other people; how we think; how we live in relation to God and our intimate others; our opinions about issues--what would it be for you?

The Promise

I visited my friend, Betty last evening. She calls herself an "invalid," the British word for a disabled shut-in. Laughing and talking, we shared a slice of cake while we watched an inspirational music program on television.
At one point I looked out the window at the sky.
"Oh Betty, just look at that sky!"
There was a very dark grey-blue-black sky. Just at horizon level, the setting sun shone, lighting up a narrow strip of landscape. We jumped up and ran out to her little balcony to have a look. As we stood there, the beginnings of a rainbow could be seen. It was raining in the mountains, cloudy in the valley, and the sun was shining--perfect weather for a rainbow. In a few minutes, we could see a vivid double rainbow making two perfect parallel arcs in the sky.
As I looked at this gorgeous display, I thought back to the first time a rainbow was seen on earth. Noah and his family had just come out of the ark after being at the mercy of the elements for three months, and locked in for close to a year. God promised that He would never send a destroying flood of water on the earth again. Caught up in the beauty of a perfect double rainbow, I asked, "Can you just imagine what Noah thought the first time he saw one of these?" She answered by shaking her head, as she took this all in.

As I stood at the balcony railing with Betty, both absorbed in our own thoughts, I recalled an earlier conversation with her about another promise she had been given. It was 1940, and Hitler thought to intimidate Brittain into supporting him. He bombed London on September 7 and 8. It was called, the Blitz. Betty was a young 15-year-old girl who had just become a Christian. Her family thought she had lost her mind, and her parents were annoyed with this religion that changed the way she ate, how she worshipped, and how she spent her leisure time.
This particular evening of the bombing, another visiting family stayed with them in their home. After they had retired for the night, suddenly they heard the air raid sirens. Worse yet, they could hear planes overhead, bombs exploding, and see flashing lights and flames to the West. Betty woke up, terrified, and through her sobs began praying. A little boy sleeping in the adjoining room rushed into her room looking for someone to protect him. She held him while the bombs fell, and tried to provide solace for him. After it was quiet, she put him back in his room and returned to her own--too frightened to sleep. Again, she began to pray.

Betty had felt completely overwhelmed with her family's resistance to her newfound religious faith. Now the bombing seemed to take her to the very end of her resources. Crying, she continued praying for some time, sitting at the foot of her bed. Suddenly she became aware of a light that was getting brighter and brighter in the room. When she could finally open her eyes and look, she saw an angel in brilliant white clothes standing next to her bed.
"Don't be afraid, Betty" he said.
"But I have no one to take care of me--I'm all alone. My family think I'm crazy, and there is no one to help me," she cried back to him.
"I'll always take care of you. You have nothing to be afraid of." And he smiled warmly at her. She sat looking at him for several moments before he was gone as quickly as he came.
It was his promise.

If you fast-forward Betty's life to when she was 41, she planned to marry a man named James. He had just proposed to her and wanted her answer by Monday morning. On Saturday evening, Betty prayed before she went to bed, asking God to give her wisdom and to help her with this decision. About 2:00 a.m., she was awakened by someone shaking her. Betty lived alone, so this was terrifying. As she awoke from sleep, she heard a deep man's voice say aloud, "Do not marry James!" That was some dream, she thought, and went back to sleep. But in the morning, Betty couldn't put it out of her mind. Had God spoken to her? Had she just eaten too late and had a vivid dream? Sunday night before she fell asleep again, she thought again about what had happened. It must have been a dream, she said, and fell asleep.
About 2:00 in the morning she was again awakened by someone shaking her shoulder. "Betty. Do not marry James!" This time Betty woke up and sat up in bed.
"Why?"
"Do not marry James!"
"But Lord, I'm all alone. I'm here in America by myself and I have absolutely no one. I don't want to be alone" she began to cry.
"Do not marry James. I will take care of you. You will never be alone."
She didn't marry James.

As I stood with Betty on her balcony, I thought of these wonderful promises that have been made to her by God. He has been true to His word, because she has had every reason to fall through the cracks of society, becoming destitute and lonely. Yet after scrimping and saving all her life on a church secretary's salary, she lives in a beautiful, new retirement community, and has two younger women who love her and take care of her needs. I am blessed to be one of them.

Does God keep His promises? I had only to look at that beautiful rainbow last evening and stand next to someone who has received His promises to realize that He always has and He always will.

Otis

I want to introduce you to Otis.
A few weeks ago I responded to an online ad written by a desperate student. She had found a young cat outside the student apartments and after two weeks, decided to find a permanent home for him. Students aren't supposed to have animals in college housing. When we saw this little guy, we had to have him. The girl who had him burst into tears when we started to walk out of her little apartment with him. I can understand why now.

Otis has been a wonderful addition to our family. He is sweet, well-behaved, playful, and very affectionate. It is not uncommon for him to reach out and swat my ankle when I run up the stairs past him.
He also helps me when I'm writing on my blog, as you can see. He's a great cat--a dear little fluffy baby.
I just wanted to show him off--a wonderful part of my life right now.

An Expected End

This is my mother standing in the middle of the garden at home. I love this picture, not only because it is so green, as is Upstate New York, but because my mother is dwarfed by her squash plants. When she planted the squash seeds in the ground, there had been a lot of rain. She wasn't even sure they'd grow--they'd probably rot in the soupy garden. But then it dried out and the little shoots started coming up. After a month or so there hadn't been any rain at all. Mother started worrying about whether or not they'd die in the middle of all the dry clods that were now the garden. Some weeks later, she sent this picture. Laughing, she told me that the squash had taken over everything. Here's proof.

It strikes me that my life feels somewhat like these squash plants: more challenges than I feel I can manage followed by a drought of good things. Fortunately, I know the end of the story:

I will open rivers in high places and fountains in the midst of the valleys: I will make the wilderness a pool of water, and the dry land springs of water. I will plant in the wilderness the cedar, the shittah tree, and the myrtle, and the oil tree; I will set in the desert the fir tree, and the pine, and the box tree together; That they may see, and know, and consider, and understand together, that the hand of the Lord hath done this, and the Holy One of Israel hath created it. (Isaiah 41:18-20).

For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, saith the Lord, thoughts of peace and not of evil, to give you an expected end. (Jeremiah 19:11).

And Lord, help me...

We are moving to California in about nine weeks--at least, I am. Sam will probably move down there in May to get an early start on his new job. There is so much to be done beforehand: packing up the house, visiting places we want to see before we leave the Pacific Northwest, spending time with friends, going through stuff. Oh, and last but not least, finding a house to move to. We don't know where we're going yet--that Abrahamic feel is a bit uncomfortable!

I've been doing lots of "coulda, shoulda, woulda" lately. If only someone had told me in my 20s that I should buy a home, I would have. If only someone had helped me get through school, I could have a more cash flow available to buy a house. If I'd just not had to use my retirement to pay for my degree! If only I'd married that guy with loads of money... and on and on. But I didn't know to invest, had no help, and did the best I could think of without having any business sense or intelligent advice. None of our circumstances have surprised God. I believe that He has 1000 ways to provide for us of which we know nothing (go here for more), in spite of whatever poor judgment calls were made when I didn't know better. It remains for me to be prudent while making up for previous errors in judgment.

We believe that God would like us at this particular place in California for a number of reasons, one of which is that they invited me. I didn't seek out their institution. In fact, I never wanted to live down there again But here we are, getting ready to go. Knowing that God wants us someplace makes me think that He will go before us and help us find an acceptable home for an affordable price. A miracle? In California, yes.

So I find myself praying in my sleep--something I haven't done before. I remember reading in the Psalms about how David would pray in his bed at night and had a mental image of David lying in bed before he went to sleep, talking to God. But here I wake up in the morning and realize that I was talking with God on several occasions during the night while I was asleep. I have distinct memories or rolling over in the middle of a conversation with God about what we need for our move. And I woke up this morning mid-sentence as I discussed a home with Him. I never knew this was possible.

It is somewhat like the experience I once had after an excruciating loss. I woke up every morning with a different hymn in my mind--one that I hadn't sung for some time. Either God gave me those songs in the night, or my subconscious was reaching out to Him in some way. Either idea is lovely, because I wake up with God first and foremost in my thoughts. It is not all bad to be waiting on God.

Because He Lives

I once had the privilege of studying voice with renown tenor, Alexander Stevenson at the ripe age of 15. Alex was a wonderful teacher, and he had me making round tones, lifting my ribcage as I sang, and making wonderful "ho-ho-ho-ha-ha-ha" sounds on pitch. I became involved in every type of singing I could.
Six years later, after performing La Boheme at an opera workshop with Richard Barrett, I felt that irresistable pull toward being a professional singer. I had just received three curtain calls for the role of Musetta and knew I was moving more and more toward opera. I objected to the idea of having to live out of a suitcase, being exposed to corrupt managers, and the whole la-de-dah attitude that goes with performing: sweeping into a hall and pitching a fit as a diva often does. I had just started to become familiarized with that particular activity, when I began to rethink the whole idea of being a professional singer.

You see, singing is in my gene pool, so there is something from far away that comes alive in me when I sing. My nanna and both grandparents on my mother's side sang. My best memories of my grandfather are of him singing Italian street songs at the top of his voice over a pot of red sauce.
My three siblings and I used to sing in a quartet, and spent many happy hours singing through Handel's Messiah, Mendelsohn's Elijah, and whatever other four-part oratorio/classical music we could get our hands on. Then when I started singing seriously in my teens, I knew no sweeter experience and was almost intoxicated with the joy of it. But something wasn't quite right about the whole business of serious classical singing. I did it extremely well, and have many times been filled with regret that I gave it up (which I did for reasons that would only intrigue Freud...)

One day in church, we sang the gospel song, Because He Lives to open the service. For whatever reason, I remember that we remained seated during this song. I didn't feel like singing--probably because it was so gospelly--and occupied myself with listening to the voices around me. When we got to the chorus, I started to pick out some scratchy, slightly off-key notes behind me.
I instantly recognized the voice as belonging to Mrs. R. She had been abandoned by her husband while she had five or six small children. Somehow, they had all gotten through, but then she developed a severe case of rheumatoid arthritis and became frail and sickly. She was practically penniless--I had no idea of how she was surviving except that her children helped her out. She always had a smile, always kind words and an invitation to eat something whenever I visited her. She was one of the kindest and most gracious women I'd ever met. She came to church alone and went home alone almost every week. And there she was behind me singing with all her heart, in her loud, raspy voice, meaning every word:

Because He lives, I can face tomorrow;

Because He lives all fear is gone

Because I know He holds the future,

And life is worth the living just because He lives.

(found here)

Each line was sung fervently, as though it were a lifeline for a drowning, sick woman, whom the world had treated very cruelly. She sang out the last line triumphantly and smiling--I could hear her smiling, and I knew she was sitting back against the pew, eyes closed, in a little world with just God and her, her crippled hands folded delicately one on the other. Tears quickly flooded my eyes as I recognized in her singing the very thing that mine lacked: spirit, fervor, conviction, hope, life, joy, peace, determination, faith. I wanted it all, and my sterile, correct, ho-ho-ha-ha singing would have to go.

I don't really have a moral to throw out here--if you close your eyes, you can probably imagine what Mrs. R sounded like. I think of her almost every time I sing in front of other people now. One day, I will stand with her on the Sea of Glass in heaven and we shall sing together the same, but very different song, Because He Lives. Thank you, Mrs. R., for teaching me more than I can put in words. Your voice still rings in my heart.

Empty Spots

One summer in 1982 I was thrown together with four guys from Germany, when I went to visit my friend in Northern California. One of the boys had gone to school with my friend in England. Most unexpectedly, here they were visiting on the very weekend I had chosen to visit her.
I didn't like the idea of being upstaged by four good-looking European men, even though they were pleasant. They had run out of money and wanted to visit Southern California, where I just happened to live. Nevertheless, in spite of my initial discomfort and shyness, I invited them to come down to visit for a couple weeks and offered to loan my car if they would just come. My friend's house was vacant across the street, so these new friends had a place to stay for free for two weeks.

It was such a magical time. There were a number of days that we just went off to the beach and spent the day lying in the sun, talking, or window shopping. The youngest brother, standing to the left of me in this picture, had the most difficult time with English so he was very quiet and shy. One day, the three of us rolled up into a quilt on the beach and fell asleep--it was very windy and we were cold. The youngest asked in German if this was immoral, as he fell asleep. I remember laughing to myself because he didn't know that I could understand what he had said. Bless him, he didn't want anyone to be able to say he had slept with me!

By the end of the two weeks bonds formed that have endured to the present time. I consider them my brothers who just happen to live in Germany.

It's been about six years since I've seen them. We are middle aged adults now. We are all happily married. I wonder sometimes if I would be in their circle of friends given the lives they now lead. Our sense of humor is different; one of us has beliefs quite different from the others; our lives have taken us in very different directions. Yet when we meet together, it is as though we never were apart--and we continue to reach toward one another from time to time. We all seem to know that we always have a place in each other's hearts, no matter what.

It's one of the pains of living on this imperfect earth: not everyone we love can be nearby. And so we go on through life with the sweetness of knowing that there are people far away who we hold dear, but whose absence gives us empty spots in our souls.

Before "I" was there

This picture was taken in 1961, when I was two years old. The school where my father taught had a home economics department where my mother helped the girls learn how to sew. One evening they had a show to model all the outfits they made. We got conscripted to be part of this, much to my cranky dismay. Mother made our clothes and the darling little drawstring bags my sister and I carried. Wasn't she something? Apparently, the crinoline was scratching my legs, and it was past my bedtime. It was all my mother could do to get me to hold it together long enough to go out on the stage.

I always laugh when I see this picture because of how we look. To most people we are just cute little kids. But I know that my sister was being the good older sibling by trying to model good decorum and encourage us to behave ourselves. My brother was nervous, as seen by the way he's standing on the sides of his shoes. He could have cared less about the crowd of people there. He had to hold his two sister's hands--which was challenge enough. Then there I was, tired, hating every minute of having to stand there in front of people I didn't know. There probably didn't seem to be a point to it.

I don't remember one moment of this event. It is just a memory because I have a picture of it. Yet it was a prophecy of how all three of us kids would be today: Sissie, still the older sister who instructs, encourages, and tries to model good things for us; my older brother who remains anxious about a number of things, yet is so good natured; and me, who would just as soon be off in a corner with one or two people I know--still cranky sometimes, and crying because some things just don't fit well.
It was all true then, before I, as I know myself now, was even there.

I'll have those...

My friend, Betty, has recently moved into a retirement complex. The residents are a mix of independent seniors and those who require assisted living. Betty takes her meals in the dining room every day, and has had a bit of a difficult time trying to scope out who would be good dinner companions. So she's eaten most of her meals alone.
Last evening, she called me laughing so hard she was wheezing. "Lovie," she gasped, "What do you know! I've made a new friend!"
I was immediately intrigued, since Betty confessed a few weeks before that she has a difficult time initiating friendships due to her reserved nature.
The laughing continued, and between chuckles, Betty told me that there had been country line dancers to watch during dinner. So she took a seat in the dining room right next to the dancing. She ordered a sandwich with two dill pickles, and started in on the sandwich as soon as her meal came to the table.
A trim, well-dressed female resident approached Betty and asked her if she would mind having company at her table since the view was so good from there. Betty was thrilled. She put down her knife and fork and immediately pulled out a chair for her. The woman sat down, looked at Betty's plate, and without reticence, reached for the pickles on her plate.
"I'll have those" she said in a matter-of-fact way. And she commenced to watch the dancers, munching away on Betty's dill pickles, while Betty's mouth hung open in shock.
"Lovie," she said in a shocked whisper, "She's lost her marbles!" After a long howl of a laugh, she added, "I've never had such a thing happen before!"

With a pang, an awful recollection came to my mind:
I was in Dublin on a speaking trip. My host and I were on the road between two cities. He suggested that we stop for some tea and sandwiches to refresh ourselves. We did stop then, at a little roadhouse, filled with politely talking people. The waitress brought us our tea and a plate of diagonally-cut bread with some sort of spread on it. She put the plate directly between Michael and me. I fell to in a sort of intrigued silence, not knowing what the rather bland spread was on the bread. As I reached for the second quarter of the top sandwich, I caught a glance of Michael's face. It was a mixture of chagrin and disapproval. I drew back my hand.
"Maybe I'll not have another."
"Oh no, be sure you've had what you'd like before I finish them."
I turned "as red as a beet root," he later told me, for suddenly I realized I'd been eating off his plate. Just then, the waitress brought me my own plate of this pallid unpleasantness, and I truly wanted to vanish through the floor at that moment.
We all do awful things at times, for many different reasons. It is all part of the human condition, I think. The key is to move ahead through these things with grace and humor. When I'm not mortified, that's what I hope I'm doing.

April Fool's Day!

Fifty-five years ago a young couple in New York City woke up in bed next to each other for the first time. My parents rolled over and looked at one another. My father looked lovingly into his new wife's face, raised his eyebrows impishly and cheerily said, "April Fool's Day!" Mother rolled her eyes and knew she would be in for an interesting life with this man, my father. They are still holding hands, snuggling, and enjoying April Fool's Day today.

Yesterday was my parents' fifty-fifth anniversary. When I called Cosentino's Florist shop, Barbara, the clerk, laughed and told me that my father had just called to see if my mother's corsage was ready to be picked up. He buys her a corsage every year that she happily wears to church. Then after church, they'll go home and have some of my mother's tomato bread and lentil stew, then fall asleep in the living room.
They are happiest together. My father bought two recliner chairs, took off the arms on one side, and bolted them together. That way, my mother can sit very close to him and fall asleep on his shoulder while they watch television at night. Love has kept them together all these years, and love will continue to hold them close.
My parents have defied national divorce statistics. They are still happy. They still sleep in one bed together, back-to-back, with the window open in the dead of a New York winter. They still eat all their meals together. They still hold hands out when they go buy groceries. And when they hear Begin the Beguine, they have more than once danced off down the aisle of the store, much to the chagrin of us kids, who scattered like baby quails under the pine trees.
Lest you think that my parents are perfect, think again. They snipe at one another sometimes. My father drinks too much chocolate milk and eats too many cookies according to my mother. But she won't let things go, my father will be quick to tell you. And so they move on into their old age, happily, and together.
Happy Anniversary, Mother and Daddy. And April Fool's Day, world. You didn't win.