It was just another Saturday in June.
The corn was tall, but cried out for mercy in the heat. The only clouds in the sky gave but the faintest hope of a late afternoon thunderstorm.
I shooed the last of the hungover guests from my house in the woods, and waited for my family to get there. We had an early lunch of leftover fried chicken and tea on the porch while my dogs and one remaining goat made pests of themselves.
At the barber shop, the man who had given me my first real haircut fussed; he’d told me to come in a few days before, so my hair would look better for my wedding. I knew no one would be looking at me; they would be looking at Miss Rhonda, so I wasn’t that worried.
My oldest brother, JJ, called from halfway around the world; my sister Becky called from New Orleans. Miss Lois was stressing over something, the Old Man was chasing a detective who had worked a crime scene the night before, trying to get the story done before everyone had to be at the church. My poor brother Mike was just trying to wrangle the dogs and stay out of the way, yet another reason he’ll always be a hero of mine. I was a little worried since my Uncle Bob and Aunt Doris weren’t there yet. I was pleasantly surprised later when almost the whole retinue of my mother’s brothers were there, along with my aunts.
A couple hours later, under a merciless sun, my mother-in-law jumped from the car in a panic. The wedding cake wouldn’t be there for the reception. I wasn’t that worried about it, but ladies get concerned over such things.
My best friend and best man joked that there was still time to run; he teased me for having not one, not two, but three worry stones in my pocket. I wasn’t surprised to learn later that my soon-to-be father-in-law would give Rhonda the same advice as they entered the church.
You think of the strangest things after 33 years; those couple of hours in a tiny white country church in a cornfield were really the start of an adventure.
Figurative and spiritual storms; births and deaths; victories and crushing losses; new jobs and new homes and new friends and on occasion, even new enemies. Laughter and tears and confusion and realization and recollection and sickness and healing.
We’ve buried our parents, and taken up that role for children who were not of our blood. We’ve argued and made up, negotiated and given a little on both sides, and stood together when a street party turned into a riot, when a bridge collapsed behind us, when our home was flooded, and when another storm made our home an island. We’ve birthed and buried animals, saving some that others said were worthless and crying over some that shouldn’t have died.
And we have done those things together.
It constantly amazes me that I have friends who were not born when Rhonda and I were married; I am sure it is not an unusual phenomenon for my own friends who have had a half-century of marriage, as opposed to our own paltry one-third, but it still gets to me sometimes. Then I see those my own age working on their second, sometimes third marriages. Some of the breakups I can understand, as we have sat around a campfire or beside a river talking things out, but other have reasons I cannot fathom.
It’s not easy. Nothing worth having ever is. We are not experts, by any means – much of this journey has been by dead reckoning, with fewer prayers than we should have lifted and pride getting in the way of seeking available advice. Stubbornness plays as much of a role as not wanting to hurt feelings, and either way can have negative results, regardless of the intent.
In this day of immediate gratification and justification for any act or feeling being just a few clicks away on a telephone screen, it’s even harder to make things stick. I always tell newlyweds that I hope they have twice the patience, three times the laughter and half the tears Rhonda and I have endured, and that’s sincere.
Yet for (as of this writing) 12,050.2 days, more or less, we have held it together. Some parts are stronger; some parts still need help; some parts will never be broken and some can never be fixed, but everything is still together.
It’s amazing to me, that I am still married to my best friend.
The nagging back injury that puts me on a walking stick means I am nowhere near as quick to dash outside in the night with a flashlight and a gun if there’s a noise that’s out of place. Oftentimes Miss Rhonda has to get out there first and evaluate, then either deal with it or call me for help.
Our old horse was acting strangely the other night during the nightly rounds, and we went outside together to see what was happening. She held a flashlight so we could see where we were going, and I leaned on my stick with one hand and kept the other free in case we needed the more proactive coyote deterrent device.
The horse was fine, and while we made our way back inside, with a half moon bathing the woods in silver-white and stars taking advantage of a rare clear night, she reached out to me.
“Hold my hand,” she said. She wanted to be sure I got back safely to the house, without falling victim to either my malfunctioning nerve endings or the tiger pits our dogs dig in the yard. I wanted to be sure she avoided stumbling, too, plus she’s never been as comfortable in the dark as I have.
I happily took her hand, and I hope and pray I get to do so for many years to come.
Happy anniversary, Dolly. Here’s to many more. I love you.
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