When we married in 1960, I was nineteen and he was twenty-one and we loved each other madly. Even rereading this sentence makes me so light-headed I should probably lie down right now with a cold, wet cloth on my forehead. (Nineteen and twenty-one and madly in love) Our parents orchestrated a lovely formal reception and, smiling, walked us down the aisle. Today I would place my child in a locked facility if he or she attempted marriage at such a tender age. Anyway, we made a home for ourselves, worked, planned a future, developed friendships, and began raising a family. Also, we continued to love each other, even though he could be so stupid sometimes I’d have to yell at him. He worked eight days a week when his business was new, although I sarcastically observed I’d never seen an armored car following a hearse.
Sometime in the late sixties or maybe the early seventies, conventional wisdom decreed that in order to have a successful marriage, “You Have to Work on It.” This was the exact phrase as it appeared in print and was voiced by numerous authorities on the subject of marriage. “You Have to Work on it” was the Rosetta stone of marital counsel. No discourse on marriage could be considered authentic until these magical words were intoned, whereupon listeners would nod their heads up and down and reply, “Oh, yes, of course.”
A niggling worm of suspicion began to wriggle in my secret heart. Here I thought we were so compatible, contented, and even passionate. I thought our marriage was terrific. Was I supposed to tinker around with the innards of our relationship the way a mechanic works on a carburetor? Perhaps I should be baking pies, arranging flowers, coloring my hair. What? Stupid me, I didn’t have a clue.
Finally, bravely, I faced the problem. I asked him, “Are you consciously, deliberately ‘working’ on this marriage?” And do you know what he said? He said no, he didn’t have a clue as to how anybody could even begin to work on a marriage, and besides, it sounded tedious. Like flossing your teeth or visiting your great-aunt Mildred.
After a while he learned to avoid the dumb moves that led to my raising my voice and slamming silverware around in the drawers and I discovered that if I took the time to explain my grievances, he, being a dear and considerate soul, would thereafter aim to please me.
Thirty-two years have slipped by, the children have grown up and left home (thank God), and we’re back to just the two of us. We still don’t have the slightest hint of where the marriage needs work. But what can you expect when two kids go off and get married? 