Marriage, indeed, is not all romance and flowers. Romantic, perhaps, in that deciding to marry is a giant leap of faith in many ways. When I was young, committing to live my days with another seemed a stretch of the imagination—possibly even a little uncomfortably so. In my wildest dreams I couldn’t imagine being old together. Getting married at twenty-two, having just graduated from college, I’m not sure that we didn’t enter into marriage together with a sense of adventure and romance—but we certainly had not devoted much time to long or even short range planning.
On Memorial Day of 1970 Jim and I were married, surrounded by friends in a place known as Zoar Valley in western New York. It was a bucolic setting, at the convergence of two small rivers. It was a hippy wedding. Our minister was an official Universal Life minister, a mail-order ministry useful at that time for some to avoid the draft. The social and political arenas were volatile. As emerging adults, we had endured violent assassinations of beloved leaders, an ugly unpopular war, racial riots and discord, and a vocal counterculture. To say that these were turbulent times would be an understatement.
Very little planning went into staging our wedding—a lot of phone calls mostly. I made huge bowls of macaroni and potato salad. Someone brought a large sheet cake; I don’t remember it being inscribed. Others brought things as well, but to make up for what we lacked, we stopped at a small, rural supermarket on the way. I can only imagine what the employees were thinking as this large group of hippy people converged on their store, buying everything from chips and dips to hot dogs and hamburgers.
My wedding dress was a simple empire-waisted mini-dress, a style popular at the time. I made it the week before we were married. A friend gave me a daisy garland with streams of grosgrain ribbons, a beautiful complement to my waist-length hair.
Our wedding was rooted in the spirit of that era. In some ways I think that we were pretty casual and naïve going into this life-long commitment. Each of us said more than once that we could go our separate ways if things didn’t work out. (Side Note: The first week of our marriage Jim drove off in a fury when I burned the chocolate chip cookies. He returned an hour later, humiliated that he got to the next town with little cash and no gas.) As our years together grew, we both realized that we had indeed committed to a lifetime partnership.
Did I ever think that marriage was going to be all romance and flowers? Does anyone really believe that? I don’t think I ever had such illusions.
So if it’s not all romance and flowers, what love languages—ways that show we care—have nurtured and sustained us? What is the vocabulary? What are the common threads that have bound us together in an enduring and flourishing relationship? As a retired middle school reading and writing teacher, I always told my students that their best writing was from their own experiences. After more than forty-two years of marriage to the same man, I think that I’ve accumulated enough experiences to be able to address this topic. That said, everyone should define—and refine over time—the terms together, knowing that the longevity of your relationship depends upon your ability to adapt to change and add new vocabulary.
Commitment is one of love language’s vocabulary; commitment to each other, the relationship, to shared dreams and goals.
In our younger days, my husband and I actually had more than one five-year plan. In the mid-seventies we were back-to-the landers, building our small house with recycled lumber, living on ninety acres in rural upstate New York. We had a big garden, two horses, chickens, two daughters, and almost no money. Life was difficult, yet sweet. Our planning discussions included building plans, employment options, economic goals, as well as personal aspirations.
Both Jim’s and my parents had marriages that exceeded fifty years. We didn’t lack for examples of commitment. My father used to say that marriage is a 60/40 proposition—and you were the one giving the 60 percent. He was a terrific role model in so many ways, married for almost sixty years; but his care, devotion and attention to my mother who suffered from Parkinson’s was exceptional. Though the years were difficult, he never questioned his commitment or his love.
Empathy and encouraging are words that have also found their place in our love’s language.
Over the years I learned to remain open-minded to Jim’s new adventures. When my husband takes on a new interest, it sometimes gets out of hand—at one time we had four sailboats of different sizes, or four Saabs in our Saab era. He often will proudly tell people that he has held more than thirty jobs in forty-two years. Being empathetic and encouraging has tested my patience more than once, but it’s afforded a rich ride!
Something that I never considered when I was younger: Expect that you will grow and change over your lifetime.
It would be weird otherwise. Embrace change. It will breathe life, vitality, and freshness into a relationship, regardless of the number of years spent together. A static relationship isn’t romance and flowers. At this point in our lives being comfortably retired, we are hopeful of pursuing new adventures. Jim has become joined at the hip to his motorcycle and can be frequently found riding the North Country roads while I am planning on deeper study of yoga and getting back into weaving and fibers—something that was put aside during those family and working years.
Having been married for over forty-two years, I’ll admit that there are things that come up that are never truly resolved. We were never the couple who resolved not to go to bed angry. Our anger with each other could extend for days without coming to clear resolution. Last year we went to a session with a marriage counselor—something that Jim really wanted to do. I was more reticent and skeptical. We had come to a communications impasse. As it turned out, the session opened the door to more productive discussion and helped us clarify and redefine our intentions and commitment. If you are in a committed, long-term relationship, accept the idea that there will be times when you do not agree—and never will. Embrace differences.
Laugh frequently—at yourself, at each other, at life, over past events and experiences.
As my husband and I age, we frequently mishear each other (a malady of aging), our conversations reminiscent of a bad sit-com.
The language of love equals the compilation of years, of shared family, friends and experiences. The wedding is only one day. The rest of your lives together is the real test of your relationship. There is comfort and laughter discovering that you are both pondering the same thoughts simultaneously. I have often heard people comment that they did not want to become one of those old people, sitting across from each other without talking. Let’s face it, after so many years together, it’s going to happen. This does not mean that you have run out of conversation, but rather are comfortable in silence.
The most romantic aspect of longevity in marriage is that possibilities still remain; new adventures to be planned; new skills to be acquired; new memories to be created. On our trip to Florida last year—my first—I was really attentive to taking photographs, recording out trip—something that I am not always diligent doing. On our last morning camping in St. Augustine we walked to the beach to watch the sunrise. It was incredibly beautiful! I took many photos to record it the best I could. And they were quite stunning shots. Unfortunately our computer, with several years of pictures, decided that was it! Sadly our record was lost. You may lose the image (as did I) of the sunrise in St. Augustine, but the experience still remains. That’s romance.