Forty Two Years And Counting...

We had our first child, you see.  Never mind that it was a Saint Bernard puppy.  We did what was expected of us.  We got married.   September 12, 1969.

Now, forty two years, four Saint Bernards, two mutts and untold numbers of fish later, we are still chugging along.  The years have been good to us, really.  We both are in good health if you discount the aches and pains that come with five acres and seventy some years!

We've still enough pride to struggle with our weight.  Our hair is thinner and lacking for color. We have our own teeth and can hear just fine.  We've finally matured enough to know what's important and to not apologize for our opinions whether or not people agree with us.  We still pursue life with zest. We still dine at the table every night, fashionably late if going out and dress for the occasion when few others do.  It's a standard of living, you see.

I could not have asked more from a husband than I've received.  One's confidence in the goodness of a person, the generosity, giving and caring becomes pretty easy after forty two years.

It's not that there weren't rough times.  Oh yes.  We are both terribly strong willed individuals and we've had some dandy battles of those wills.  But somewhere deep within we knew when to call a truce and actually listen to each other and talk things through.  That too comes easily after forty two years.

I have been married to this man longer than I had been alive when we first married.  That idea still astounds me.  Sometimes couples grow apart after years of marriage.  We've grown closer.  We share so many interests we've entwined our lives around one another.  It's comfortable.  It's predictable.  It's marriage.   Forty two years of it, and counting...