65, the year one qualifies for Medicare---no big deal. But how about 65 years together, can you even imagine? The logistics are you won’t have to imagine because you’ll either first divorce your spouse, ’murder’ your spouse or drop-dead from old age.

The marriage gods must have been hovering more over my parents’ union than over most other couples, because somehow, someway, they sensed they needed extra help, a lot of help. You think it’s easy adjusting to a ’stranger’s’ ways when you have been raised in totally different households with different beliefs, likes and dislikes? That’s what it’s like for all newlyweds, and your ability to handle the inevitable incompatibility determines if your marriage makes it past the wedding reception.

All our lives we kids have heard from our mother, “Your father is killing me!”

We should live to be so dead. Mom is almost 84, radiant looking and if one more person asks me if she’s my sister, I’m going to start hangin’ out with some old withered hag so I can look young by comparison.

Dad used to be quiet, but because he’s lived thus far to be 87, he thinks he can say anything to anyone at anytime. “Ya got more problems than 50 people,” he’ll remind you when things are going awry, and all you really long to hear is, ’Hang in there, honey.’

Never for one second have we doubted our parents’ love and devotion for one another; we’ve only questioned our own endurance level all these years, watching and hearing all that love and devotion. There are times when blurred vision and impaired hearing has to be considered a blessing. Don’t get me wrong, they’ve never been really abusive to one another, but I did see a banana cream pie go flying once across the room all because Dad said, “You mean, Ann, you only baked five pies when you know we’re expecting the cast of ’Ben Hur’ for Christmas?”

And one early morning many years ago, Dad went outside to plant his garden. It was a cozy, inviting-looking scene with the sun streaming in the windows, and hot coffee and warm, fresh, homemade muffins tickling your taste buds. Mom was in her cuddly bathrobe and slippers talking to her sister, our Aunt Pauline. Same day, 12:30 P.M---cold coffee, stale muffins, Mom still in her nightclothes and still talking to her sister, our Aunt Pauline. In comes Dad and this is where the cozy, inviting-looking scene turns ugly. Of course not X-rated, because Dad doesn’t swear, but certainly not intended for general audiences either. Suddenly the wall phone became Mom’s hand phone and all contact from the outside world was gone in one second. I didn’t think my father had it in him to tackle something as powerful as ’Ma Bell.’

“I married a maniac!” wailed Mom as she threatened to strangle herself for not being able to talk on the phone.

“I married a big mouth!” yelled Dad and would you believe that by suppertime they were all lovely-dovey again? A little wacko? Of course. A slightly distorted view of what love is? Absolutely. But guess what? It’s impossible for our family to stay mad at one another---ever. The word grudge may as well be tossed right out of the dictionary as far as we’re concerned, it doesn’t exist. When we see one another it’s like winning the lottery, the mega one. Crazy, isn’t it? Just say we take after our parents.

To read more of Karen’s previously published articles, please visit homegrownharvard.blogspot.com

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