It is February 14th. In two days we will have a wedding anniversary. I have put up posts similar to this one in other years as mid February rolls around. But as I think about it, each year is now a victory. Twenty-five is so long ago as to have vanished from my memory. Fifty I clearly recall, as JG’s brother came to help us celebrate and complimented my driving on the way back from the city where most of us (I don’t drink alcohol much) had hoisted many toasts, leaving me (and I knew better than to drink on that occasion) as the designated driver. At sixty we were deeply embedded in Covid restrictions and the vaccine was not yet out, so our celebration was quite muted. But Monday, February 16th, is our sixty-third wedding anniversary. And we are going to have a fine celebration.
The daughters are shopping and planning presently.
They will arrive with food and other delights, cook, serve, clean and depart,
having given the old folks a fine, fine dinner. Sixty-three years ago now JG
and I were getting ready to go to a formal Valentine’s Day dance run by a group
called ‘Levana’, I was never sure why, the society of women undergrads at my
university. Women, you see, were not part of Arts and Science, but held a place
apart. Very fifties, a time we had just barely left behind on the calendar and
not, obviously, at our university.
We were both undergrads when we married. It was an unusual step to take then, but if we wanted to share an accommodation, it was necessary. ‘Shacking up’ was just Not Done. You can find the details of this decision here.
We have celebrated in many ways over the years, mostly
quietly. A dear friend threw a fifty-first party to celebrate her marriage. Her
husband had refused to countenance a fiftieth as he was sure it was bad luck.
She rented a hall and invited the whole community, it seemed like, for a fine
fifty-first time. My YD always said that she had no desire to be married, but
that she would like a party. I have this in mind, D, darling.
As I was hauling clothing out of the closet to fold
and donate, one thing that came out was a silk brocade jacket. This jacket was
a garment that I loved and saved and wore for dress occasions for years. It was
half of my mother-of-the-bride outfit (with a matching pencil skirt that I only
wore once). My ED did get married – and unmarried some years later – and since
she was out of the country working for a graduate degree, mother on the home
front planned and put together the ceremony and subsequent celebration. My
much-loved and clever sister-in-law helped me plan, having had three daughters’
worth of experience.
I got distracted looking for a photo of this jacket,
and it is now the hiatus day between Valentine and Wedding Anniversary. We are
celebrating this with steak; tomorrow the daughters are arriving with food and
taking over. We have a galley kitchen with a small table at one end allowing
the two chairs we need when eating alone. I plan to relax in one of these
chairs and watch the show. The daughters’ mad ice dance in the kitchen is a
treat to watch although there are no overhead lifts.
And yet another bra was just delivered. From famine to
a feast.
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