By the time you are reading this, I’ll be off to Florida with a family of 10, greeting Mickey & friends at Disneyworld.
I cannot think of a better way to celebrate our 50th than to be chasing after four grandchildren, ages 3-8, other than perhaps them chasing me, which they are more inclined to do in this land of fantasy.
God has blessed us with a wonderful home, good health, fine careers, and a retirement free of debt. These days the basis of our married life is spoiling the six grandkids. We are supreme in that category.
The only way to stay young at 75 is to act youthful, hang around your grandchildren a lot, and never grow old.
Anniversaries are a lot like revivals. We get a second wind toward perpetual happiness. Oh, sure, there have been thundershowers in our sky. But doesn’t the sun radiate through those clouds at some point?
Our date—Feb. 19—marks another occasion. We got married on my wife’s birthday, just days following Valentine’s. Woe is me should I ever forget the occasion.
The last time I came to Orlando was 5 years ago for our 45th with my eldest son and his family in tow. The experience I had with my two oldest grandchildren deserved a sequel.
To this day, they will still remind me of the snafu I committed at the dinner table while having breakfast with Minnie. Upon her arrival, I looked up and offered her a boisterous greeting.
“Good morning, Mickey,” I proclaimed.
“Mickey?” she answered, correcting me. “That’s Mickey at the other table. I’m Minnie!”
So I went down in history with my wrong mouse identities as the whole place burst out laughing. Needless to say, I had egg on my face for breakfast that morning.
I have friends who’ve celebrated a golden anniversary. In fact, I interviewed someone in my city who observed a 75th. I chose them as a Valentine’s couple that year. Just in the nick of time, too. A month or two later, one died, then the other, no doubt from a broken heart.
With history piling up so fast, almost every day now is the anniversary of something awful. That is precisely why it is always good to reflect upon the happier times, created in part by original wedding pictures. I had hair then and not quite so much tummy.
We were both 26, ready to set matrimony on fire, living with a legally blind mother-in-law in Haverhill who always stuck up for me. Nancy taught school here. I was the journalist. She would lament about her day. I would groan about mine. Our dinners were filled with begrudged conversations.
But I’ll tell you this much. Neither one of us ever faced a traffic jam. We were there with each of our three children, whether it was school, hockey, scouting, or dance recitals. The fact both our boys became Eagle Scouts brought unequivocal pride to our family.
The fact I was able to give a daughter to the newspaper field is yet another source of pride. All three of them received some exposure to journalism in high school. They were National Honor Society members, then made their college and career choices logistically. One son is a mechanical engineer who serves as our computer tech. The other is a marketing agent who advises us on money matters.
Memory takes me back to that fateful moment in Harvard Square 50 years ago when we tied the knot during a candlelight ceremony. We both wanted something sedate, not the big, bawdy wedding.
The fact we were both Armenian and decided to wed in an ethnic church brought some gratitude from our parents.
Those early years living with Nancy’s mom were the best of times, especially when the children came along. We had a built-in baby-sitter, a true missionary who taught our youngsters Armenian protocol. She was a counselor, nurse, and mediator, whenever an argument erupted.
The fact that each child resides within reasonable proximity is another blessing. We see them often, unlike some of our friends who have children light years away.
Over the years, she has tolerated my passion for classical music and I’ve condoned her assorted tastes for the lyrical. We’ve been opposites in many ways—like my yen for mountain climbing and racquetball—though we’ve shared other interests, such as theater and travel.
I once put her through a four-hour performance of Handel’s “Messiah,” and she reciprocated by taking me on a four-hour shopping frenzy one Christmas that had me reeling with tedium.
Such diversity has only strengthened our bond and given us our own space when we needed it. Every good marriage needs some breathing room as much as compatibility, and I believe we’ve struck a happy medium.
So, to the days ahead. May each one continue to be brighter than the next.
Tom Vartabedian
Latest posts by Tom Vartabedian (see all)
- Vartabedian: My Final Column - November 13, 2016
- A Hat to Match Any Occasion - October 19, 2016
- More Smiles Keep the Frowns Away - October 12, 2016
Be the first to comment