Memories of a long-ago marriage

Yesterday was an anniversary that you’d think I’d have long ago forgotten, but not so. It marked fifty-four years since I married Joel Alter. We were married in my brother’s backyard, by a hedge that barely separated us from the neighbor’s goat pen. My brother gave me away, and my mother stood looking stoic. My father did not attend. My parents did not approve of me marrying a young Jewish boy—their disapproval turned out to be well founded but for all the wrong reasons.

We were so poor that the wedding punch had Everclear in it, and though I can barely remember all the people who attended I do remember that the 14-year-old son of Joel’s mechanic got blotto on the punch. We did have a cake, and at the time it seemed a fairly festive occasion. My dress was made by a close friend—a straight shift of lace with a beige/pink background material. I do remember that our closest friends came from Kansas or Nebraska—I’m not sure where they were living—and the four of us spent the night at the local Holiday Inn. They are still close friends today.

The date got me to thinking that unless you’re careful, the end of relationships can blot out the memories of the good times. Our divorce belonged to Joel. I didn’t realize it at the time, but he had a mistress he wanted to be with. When a man tells you he wants the house and the children, and you’re the only part of the package he doesn’t want, you can’t help but being angry and bitter. I was all those things and more, though for some time I’d fantasized about life without him. Because I had four children, six and under, I was afraid to take that step, afraid I could not support them. As it turned out leaving was the best thing he ever did for us.

We had been together twenty years, married for seventeen of them, and in honesty I would say we were wildly happy for the first ten or twelve, moderately so for the next five, and miserable for the last two. And those last two tended for years to wipe out the memories of the good times we had together.

In the medical community in which we lived, we were the “alternative” couple, smiled upon indulgently by his older partners who turned a blind eye to his “hippie” decoration of his office and my tendency to wear blue jean suits with macramé belts—how dated! We were slightly outrageous but never outré, and we enjoyed that role, played it to the hilt. We lived in a big old house, adopted four kids, gave outrageous parties, and loved life. Where and why it all went wrong is a long tale. From my point of view, it has to do with a mid-life crisis, a career that didn’t soar as he though it should have, my preference to be a stay-at-home mom instead of a happy traveler. Joel has been gone several years, so he can’t give his viewpoint. But Jordan told me tonight she once saw what he’d been writing on his computer and it included apologies, confessions of guilt, and other regrets. He tried to apologize to me a couple of times, and I brushed him off. Now I wish I’d listened.

It took me a long time, but now I am able to remember the good times and downplay the anger. And I owe him a debt. He brought me to Texas, encouraged me to get a Ph.D. while he did a residency, encouraged me in the outrageous idea that I wanted to be a writer. And oh yes, four wonderful children and today seven grandchildren. I hope in our years together I did as much for him, though I’m not sure.

I’ve finally comes to term with that gratitude, the memories of happiness and joy, and mostly but not completely worked beyond the anger. Time does indeed heal.