Looking back down a long road

My family

Today I’ve been thinking about how life plays strange tricks on you and doesn’t turn out the way you expect. When I was in school, I never chose a career path because I thought some man would marry me and take care of me, and I would spend my days reading Silver Screen and eating bonbons. The closest I came to a future vision was maybe owning a small bookstore. Fate had other things in store.

Fifty-six years ago today I married the man I intended to spend the rest of my life with. He was not then nor ever the love of my life, but I thought I loved him, and he loved me. We married in my brother’s back yard in a small Missouri town, with a row of bushes separating us from the goat pens next door. Little did I know what lay ahead of me—graduate school, four beloved children, a career in publishing, a life as a writer—and divorce.

For many years, we were the charmed couple, younger than his medical colleagues, less conventional in our lifestyle, the perfect family in the dream “doctor’s wife” house with the children and the station wagon. Gradually, after fifteen years, it fell apart. It would be easy for me to blame him, as I know it was easy for hm to tell others how bad the marriage was, but the truth is divorce always has two participants.

At the age of forty-two I found myself the single parent of four, mistress of a large (and expensive) house, and unemployed. I was terrified, and I think the kids might have been too, though they were visibly relieved that the bickering and tension were gone from the house. Gradually, we put one foot ahead of the other and moved on.

I went into a career in academic publishing, work that I loved and, I think, was good at. My children each found their own ways, sometimes a crooked, jagged path, but today the oldest is a CPA, my oldest daughter a lawyer, the second son was owner of his own toy manufactures representative company and is now in charge of US sales for a larger firm, and the youngest a luxury travel advisor. All four are happily married, and they have given me seven terrific grandchildren. I laughed that after their childhood, crowded with noise and love and laughter after the divorce, none of them wanted more than two children. I could never make them understand that raising four is a whole lot easier than raising two. More expensive, but easier.

Today, we are a happy, strong family, always ready for the next family get-together. The children’s father no longer walks this earth, but when he did—at family wedding receptions—I think he recognized that we were a family unit without him. With joy, we have reached out and absorbed into the family his daughter from his second marriage.

When Joel left us, I remembered Robert Browning’s words in “Rabbi Ben Ezra”:

Grow old along with me!

The best is yet to be,

The last of life, for which the first was made:

        I thought marriage was like a roller coaster, with ups and downs, and you rode it to the end. He didn’t seem to agree. But a few years after he left, I realized what an enormous favor he had done the children and me. We were healthy and happy. I never heard from them any bitter longing for the father they’d lost nor any wish to search for their biological parents—all four are adopted, but as I will tell you fiercely, they are mine.

God has truly blessed me, and I can tell you, fifty-six years later I am one happy camper. No, there’s no man in my life, but I have lovely memories. And I am content with the world I have now, even in quarantine. A tip of the hat to Jordan, who keeps me safe these days, and to the other three who are wildly supportive.

Who knew all those years ago what would happen?

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.

Gratitude for a marriage gone awry

Fifty-three years ago today I stood in a garden on Osteopathy Avenue in Kirksville, Missouri and exchanged vows with the late Joel Alter. We didn’t care that only a thin line of bushes separated us from the goat pens nor that the music was a rented tiny organ—I don’t even remember what was played. A friend had made my dress, and I kept it for many years before giving it away. We honeymooned, with good friends, one night at the local Holiday Inn.

We were happy for fifteen years. He built his career as a surgeon, bought us my “doctor’s wife” house, drove fancy cars, and, best of all, adopted four children. I often think of those as my golden years. They were followed by two miserable years while the marriage was crumbling. A failed marriage is never a one-way street, and I’m not writing tonight about recriminations (oh, yes, I have a long list but, probably, so did he). We divorced in 1982.

This is not a letter about blame. It’s about gratitude. If I hadn’t married Joel, I wouldn’t have the four wonderful children I have. I wouldn’t be in Texas, where I’ve been for 52 years. And I wouldn’t be eating kosher food, which I love. Joel taught me a lot of things but probably none more important than an exuberant joy in life. He loved to dance; I was a lousy dancer, but I could dance with him. He loved animals, and I caught his love, particularly of dogs. He cared about people, and I am more open and concerned about others than I might have been if he were not in my life.

A friend looked at me today and said in pure astonishment, “If he hadn’t brought you to Texas, we never would have known each other”

But the biggest thing Joel ever did for me was to leave me after 17 years of marriage, 20 years together. He reduced me to tears one night shortly before by telling me he’d take the kids, the house, everything but me. Of course, I wouldn’t give up my children. At the time, I didn’t see his leaving as a gift. I was in my early 40s, with four children ages 12-6, and I was scared, no terrified, about the future. It turned out just fine, thank you.

I have come to appreciate that great gift. If he had stayed, my children probably wouldn’t be the well-balanced, happy people they are, family people, contributing to their world. I wouldn’t have had the career I did nor would I have become the writer I call myself today. And I wouldn’t have built the wonderful life I have—friends, church, a secure home, great memories of the last thirty-plus years.

So thanks to Joel, though he didn’t intend his leaving as a gift, and his life didn’t turn out to be the happy days he expected. I have carried Joel with me, all these years, in a small place in my heart, in too many dreams, in some of the better ways I react to people and the world.

When people moan about divorce or how hard it is on the children or some such nonsense, I just smile and say, “Not always.”

Thanks, Joel.

Reliving good days…and some not so good

          If you heard laughter ringing from the rafters tonight, it came from my cottage. Two old friends came for supper—all of us were doctors’ wives in the ‘70s, when our doctors were beginning their careers and dreaming of glory. Nancy’s ex was a pathologist and, I believe a classmate of my ex, Joel, or in the class behind. Joel and I moved to Texas in 1965; Nancy and Tom, in 1971. The third member of our group was Linda, whose husband, Lynn, was a surgeon in nearby Granbury and died way too  young. We shared good times back in the glory days—dinners or parties every weekend, we ladies involved in the women’s groups; our kids growing up together. There’s a bond there that lasts over the years

And we could laugh about the negative times—Joel and I divorced in ’82; Nancy and Tom in ’84. Nancy and I went to dinner frequently until the dinners sort of tapered off. I think we got tired of talking about exes and their faults. Nancy, an administrative surgical nurse, moved around in several jobs and even to Austin once. I forget what year Lynn died but Linda’s uncertainty came out in the form of a bad relationship followed by marriage to a guy she met on the internet. I was horrified but he turned out to be a really good guy I was proud to call my friend. I grieved when he died unexpectedly a couple of years ago or more. So now we all three are widowed, and we can joke about the second-wife syndrome of doctors.

Linda and I had rehooked long ago but it was only in the last year or so that we found Nancy. Tonight was our second reunion of sorts. Linda brought a delicious salad and a skillet of sauerkraut and sausage, with chocolate bread for dessert—it tasted to me like pumpkin bread with chocolate chunks.

Yes, Nancy and I talked some about the faults of our exes but not excessively. I am always reminded of a young friend named Joel who listened to his mom and me talk about the original Joel and his late-in-life peccadillos and, yes, flaws. “If he was so awful, why am I named after him?” he asked. His mom looked at him and said, “Because we all loved him.” Best explanation I’ve heard.

It was good to bring the past alive for a bit tonight and to realize that we’ve all moved on and had full and rewarding lives since those days. We’ll do dinner again soon.

It had been an upsetting day, just because of the tension in all our lives right now, and this evening erased that. I’m going to bed a happy camper tonight.

Old times and memories--life is good

A friend of forty years was my houseguest last night. We had a gala dinner, with dining pal Betty, at Fixture--so good. I laughed--almost every table had those roasted beets on it. If you haven't tried them, you must.
But later, Linda and I sat in my study and talked--inevitably we talked about old times. We've seen each other through some rough patches--divorce and single parenthood for me, widowhood twice for her. I told her about the first love of my life, how devastated I was when we saw (well, he saw) it wasn't going to work out. But talking about it and reliving the good times and bad, I realized that what my mom always said was true: things work out as they are meant to. If I had married that first true love, I would never have had the life--nor the children--that I have now. And if my ex had not decided it was time "to take care of himself" (with four children under twelve?) I would never have developed into what I like to think of as the strong, independent woman I am today.
I belong to a writers' listserv that is made up mostly of women writing their memoirs. Lately there's been much conversation about exploring the deep, hidden, dark part of your life and the growth that comes from such examination. Sometimes I wonder if I'm Pollyanna or in deep denial, but I think I've already explored those parts--realizing that first love affair wouldn't have worked out, finding that the children and I were better off emotionally after their father left. Oh, yes, there are some blips along the way that I'd just as soon not think about, but they weren't life-changing. So I don't think memoir is in my future.
I could tell funny stories about my marriage and the break-up but I don't feel a need to do that. My ex did a lot of good for me--opening up my world--even if he hurt me badly. And that was all along time ago. I've had a good life, one I'm proud of and happy with. I have four wonderful children--such nice adults who enjoy my company (or so they say) and I love theirs. I have seven of the best grandchildren in the world.
There were days of course that you never could have told me that, but these days I really do feel the Lord works things out for the best--with our faltering help. I'm a sunny optimist about the future.

Memories of an old friend

An obituary in yesterday's paper alerted me to the death of an old friend, a man I hadn't seen in years and years, and it brought back some happy memories and some musings on life. The man's wife, S., was and is a good friend of mine for over forty years. Young, with infant children, we all hung out together a lot--we were neighbors in a small, upscale neighborhood (hey, I was married to a doctor), and we were involved in liberal causes. We partied. We had great lives.
But things change. Joel and I divorced and then a few years later so did S. and her husband--though they later remarried briefly and then finally terminated their relationship. S. worked at TCU as I did, but many years ago she moved to NYC to be near most of her children. We've kept in sporadic contact, had rare visits, but I think we both knew in the back of our minds that we were old friends with deep roots. I've emailed her since her ex's death and had warm replies.
I got to thinking about the two of us today, and the similarities struck me with force. Not just that we lived in the same neighborhood and worked at TCU. We were both married to men who, each in his own way was larger than life and lived outside what would be called the norms of society. I can't truly speak for her, but I suspect I know that when their marriage was good, it was very good. I know I have happy memories of my own life at that time. Four children, the happy domestic life. In a lot of ways I loved it; sometimes I chafed against it.
My ex and hers both were an enormous part of our lives and left indelible impressions, things that shaped us for the rest of our lives. But we each went on to build satisfying lives for ourselves--she as an artist and me as a writer. I'm not sure I'd go so far as to say those men gave us the strength to do that--I'd like to believe it came from our inner selves. But whatever, we did forge ahead, and we're both happy campers, close to our children, pleased with our lives. The parallels interest me.
S. wrote that she hoped she would now be free, and I wanted to tell her no, she'll never be free. My ex is still in my thoughts--and sometimes my dreams--a lot. Oh, yes, there were other men--some good, some disappointing--but none had the same impact on my life. I still don't know whether to damn him or thank him--but I think it's the latter.
Here's to the good old days, to all those golden memories softened by time. And to long-lasting friendships.