A VERY LONG ENGAGEMENT

In exactly twenty-four hours Art and I will be at the airport. At about this time I will swallow my little white pill, which will help me to get through the rest of the day. My hands and feet will probably be a little clammy. (They usually warm up when the pill kicks in).

But it would be better for me to skip the part about how we get to Connecticut and to concentrate on how it will be when we get there, because apart from my well-known reluctance to fly, I am actually looking forward to this trip.

Among other reasons for our going, we will be there to visit Art’s parents. (I’m not going to use their names because I don’t want to embarrass them). They will be celebrating their sixty-fifth wedding anniversary this month. No, that’s not a typo. I mean that Art’s parents got married in 1939. Before World War II. When FDR was in office. And miraculously, over those sixty-five years, they have never separated. This is one long, continuous love affair. No doubt there have been bumps along the way, but isn’t that what makes life interesting?

I wish I knew the secret, but I do have a few theories.

First, you start out with a great big helping of romantic love. It doesn’t hurt to have a little parental opposition thrown into the bargain, or maybe just a hint of secrecy. That gives you forward momentum. And these “kids” were young, gorgeous, energetic, and determined. (I’ve seen the pictures of them at that age – they looked like they were from Central Casting. The chemistry is obvious).

Second, it doesn’t hurt to be born into an era that values perseverance and integrity above all else. They may have been the originators of the homily: “When the going gets tough, the tough get going”. My in-laws didn’t buy anything “on time”. They believed in saving up their money until they could afford to pay cash. They shared common beliefs about work. They shared beliefs about how to raise their kids. They agreed never to fight in front of the children long before Dr. Phil was around to spread the gospel. They took full responsibility for their lives. I think they could have chimed in with Harry Truman when he said, “The buck stops here”. Let’s compare that to the current atmosphere in Washington. Hmmmmm.

Third – They still hold surprises for each other. They have not forsaken their individuality and merged into one. Somehow (and I think this is tricky) they’re like the States in the United States. Each of them has sovereignty, and yet each of them is part of the larger whole. They consult each other on important matters, but they still have the power to make decisions independent of each other. There’s still a little mystery – even a little conflict from time to time that makes the sparks fly. How wonderful!

Over the years they’ve developed a very deep trust. When things get hard, they turn toward each other, instead of away. The relationship has become so much more than the sum of its parts. They are the best of best friends.

Every now and then when we visit, I will see them holding hands under the table like a young, newly engaged couple. And I realize that marriage does not mark the end of the engagement, just the formal beginning.

© 2004, Robin Munson

GHOSTS

I started writing this morning and what came out was so depressing, even I couldn’t read it. So I scrapped it. Sometimes The Dark Side beckons me. It makes me feel clever to be cynical. But it’s wrong. Cynicism serves no constructive purpose, other than the occasional perverse chuckle.

I was raised in an era when cynicism – which passed for realism – was the norm of our parents. And why not? They had grown up in the Great Depression. They had experienced the horror of World War II. My father had been a soldier in Germany and had been a P.O.W. He came back emaciated and disillusioned. My mother had grown up so poor that the Welfare people threatened to take her and her sisters away from my grandparents.

So both my parents had good reason to want to lavish their children generously with all that money could buy. My father worked about 80 hours a week and made his unofficial work playing gin rummy with the Big Boys for high stakes. He was shrewd and lucky. My mom was like a kid in a candy shop. Finally, after a childhood and adolescence of deprivation she could indulge in beautiful clothing, luxurious surroundings, and even give back to the community through tireless charity work. We, their children, were the beneficiaries of their desire to see us live their childhood dreams. We were given piano lessons, dance lessons, theater and art training, golf lessons, swimming lessons, and all of us went to “good schools”. I have absolutely no reason to complain about any of it.

But there was a dark undercurrent just below the surface. My parents were of the mind that, basically, the world is filled with liars, cheats, con men, and phonies. Nobody and nothing was to be trusted. My sisters and I were routinely warned from a tender age not to trust boys. When I expressed interest in the performing arts, I was admonished not to fall victim to the “casting couch”. While the Founding Fathers and the Constitution were revered, the Government was seen as a necessary evil that, while it protected us, also could turn on us. The mythology had it that the Big Corporations were out to crush the “little man”. Even religion was suspect.

Maybe if my parents were to read all this they would protest that I was mistaken; that they hadn’t felt that way at all. I can only tell you what came through to me. Psychological truth need not be literally true in order to have its effect.

And so it’s not surprising that I struggle with the question of trust. I want to trust that, as Anne Frank observed in her diary, “People are really good at heart”. But my early childhood conditioning is at odds with that statement. When Bush won this last election (let’s not talk about the election before this one) I couldn’t help but be suspicious. Art pointed out that three million votes are hard to fake. He’s right. But Art is, as he says, “the infernal optimist”.

I’m writing about all this because I don’t think I’m alone. When I talk to friends and relatives of the Baby Boomer generation, they have the same kinds of feelings. We can all remember the sensation of being surrounded by a Dark Cloud growing up. The twin ghosts of The Great Depression and World War II have become the dark lens through which we often see the world. And when bad things happen, as they inevitably do – When the Big Box Stores crush the Mom-and-Pop stores, when Enron makes off with billions of dollars, when spouses cheat, when doctors fake credentials, when priests abuse children – all that mistrust gets reinforced. It takes tremendous will and faith to remind ourselves that these are only the headlines. What really counts are the stories that never make the papers; the honest businessmen, the faithful and devoted spouses, the dedicated doctors, the devoted clergy.

It all makes me wonder. What ghosts will we pass on to our own children?

© 2004 Robin Munson