(Here I am deleting some ranting about the husband I legally married and divorced…)
When Grandma was alive, there was one version of history – Grandma’s. It was an accurate history, but somewhat selective. I’d play with antique games and puzzles on the floor of the porch, sunlight streaming in through the fan-shaped windows, and listen to a running genealogical history of people I knew and didn’t know, but to whom I was somehow related to in clearly defined strands of matriarchal DNA. I loved listening to her rambling patter. Grandpa was a pleasant presence in his red Naugahyde wingback chair, sometimes assisting with puzzles or reading, but certainly not talking. Grandma did enough of that for both of them.
It seemed like a good marriage to me. She fed him good things and made him fat, and he was a good provider even through the Great Depression. They were married in 1930 and stayed married until her death in 1985. Second time’s the charm, right Grandma? I don’t think I want to know if their marriage was less than perfect, but maybe if I understood more of their lives, I would understand more of what I should do with mine? We don’t really learn anything from the honeymoon. We learn from the marriage.
I didn’t get a honeymoon with Mike. We just eloped like Grandma and Grandpa. I got flowers and felt loved, but we lost touch after a while, which I admit was my fault. I couldn’t bear saying goodbye when our lives took different directions. I hope if he’s married, he found a woman who deserves him.