My grandmother used to have this list she kept in a drawer. It was an old newspaper clipping of gifts for wedding anniversaries, year one through seventy-five and the corresponding materials with which the gifts were to be made. She was an extreme traditionalist and held my grandfather to it.
When I was about seven years old, my grandparents celebrated their 50th (Golden) wedding anniversary. It was such a big deal, like another wedding. There was a big cake, a professional photographer, napkins printed with their names and the dates in gold, and people who came in from all over to be at this celebration.
I had no use for this list when I got married. It took too damn long to get anything good. Sixty years down the hatch for some diamonds? Who made this list, a dude?
Actually, I’m just not a traditionalist. I don’t like doing things like everyone else. My brothers used to tease me all time, “You just want to be different!” as if that were a bad thing.
Also, I don’t have much use for gold or diamonds.
Blane and I were teens when we got married. Most people didn’t think it would last. Less than a year into it, I’d run across people in town who would ask, “You still married?” My own mother didn’t believe. Not before the wedding, or after it, she just kept saying, “I don’t see how this could work.”
That was when I knew she had no clue as to who her daughter was.
I didn’t just jump into marriage because we had a child on the way. I could’ve done like the other girls in town and gotten married the minute I found out. We didn’t. We thought and thought and thought about it. Even waited until six weeks after the baby was born to tie the knot. We had to be sure.
Once I made my decision, my promise, I didn’t question whether it would last. I knew it would.
And it did. Today, you see, is silver.
Blane and I aren’t perfect matches. We’re opposites, actually. I’ll give you a peek into the lives of Blane and Kitty.
On Saturday Blane was gone all day helping our son do something at his house. Man stuff. I was here marinating a turkey breast, stinking my fingers up with garlic. I assembled a rotisserie for the grill outside (it came with no directions, either), put that lump over the grill. For hours I babysat that thing because the skewer kept falling out of the motor. By the time Blane finally got home, the entire thing was done.
As he ate, this is what he said: Mmmm, this is good. What brand is this?
In my imagination I leap across the table, hook my claws into his neck and put him on that grill.
In the real world, I just laugh and enjoy the turkey.
Marriage is hard work.