Half a Century
When we were young we wanted always to be together. Me, I think, more than him. In the sense that I wanted him always to be in my view, close, so I could reach out my hand and touch him whenever I wanted to. Is it always the female whose attachment is so fierce? I wonder. It was I, on first sight, who felt I had always known him, that those years were just a waiting time until he came along. In the context of the fact that we were both fourteen years old when we first met that's nothing short of absurd. But I felt that way then, I feel that way now. I can only speak for myself.When we were married we were eighteen. Now, from the great and venerable height of sixty-eight, that too seems absurd. Too absurdly young for anyone to commit to a life of together foreverafter. Do eighteen-year-olds know what they want? Well, we wanted to be married, but we certainly did not want a wedding. We viewed the social aspect portion of the tradition as not really relating to what we wanted, what we felt we needed. Both were true; we neither needed nor wanted a formal social event to which countless people would be invited. We agreed simply because it was the only way to achieve what we wanted. Our parents would have their wedding; we would have our marriage.
I wore a borrowed wedding gown. I felt awkward, uncomfortable and decidedly unlovely. The ceremony in the synagogue was fine. It was tradition after all, and we respected tradition although neither he nor I was religious. It was a custom to be respected; standing under the chupah together, the rabbi intoning his words, and my husband, my husband, my lion of Judea, stamping on the goblet, shattering it. Everything that followed was agony, an exercise in celebratory excess which only patience would bring to an end.
We bought our first house, a little semi-detached bungalow of undistinguished design and pale grey brick, in Richmond Hill, for $12,900. By then we had been married for two years, had lived in a flat consisting of bedroom, small kitchen and shared bathroom. This house was ours, ours alone. We commuted to work daily. We learned to do things together. I wanted to learn how to cook and bake anything and everything. My first attemps were so pathetic that my poor husband went out and bought my first cookbook, The American Jewish Cookbook, which I still own. Ragged and burnt, it doesn't look like much, next to the many and varied other cookbooks I own, but that one has never, ever let me down.
Two years later, our first child was born, and although fearful that we would be able to manage financially, I became a stay-at-home-mother/housewife. Two more children followed at year-and-a-half intervals. Their father was as attentive to them and as capable of looking after their needs when he was home after work, as I was throughout the day. Playtime was happy and joyful, and we considered ourselves to be unbelievably fortunate.
There were so many times when we ran short of money for the most basic of things. We had milk deliveries; a tiny cubicle at the side of our house where the milkman left milk, sour cream, eggs. Occasionally I ended up 'owing' on the daily deliveries and ended up saving the occasion 25-cent coin the children might receive as gifts from grandparents to pay the milkman. We struggled but we managed. Our greatest splurge was probably gas for the Volkswagon we drove, but every week-end we would drive to a park, to regional conservation areas, for picnics, walks in the woods, swimming expeditions with the children.
Our older boy became a Cub Scout. Our middle child, a girl, became a Brownie. I was involved in both groups, and also volunteered at the children's Elementary school, reading stories to groups of children. Our younger boy, in his turn, attended one meeting of the Cub Scouts and told me without equivocation that that was also his last meeting, and we didn't press him. We moved soon after I became the Brown Owl of our daughter's group, to a two-story house in northern Toronto, and lived there for two happy years before my husband's job took him to Ottawa. Where we bought another two-story, four bedroom house in the greenbelt, surrounding the city.
Shopping at community second-hand shops we all acquired bicycles and my husband taught me how to ride a bicycle, as I'd never had one as a child. We all soon had skis and ski boots through the same source, as well. Same for ice skates, and we skated on the Rideau Canal, loving the atmosphere, the views. We soon discovered the fun of snowshoes and learned to accept the sound of cracking ice, snowshoeing across frozen lakes in the Gatineau Hills. We acquired a 17-ft canoe and all of us learned to paddle, not without some pretty frightening experiences in the process. We hiked in Gatineau, picked wild strawberries, blueberries, raspberries, blackberries, even rose hips and made jam out of all these fruits; those, that is, that weren't eaten fresh.
That was a long time ago. Our children are grown, flown the nest. It was so dreadfully difficult for the first ten years accepting that they had moved on to form their own lives. I missed them dreadfully, we both did. But in 1986 I accompanied my husband to Tokyo and we lived there for a truly magical year. That was an experience never to be forgotten, always brought to mind with glimpses into the past of finding surprises, exotic locales, surprising adventures wherever we went in that fabulous country. We lived elsewhere as well, but nowhere else that we loved as we did Japan, its people, its culture, society and tradition.
Well, haven't I gone on? When we returned eventually to Canada, we joined our younger son in British Columbia where he was by then living. We climbed mountains, hiked in old-growth forests with him, canoed a nine-day adventure in the Cariboo Mountains, on the Bowron Lakes circuit. What adventures, what enormous enjoyment, what a monumental store of memories. Those, on top of the many camping/canoeing trips we had taken with him in Algonquin Park, and in the Great Smokey Mountains. When our children were still young teens, we used to go yearly to New Hampshire for climbing vacations in the White Mountains; a moderate climb one day, an ambitious summit the next; we had energy to burn and a curiosity that would not be sated.
There's fifty years in there. Fifty years. Isn't that a half century?
We're in fine fettle, all the same. I've never ceased to be amazed at the depth and breadth of my husband's interests. His literary tastes, his interest in history, geography, the arts, science. And his ability to construct things. Everything from furniture to mechanical contrivances. This man does quite acceptable oil paintings, landscapes mostly, many reflecting places where we've been. We've got enormous stained glass windows all over our house. He has laid exotic wood floors in this house, ceramic floors and walls and reconstructed kitchen counters. The same done in bathrooms, using marble tiles. Three years ago he excavated a quarter of the lawn in front of our house, laid down gravel, sand, more gravel, pounded the hell out of it, then proceeded to construct stone retaining walls for our front gardens, and finally laid patterned brick for a set of two courtyards. The tools he used to cut the 'stone' and brick were fairly basic; a stonecutter's chisel and hammer. The result is stunningly beautiful, practical and laid the groundwork for our wonderful gardens. He never stops.
For company we have two little dogs; a female miniature poodle, a male toy poodle. She's smart as only a female can be, my husband says, and the little male is as dumb as you would expect a male to be. Well, we could certainly argue that thesis. But they are sweet little companions and we do have a lot of laughs with them, as well as adventures of one kind or another.
Life is good. Fifty years!
posted by Pieface @ Tuesday, June 14, 2005
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