Little did I realize as a young naive bride so many years ago that the threads of our beginnings would weave together the sumptuous tapestry of a beautiful marriage.
The way my husband looks for me when we’re separated at a gathering, the feel of his hands on my shoulders as he massages away the aches, the sight of his wedding ring on his finger, my morning cup of coffee made just the way I like it are all simple yet priceless things.
Against all logic, the magic has deepened. There’s adoration in his eyes, intimacy in his voice and a knowledge in his touch that fills me with the desire to reciprocate. Loss, grief, times of growth and change, disagreements and uncertainties have reinforced our marriage with strong resiliency. I can think of no greater gift to our children.
With busy schedules, a night out together is rare and cherished now more than when we were dating. Holding hands in the dark at a Tuesday night movie and sharing a purse full of smuggled-in chocolate bars and chips fills me with a fluttery delight.
This is the source from which real romance springs. I don’t subscribe to the stuff of soap operas or steamy novels. I don’t accept there’s such a thing as “falling out of love.” I believe in the beauty of sacrifice, the wonder of loyalty and the joy of trust. I believe in promises. I believe in forever. These are the stars my husband and I see in each other’s eyes. Roses not required.
Rachel Wallace-Oberle
A Change of Heart
The heart that loves is always young.
Greek Proverb
Grandma got Grandpa out of bed and helped him to the kitchen for breakfast. After his meal, she led him to his armchair in the living room where he would rest while she cleaned the dishes. Every so often, she would check to see if he needed anything.
This was their daily routine after Grandpa’s latest stroke.
Although once a very active man, his severely damaged left arm, difficulty walking and slurred speech now kept him housebound. For nearly a year he hadn’t even been to church or to visit family.
Grandpa filled his hours with television. He watched the news and game shows while Grandma went about her day. They made a pact—he was not to leave his chair or his bed without her assistance.
“If you fell and I threw my back out trying to help you, who would take care of us?” Grandma would ask him. She was adamant about their taking care of themselves and living independently. The Brooklyn brownstone had been their first home and held wonderful memories. They weren’t ready to leave it behind anytime soon.
Immigrants from Ireland, they met and married in America. Grandma was friendly, outgoing and unselfish; Grandpa was reserved, a man devoted to his family. But he wasn’t big on giving gifts. While he wouldn’t think twice about giving my grandma the shirt off his back, he subscribed to the belief that if you treated your wife well throughout the year, presents weren’t necessary; so he rarely purchased gifts for her.
This had been a sore point in the early days of their marriage. But as years passed, Grandma realized what a good man he was. And, after all, anything she wanted she was free to buy herself.
It was a cold, gray February morning, a typical winter day in New York. As always, Grandma walked Grandpa to his chair.
“I’m going to take a shower now.” She handed him the television remote. “If you need anything, I’ll be back in a little while.”
After her shower, she glanced towards the back of Grandpa’s recliner but noticed that his cane was not leaning in its usual spot. Sensing something odd, she walked toward the recliner. He was gone. The closet door stood open and his hat and overcoat were missing. Fear ran down her spine.
Grandma threw a coat over her bathrobe and ran outside. He couldn’t have gotten far; he could barely walk on his own.
Desperately, she scanned the block in both directions. Small mounds of snow and ice coated the sidewalks. Walking safely would be difficult for people who were steady on their feet, much less someone in Grandpa’s condition.
Where could he be? Why would he leave the house all by himself?
Wringing her hands, she hardly felt the frigid air as she watched traffic rush by. She recalled overhearing him tell one of their grandchildren recently that he felt he was a “burden.” Until this last year, he had been strong and healthy; now he couldn’t even perform the simplest of tasks.
As she stood alone on the street corner, guilt flooded her.
Just then, Grandpa walked around the bend of the corner. Head bowed, eyes focused on the sidewalk, he took small, cautious steps. His overcoat barely draped the shoulder of his bad arm; his cane and a package filled his good arm.
Desperate to reach him, Grandma raced down the block. Relieved to see that he was okay, she started to scold.
“I only left you alone for a short while. What did you need so badly that couldn’t wait? I was so worried about you! What on earth was so important?”
Confused and curious, she reached into the brown bag. Before Grandpa had a chance to explain, she pulled out a heart-shaped box.
“It’s Valentine’s Day,” Grandpa explained. “I thought you might like a box of chocolates.”
A gift? All this worry for . . . candy?
“I haven’t bought you a gift in a long, long time.” His stroke-impaired words warmed the winter wind.
Tears flooded Grandma’s eyes as she hugged his arm to her chest and led Grandpa back home. She shook her head slowly.
It just goes to show, she thought, it’s never too late for romance.
Denise Jacoby
Dancing in the Aisles
Love is the true means by which the world is enjoyed.
Thomas Traherne
Money was a precious commodity and time together even more scarce in the early years of our nearly two-decade marriage.
My husband, Michael, and I juggled opposite work schedules and shared household duties, savoring one another’s company in the still hours of the night when the world became our private playground.
While most people were settling in for the night, we were eagerly venturing from our modest three-room apartment to gather treasured memories of hilarious tennis matches in the dark, long and contemplative walks under the glow of streetlights, lazy swims under twinkling stars, or friendly rounds of miniature golf at a nearby twenty-four hour course. Our wonderful, spontaneous excursions took the sting out of the endless hours we spent apart.
Although we discovered many creative and inexpensive ways to enjoy our limited time together, there was one place we returned to again and again. By far, our most cherished date was dancing in the aisles of the supermarket. On many evenings, long after midnight and in the calm of an all-night grocery store, we would sway gracefully to the melodies flowing from the overhead Muzak that filled the empty aisles.
Oblivious to other nocturnal shoppers and store personnel, we sashayed down one lane and up another in a tender and playful embrace, filling our shopping cart with necessities and our hearts with romance.
In those innocent days of twirling among cabbages and oranges, boxes of Jell-O and cartons of milk, we unwittingly defined our relationship and set the tone for our future together.
Amid pot roasts and canned vegetables, we learned to mingle the mundane with the eternal, accepting our challenges and successes while staying focused on each other and the love that brought us together in the first place. Surrounded by bags of chips and sponge mops, we became best friends, ready to respond to life’s triumphs and tragedies.
Adversity inevitably finds its way to every home, and ours was no exception. In our modest eighteen years of marriage, we suffered the discouragement of infertility, the worry of illness and the loneliness of rejection. We endured the fearful frustration of unemployment, the weariness of unexpected debt, the agony of miscarriage and stillbirths.
While every couple must find its own way to face the difficult times and still protect the romance, for us the answer is a simple one: We’ve never stopped dancing in the aisles. Almost every time we go
to the store, in good times or bad, in sickness or health, in depression or joy, madly in love or feeling wounded by the other, we dance together.
We have learned to feel safe with one another. To trust and go with the flow—of dance and of life. To make everything an adventure. To find joy whatever the circumstances.
We have learned to count our blessings and prepare for our future. To marvel at the miracle of birth and the joy of parenting. To understand the power of prayer and righteous living. To share hopes and dreams.
We appreciate these major life experiences because we never forget how to have fun and laugh a little along the way. Midnight waltzes have given way to sometimes chaotic Saturday family shopping trips; his hair is now more gray than chestnut-colored, and my girlish figure is well padded. Money remains a precious commodity, and time together is scarcer than ever.
Hand-in-hand we continue to dance the dance of daily life with the same beauty and enthusiasm as those days of sweet innocence. Maybe even more so. You see, we have come to understand the wisdom that longtime dance partners already know.
The longer you dance together, the better it is.
Amanda Krug
The Porsche Factor
I held my ring under the light and watched it sparkle. Newly-married life was as bright as my new diamond . . . except for one nagging shadow of doubt. The Porsche factor, I called it secretly. Yes, my new husband actually owned one of those sleek, red cars that belonged in a James Bond movie.
The Porsche was a constant reminder of the different worlds we came from. His family belonged to a country club, donated generously to charities and took exotic vacations. My family struggled to make ends meet. We shopped at thrift stores, cut coupons and took public transportation.
Rich people seem to care so much about stuff, I thought. After the honeymoon was really over, would my husband love me more than his stuff? If only there was some way to be sure.
On his first morning back to work, he handed me his keys. “I’ll take the bus,” he said. “You drive the car.”
I fingered the worn leather key ring. “Are you sure?” I asked. I’d never driven the Porsche, although he’d been offering it ever since my ancient car died a month before the wedding.
“Sure,” he said, “but . . . be careful.”
I felt a twinge of irritation even though I knew he couldn’t keep himself from adding the warning. I said a prayer as I started the engine. After all, this was no ordinary car.
My father-in-law had driven it home for the first time almost fifteen years ago. Under his care, the car gleamed like a jewel and purred like a well-fed tiger. The boy who grew up to be my husband spent hours beside his dad, handing over a needed tool, studying the correct way to wax and learning the well-crafted intricacies of a Porsche engine. Sometimes he’d even sneak out to the garage in the middle of the night and climb carefully into the driver’s seat. Without actually touching anything, he’d pretend he was driving fast along the curves of an empty road.
One day, his dad took him aside. “Son, if you save the money by the time you turn sixteen, your mother and I will sell you this car.”
The amount he named was far less than what the Porsche was worth, but it was a big amount for a boy to earn and save. My husband found a job cleaning the garage in an apartment complex, emptying garbage cans, sweeping and mopping. He worked after school and on weekends and saved every penny he earned. On his sixteenth birthday, he proudly handed his dad a check and took the Porsche out for a drive.
There was a mystical male bond between my husband, his dad and that car. Even now, when we drove the shiny Porsche into the driveway of my in-laws’ house, his dad came out to check on it.
“Good job, son. The car looks great.”
With all that history in mind, I drove slowly at first, like I was handling a piece of heirloom china. I pulled to a stop at the first hint of a yellow light and clung to the right lane on the freeway. As the car picked up speed, my confidence grew. I rolled down the window, turned up the radio and nosed into the fast lane.
After doing some shopping, I couldn’t wait to drive home. I walked eagerly to where I’d parked the car in the crowded lot—and stopped. The Porsche had moved a good three feet forward in the parking space.
Somebody must have hit it from behind.
I stood for a moment, trying to gather my courage to inspect the damage. The back end wasn’t bad; the bumper seemed to have absorbed most of the shock. But when I saw the crumpled fender and the dent on the hood, my heart sank. A sign that read “ten-minute parking only” leaned over it like a warrior gloating over a fallen enemy.
Oh no! I thought. I’d left the gearshift in “neutral” instead of “park,” and the car had lurched forward when it had been hit.
I drove home slowly, fighting my tears. For the first time since our wedding, I didn’t want to see my husband. He found me hiding under the covers.
“What’s wrong, honey? Are you sick?”
“The car,” I said, my voice muffled. “Something bad happened. I left it in neutral and somebody crashed into it while it was parked and they didn’t leave a note.”
I waited while he went down to the parking garage to inspect the damage. When he returned, the sadness in his eyes made me hide my face in the pillow.
“It’s okay, honey,” he said. “Don’t worry about it.”
But we both knew that this was no ordinary car. To make things worse, we were scheduled to drive that very night to his parents’ house.
“Do you want me to tell them you’re not feeling well?” he asked.
“No,” I answered grimly. For better or worse I’d promised just a couple of weeks earlier. And this was definitely the worst day so far.
As we drove to my in-laws’ house, I felt a rush of hatred for the Porsche. Why was this material object such a treasure, anyway? It was a pile of metal welded together with some wiring inside, destined for rust and decay.
When we pulled into the driveway, I shrank in my seat. My in-laws were coming out of the front door, both of them beaming as usual.
My father-in-law began walking around the Porsche with an appraising glance. When he reached the front of the car, I caught my breath.
“Oh no!” he shouted. “What happened?”
Feeling like a criminal about to be sentenced, I waited for my husband’s answer.
“We had a little accident,” he said.
As the two of them began to discuss repairs, I wondered if I’d heard wrong. Had he really said, “we”? I was responsible for the first damage ever done to this family treasure. Surely he’d explain to his dad that there was no we about it at all. Before I could speak up, my mother-in-law pulled me into the house.
“I’m going to tell them the truth,” I told him, when the two of us had a moment alone later. “It’s not right for you to take the blame.”
“Who cares who did it?” he answered. “It’s just a car.”
I felt like shouting for joy, but I hugged him instead. I was still determined to tell his parents the truth, but that didn’t matter now. The secret shadow of my last doubt was gone. Without the Porsche factor, our life together sparkled even more brilliantly than the diamond on my finger.
Mitali Perkins
2
PROPOSALS
My most brilliant achievement was my ability to be able to persuade my wife to marry me.
Winston Churchill
“To tell you the truth, Maureen, on our first date I was hoping things would progress a little less quickly.”
Reprinted by permission of Cartoonstock, LTD. www.cartoonstock.com
Treasure Hunt
She whom I love is hard to catch and conquer, Hard, but O the glory of the winning were she won!
George Meredith
Andrea slammed the phone into its cradle and shrieked, “I can’t believe him!”
Her mom entered the room. “Jeff?”
“Yeah. He just did everything he could to pick a fight!” Sh
aking her head, she added, “I haven’t seen him in three days and it doesn’t even bother him. He says he’s busy at work and can’t break away. I don’t know how much longer I can take this.”
“Don’t get impatient,” Emma smiled slightly and patted her frustrated daughter’s shoulder. “The best things in life are worth waiting for. Trust me.”
“I don’t know, Ma. Maybe he’s the one that should be doing the waiting.” She stormed out of the room.
Emma’s smile widened.
Not an hour later, the doorbell rang. Andrea rushed to answer it. It just has to be Jeff, she thought. He’d never hang up angry.
Emma stood back, wiped her hands on a flowered apron and reclaimed her mischievous smile.
Andrea tipped the young messenger and rushed the package into the house. Under the watchful eye of her curious mother, she tore through the brown wrapping. It was the most beautiful dress she’d ever laid eyes on. As she lifted the white lace into the air, a piece of stationery floated to the floor. It read:
Baby Cakes,
Sometimes I say things I don’t mean. Sometimes I’m stubborn and defensive. Sometimes I want to go to you, but fear rejection. Andrea, I love you, and because I love you I’ll try harder to be understanding and have more patience. Forgive me. I saw this dress and thought how beautiful you’d look in it. Please wear it tonight and meet me at Capriccio’s at 6:00. Can’t wait to see you!
Love,
Jeff
As she wiped her eyes, Andrea caught her mother’s grin. “I’ll be there, “she smirked. “But this time he’s gonna wait!”
Her mother just laughed.
It was almost 6:30 when Andrea screeched into Capriccio’s lot. She intended to be a few minutes late, allowing extra time to get ready. She wanted his wait to be worth it when he saw her. The valet attendant took one look and swallowed hard. She noticed and smiled. The extra time had paid off.
Chicken Soup for the Bride's Soul Page 3
