41 years

For whatever it’s worth, TODAY IS THE DAY (Tuesday, December 30, 2008); our 41st wedding anniversary.

Why not $500; why not $10,000? (Epson 10000 XL.)

Pictured above is the $100 check from Linda’s mother.
For a while it was always $1 per year; then suddenly it was $100.
....Leading us to question how we suddenly managed to be married 100 years.
The other reaction is that of Linda; like how can Linda’s mother afford $100?
Her only income is Social Security, although she also inherited a large sum from her deceased sister, but “that’s Ethelyn’s money,” and it doesn’t get touched.
Actually what happened is that most of “Ethelyn’s money” got given away, much to the chagrin of Linda’s brother.
A portion also got invested in one of those religious charities that pay Linda’s mother interest.
So add that to her Social Security.
Still not much, and her rent is horrific, with no promise of continuing care.
So 41 years ago we piled into my humble Corvair to journey to Linda’s tiny town to get married.
Jack woulda been 10, or at least that’s what I get when I subtract 1957 from 1967.
But of course maybe there was a REPUBLICAN fudge-factor at work here, whereby the Bluster-Boy was actually 37.
Then too, maybe this entire marriage bit was just a dream.
Of course, a lot has happened in those 41 years, which led us to worry about Rachel.
Who knows what can happen — her Jimmi may get smacked.
In our case it was my stroke, a supposed non-event that made a different person out of me.
I suppose I might be less difficult to get along with, but I’m frustrated by all the after-effects of my stroke: dropsy, poor balance, mucked-up speech.
The frustration reaches fever-pitch sometimes, but Linda hasn’t walked out yet.
“My sister woulda walked out years ago,” I once observed.
“I’m not your sister.”

“Linda” is my wife of 41 years. (We got married 12/30/67.)

“Ethelyn” was Linda’s mother’s sister — Linda’s aunt. She died about five years ago at age 98.

“Jack” (“the Bluster-Boy”) is my loudmouthed macho brother-from-Boston, who noisily badmouths everything I do or say. He’s 13 years younger than me — born in 1957; me 1944. His only daughter is named “Rachel,” and she’s all grown up now, and married a guy named “Jimmi.”

My siblings are all tub-thumping conservative Limbaugh Republicans, and noisily insist I’m reprehensible because I’m not. (I’m the oldest.)

My brother noisily insisted he was 12 in a photo where he’s about three.

RE: “This entire marriage bit was just a dream.......... —My brother noisily insists my coming up to Rochester in late 1966 “was just a dream.”

I had a stroke October 26, 1993. My siblings all noisily insist it was of little consequence.

“Dropsy” is continually dropping things.