A Legacy of Love

 

Fifty-nine years ago today my parents married in Salem Lutheran Church, north Minneapolis. It was a Friday evening, chosen as an auspicious day for some Swedish reason.  Shortly after, they drove to Banff and honeymooned all along the way.  The story goes that every time they stopped at a drug store so my father could purchase condoms, he got embarrassed and bought nail clippers instead. That was as close as my mother ever came to talking about sex with me. Even so, I didn’t come along for three more years.

I’m thankful they had such a great love. They kissed every night after work, Mom sat in Dad’s lap regularly, and I fell asleep to the sound of them talking quietly at the kitchen table.  Though I could never make out their precise words, I was comforted by the give and take rhythm of endless conversation.  I think they preferred each other’s company to anyone else, though our family times were filled with games and adult bridge players were a regular presence in our living room.

 My own marriage is less than four years old, and perhaps I waited until I was 52 because Ann and Roger set such a high bar.  I didn’t want to settle for less than sweet compatibility, mutual adoration, and I just wish they were still around to be part of the conversation.