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- Married for 58 years? That's a Yoke, Son!
- Posted 2006-04-18
- Let's begin with a touch of elder trivia: If the sneaky pun imbedded in "That's a yoke, son" rings a bell with you, you're either an old-time radio buff or you're closer to the boneyard than to the bassinet. (Most likely, you're both of the above.) If it is a non-ringer, indulge me while I enlighten those of my fellow geezers who are going nuts trying to place it. In the popular show named after him, the first door on which Fred Allen knocked during his weekly visit to "Allen's Alley" was usually answered by Senator Beauregard Claghorn, portrayed by announcer Kenny Dalmar ("Somebody, ah say, somebody knocked!") Claghorn was a windbag politician (but that's redundant, isn't it?) who was so resolutely Southern that he refused to wear a "Union Suit" and would drink Mint Juleps only from Dixie Cups. When one of his homespun witticisms laid an egg, he would indignantly intone, "that's a joke, son," which would send the audience, both in the studio and at home into spasms of laughter. (We were SO easy to entertain in those days!) Well, enough of that sort of nostalgia and on to the point of this piece, which is that 58 years of marriage has been, indeed, a kind of yoke. It joined the bodies, minds and fortunes of two people who trudged along a sometimes worrisome, sometimes wearisome, sometimes hilarious, sometimes hairy, sometimes loansome, occasionally loathsome, but always lovesome trail from exuberant youth to steadily advancing obsolescence. By now, regular readers have discerned that the subject two are self and Firstwife and the occasion is my annual dose of Anniversary Schmaltz. Depending on whether you're reading this before or after April 3, we either will be celebrating or will have survived more than 30 million minutes of certified connubiality (try making a love song out of THAT!) As the years race by, one of the few things that arise with greater frequency (shame on you for what you're thinking!) are questions about the "secret" of successful long-term marriages. After all this time, we now feel fully qualified to say that we haven't a clue. It is, perhaps, what didn't happen, rather than what did, that contributed to our lengthy alliance. Neither one of us kicked the bucket, which was, obviously, a favorable factor, and just as obviously no alternatives presented themselves that were more attractive to us at the time, even at those times when our lives were little more fun-filled than oral surgery. Firstwife, God love her, never stopped laughing at my jokes, tolerating my moods, applauding my successes, lifting my spirits, forgiving my imperfections and caring greatly about my general welfare. Some might call that a definition of love, and I wouldn't argue the point. How much of that good stuff she got from me in return is debatable, but we have always striven to avoid keeping score. None of our eight children have ever come between us, nor has money. The only things that are strictly "mine" or "hers," rather than ours, are such basic things as physical ailments, inner thoughts and underwear. We never stopped being best friends, which has become a special blessing since the nest emptied, old acquaintances began keaving the planet in disconcerting numbers and our backs started going out more frequently than we do. Not long after my father died, his widow often claimed that she and he "never had a cross word between them." She fibbed about other things, too, but that particular lie was symptomatic of a forgiveness/forgetfulness that must be as much a part of any enduring marriage as physical intimacy, compromise and compatible tastes in entertainment. Another essential, often undervalued, is respect for each other's "turf," so that both partners have space in which to enjoy privacy, individuality and a reasonable measure of self-indulgence. What, though, was the secret of our successful trek toward year #58? I rather suspect it was bits and pieces of what's written above, with occasional variations of and deviations from every element. It was also a lot of luck, since we couldn't have foreseen what lay ahead 58 years ago and didn't really know what the hell we were doing at the time. Our immediate objectives were mostly carnal and our visions of the future no more realisticthan those of any other lovesick post-adolescents. But we loved each other then, we still do, and we both thoroughly enjoy sharing a good yoke. Freelance Writer Joe Klock, Sr. (joeklock@aol.com) is a winter Floridian and summer New Hampshireman. For more of his "Klockwork," visit www.joeklock.com.
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