Wednesday, September 30, 2020

At the End of the Day... by Liz Flaherty #RomanceGems

I wrote this a long time ago and have used it several times. My apologies if you're seeing it again, but my parents' wedding anniversary would have been this week and they've been on my mind. 

 


In 2013. I had a book out called A Soft Place to Fall, about a marriage gone wrong and how two people found ways to make it right. I still have a soft spot for that book and for long marriages. I regret that I sometimes get a little too glib when I talk about it--I make it all sound easy when it's not at all. At the end of the day, thoug
h, marriage is private and what goes on within it is not to be shared. No one really understands anyone else's. Looking back on this, my feelings toward my parents' marriage haven't changed, but I have come to realize that--at the end of that day I just mentioned--it wasn't really any of my business.



“A great marriage is not when the 'perfect couple' comes together. It is when an imperfect couple learns to enjoy their differences.” ― Dave Meurer

On September 28, 1935, my parents went to a minister’s house and got married. My dad wore a double-breasted suit and my mom had on a hat. They stayed married through the rest of the Great Depression and three wars, through the births of six children and the death of one at the age of three, through failing health and the loss of all their parents and some of my father’s siblings. Dad died in 1981, Mom in 1982. They were still married.

From the viewpoint of their youngest child, who was born in their early 40s when they thought they were finished with all that, it was the marriage from hell. I never saw them as a loving couple, never saw them laugh together or show affection or even hold hands. They didn’t buy each other gifts, sit on the couch together, or bring each other cups of coffee. The only thing I was sure they shared was that—unlike my husband and me—they didn’t cancel out each other’s vote on Election Day.

“Why on earth,” I asked my sister once, “did they stay together all those years? Mom could have gone home to her family, even if she did have to take a whole litter of kids. Heaven knows Dad could have.” (He was the adored youngest son and brother—he could do no wrong.)

Nancy gave me the look all youngest siblings know, the one that says, “Are you stupid?” When you’re grown up, it replaces the look that says, “You’re a nasty little brat.” But I regress.

“Don’t you get it?” my sister asked. Her blue eyes softened. So did her voice. “They loved each other. Always. They just didn’t do it the way you wanted them to.”

Oh.

I remembered then. When they stopped for ice cream because Mom loved ice cream. How they sat at the kitchen table across from each other drinking coffee. How thin my dad got during Mom’s long illness because “I can’t eat if she can’t.” When they watched Lawrence Welk reruns together and loud because—although neither would admit it—their hearing was seriously compromised.

And the letters. The account of their courtship. We found them after Mom’s death, kept in neat stacks. They wrote each other, in those days of multiple daily mail deliveries, at least once a day and sometimes twice. When I read those letters, I cried because I’d never known the people who wrote them.

I have to admit, my parents’ lives had nothing to do with why I chose to write romantic fiction. I got my staunch belief in Happily Ever After from my own marriage, not theirs. But how you feel about things and what you know—those change over the years.

As much as I hated my parents’ marriage—and I truly did hate it—I admire how they stuck with it. I’ve never appreciated the love they had for each other, but I’ve come to understand that it never ended. I still feel sorry sometimes for the little girl I was, whose childhood was so far from storybook that she wrote her own, but I’m so grateful to have become the adult I am. The one who still writes her own stories.

But—and this is the good part—these are the things I know.

Saying “I love you” doesn’t always require words. Sometimes it’s being unable to eat because someone else isn’t. Sometimes it’s stopping for ice cream. Sometimes—and I realized this the other day when my husband and I were bellowing “Footloose” in the car—it’s hearing music the same way, regardless of how it sounds to anyone else.

Marriage is different for different people. So is love. So is Happily Ever After.

Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad.

If you don't have it yet, run by Amazon and order Last Chance Beach: Summer's End. It may be the best 99 cents you'll spend this week! 



14 comments:

  1. I, too, am the much younger youngest child, My parents were middle-aged when i was born. And yes, they are very different people at that time of life. I felt all you posted here. Especially being given the “look” by older siblings. My memories are very different of family life than theirs. And I understand why you write! I guess we have have much in common...

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    1. Oh, yes, I think we do. Including, sadly enough, some of our losses. Thanks, Bonnie.

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  2. This is lovely and yes, none of us can see into another couple's marriage, nor should we try to. As we age we learn that love manifests in all kinds of ways, doesn't it? Thanks, Liz!

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    1. Digging into those ways can make the writing trip interesting, too!

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  3. What a touching post! And so many truths. Thank you for sharing.

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  4. This is absolutely beautiful!! Thank you for sharing it!

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    1. Thanks, Kari. It helps in the layers of writing to realize some of the actuality of what we're writing about.

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  5. This was beautiful. Lovely. Thank you for sharing.

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  6. Great story, Liz. It's true we don't always understand our parents. This is a lovely piece, and now I'm thinking of On Golden Pond where the crotchety old father could never say I love you.

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    1. I thought a lot about my dad when I watched that movie. I remember my brother saying he lived just like he wanted to, and that was the truth of it. Still leaves me feeling angsty! :-)

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  7. Another youngest here, with a big space in between. What I get is protection - they don't want to tell me anything serious or possibly upsetting. But it is like I grew up in an entirely different family. Your post is very touching and thought provoking, and I'm glad your experiences led you to writing.

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    1. Thank you, Hannah. It was definitely a “different family,” wasn’t it?

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