Anniversary

Bummer Alert:  I know this post’s a downer.  I’m sorry.  I’m just feeling blue today.  It’s January twentieth.  My old wedding anniversary.  I wrestle with this date every year- even when I was happily remarried to other people.  I don’t know why.  Maybe because I joyfully celebrated it for twenty years and I never lost the habit.  Maybe it’s because I don’t know what to do with a date that used to mean so much to me and now has been tossed- along with the marriage- on the scrap heap by some faceless judge.

But no matter what the reason I have always wanted to know what becomes of an anniversary when a marriage of long-standing is over.  Divorced people are supposed to jettison it.  But can widows and widowers “keep” it?  I realize they’re not married any more but does the original meaning of the date itself die along with the spouse?

Does the anniversary of the day you got married suddenly cease to exist if you get divorced?  Are we supposed to pretend that it never happened at all?  If you’re remarried or despised your spouse at the end, does that make the date null and void?  And if you take note of the date, does this put you squarely in the “loser’s corner?”  Does it mean you haven’t “moved on?”  (A loathsome expression to me, for some reason.)  Can you rewrite (marital) history according to your feelings?

It’s undoubtedly a faux pas to even mention it but still I wanted to ask.  So here’s the story:

Thirty-seven years ago today, Bill and I got married.  Earlier that morning, I had attended a session of Illinois divorce court where I successfully off-loaded a very bad guy.  (I was the only woman in court who did not, in the new spirit of Women’s Lib, take back her maiden name in a separate motion. I knew what was coming up in the afternoon, so why bother?)

After court, I went back to our apartment where Bill soon joined me.  We toasted each other with splits of champagne (him) and those cute, holiday-only, mini-bottles of Coke (me).  Then we flew to Las Vegas and got married.  In case you blinked, it bears repeating.  I got divorced and married on the same day.  How many people can say that?  They don’t even use that plot device in Mexican soap operas.  Too implausible.

We had a great wedding.  Sam Brody, our cab driver, was a witness.  The minister was impressed with Bill (and not with me) and with a note of incredulity in his voice at what his eyes were beholding actually asked “Do you, Ellen, take this very good–looking guy to be your lawfully-wedded husband?” Bill charged the ceremony- fifty bucks- on Visa.

I cried with happiness and relief- that I was not married to that s.o.b. husband number two any more.  I tried to call all my relations back home to give them the big news of our elopement.  But it was six o’clock Chicago time and virtually everyone was out to dinner.  I reached no one.  It didn’t matter.

Bill gambled a little and lost.  When he casually announced that he had dropped a thousand dollars at the craps table (more money than I had ever seen in one blow in my life) I cried again and we went to Hoover Dam.

We flew home, moved to Barrington Hills, and two years later had Natasha.  I wanted to be back amongst my own North Shore kind and my old school system so we moved to Winnetka, had Nick, and Bill’s two middle daughters took turns moving in with us.  I found two heaven-sent guardian angels, Mary, and then later, Klara, to help with it all.  I worked on charity boards for Michael Reese Hospital, the Chicago Historical Society and Steppenwolf Theater.  We redid my dream house.  I got a job at Pioneer Press doing the same kind of thing you are reading here now.

These were golden years.  The best years of my life.  And I knew it at the time.  Whenever I would walk into my foyer and see the roses- the same gorgeous roses that had been grown in my very own rose garden- I would inhale their fragrance and give deep thanks.  For twenty years I felt lucky.  And I felt love and gratitude to the man who had made it all possible.  My children, my house, the security that kept a beautiful and comfortable roof over all our heads.

Bill’s financial acumen and hard work had given me the peace of mind that money can buy.  And he bought the best education for our kids, and all the trimmings.  Ski houses and summer camps, French lessons, swim coaches, great trips and books galore. And I loved him.  And not just because he gave great ATM.

For twenty years I loved him because he had rescued me from an awful situation.  I loved him because he was handsome and tall and smiled all the time.  I loved him because he cut a dashing figure.  In his prime no one ever wore a suit better.  (Take that, George Clooney!)

For twenty years I loved him because I admired his business savvy and know-how with a buck.  He was self-made and he had done it the hard way-  one long work day at a time.

For twenty years he was demanding, and um, shall we say “challenging,” but I thought he was worth it.  And I wasn’t exactly a day at the beach either.  I was a handful, trust me.  I used to joke that by marrying each other, we had saved two nice people from terrible fates.

For twenty years I loved him because I thought he loved me- despite all evidence to the contrary.  I wanted and needed to believe it.

That’s how it was- for me, at least.  And today, thirty-seven years later, I look back and have to remember it all.  The good memories along with the bad.  It’s history and it’s the truth. Maybe not the whole truth. Maybe not his truth.  But nothing but my truth.

That’s my story.  And for all of you who also have painful anniversaries to remember throughout the year- whatever they commemorate- my heart goes out to you.

So happy anniversary, Bill.  No matter what.

And for today at least… still thinking of you.