Guest blog by my husband, James, on our 45th anniversary.
I’ve known her for more than 56 years, but have been married to her for only 45. When I met her, she was 6 and I was 8. That first year, in the winter of 1955-56, we went bobsledding together, she sitting in front of me on a wooden sled crafted by my future brother-in-law, David, then a sophomore in high school. It was pulled by my future brother-in-law, Lorenzo, a senior.
We played house at Mary Ellen’s place, and we played marbles at mine, in a corner of the living room. On a hardwood floor, marbles tend to keep rolling. I don’t remember who won. It didn’t make much difference, because we didn’t play for keeps. All the marbles went back to the owner—me—when competition was over. We—I—didn’t believe in gambling.
I almost walked Mary Ellen home once. The ladies’ missionary meeting was at our house that month. Because her mother would be attending the meeting, Mary Ellen was supposed to walk home with me after school, but when she saw me surrounded by a bunch of girls, she turned, walked to her home, and her dad brought her to our house, instead. Mary Ellen must have been seeing things, because I don’t remember being surrounded by girls, on that day or any day.
She turned me down for what should have been our first date. I was a senior that year and Mary Ellen, a sophomore, had transferred to my high school shortly after Christmas break. In May, I asked her to go to the CYF banquet with me. (CYF stood for Christian Youth Fellowship, a student-led group that met at the school for about one hour a week, after classes let out on Friday.) Not knowing if she was permitted to date, I gave her an easy out, “I don’t know if it’s OK with your parents or not, but I was wondering if you’d go to the banquet with me,” I ventured. Flustered, she blurted, “Sorry, no, I can’t.” It was the first time I had ever asked anyone for a date.
Had she accepted, it would not have been her first date. She had met a guy at Bible camp a year or two earlier, who asked her to go to the end-of-camp banquet with him. Later, they corresponded by mail, dated some—she’s always been a little vague on that—and now, even though he lived some 40 miles away, this out-of-town carpetbagger had invited her to go with him to our banquet, and she had accepted.
Before that evening came, Mary Ellen told me the whole truth, not just that she couldn’t go to the banquet with me—I had concluded that her parents didn’t permit her to date yet—but that she had another date for the banquet. Later, after we started dating, she told me, with the benefit of 20/20 hindsight, that she would have much preferred going with me. Considering the seating arrangement for that evening, that was probably true, as I sat across the table from the lovely couple. My first date would come nine months later, after I finally got my courage up to ask her out again. She says she gave me all kinds of hints during those intervening months. Could have fooled me!
Mary Ellen and I were married on December 30, 1967, and God has blessed us with wonderful sons and daughters-in-law—Kevin and Debbi, and Kyle and Min Li—and five beautiful grandchildren—Jacob, Sarah, Libby and Sami (Kevin and Debbi), and Elsa (Kyle and Min Li).
Some men say of their wives that “She’s a keeper!” as though the spouse he chose was a qualifying species of fish that met the minimum requirements established by the Department of Natural Resources.
Me? I married a woman, a singer. I love gospel music, and when I married Mary Ellen, I also got an unending playlist of gospel music. Well, it’s not exactly a playlist, because she picks the songs—a few words here, a hum there, sometimes a whole verse—but I enjoy all of it. And whatever song she picks at a particular moment, that’s the song I want to hear. After all, it’s the song of Mary Ellen, and I wouldn’t miss it for the world.
Copyright © 2012
I’ve known her for more than 56 years, but have been married to her for only 45. When I met her, she was 6 and I was 8. That first year, in the winter of 1955-56, we went bobsledding together, she sitting in front of me on a wooden sled crafted by my future brother-in-law, David, then a sophomore in high school. It was pulled by my future brother-in-law, Lorenzo, a senior.
We ice skated together on a vacant corner lot flooded for
that purpose, but it wasn’t a date. In the center of the rink, in a warming
house toasty from the fire of a wood-burning stove, Mary Ellen buckled on to
the bottom of her rubber boots her little-girl, red-leather-strapped,
double-runnered skates while I laced up my black and reddish-brown Size 4
hockey skates, a Christmas gift from my parents. I had helped pick them out and
was pleased that the hard, rounded toes had been scuffed so little by the previous
owner. Mary Ellen’s skates with their double blades, set about an inch apart, were
brand new. Forty-nine years later, during the winter of 2004-05, our
granddaughter Elsa would attend kindergarten in a schoolroom situated directly
over what was once our skating rink.
I almost walked Mary Ellen home once. The ladies’ missionary meeting was at our house that month. Because her mother would be attending the meeting, Mary Ellen was supposed to walk home with me after school, but when she saw me surrounded by a bunch of girls, she turned, walked to her home, and her dad brought her to our house, instead. Mary Ellen must have been seeing things, because I don’t remember being surrounded by girls, on that day or any day.
She turned me down for what should have been our first date. I was a senior that year and Mary Ellen, a sophomore, had transferred to my high school shortly after Christmas break. In May, I asked her to go to the CYF banquet with me. (CYF stood for Christian Youth Fellowship, a student-led group that met at the school for about one hour a week, after classes let out on Friday.) Not knowing if she was permitted to date, I gave her an easy out, “I don’t know if it’s OK with your parents or not, but I was wondering if you’d go to the banquet with me,” I ventured. Flustered, she blurted, “Sorry, no, I can’t.” It was the first time I had ever asked anyone for a date.
Had she accepted, it would not have been her first date. She had met a guy at Bible camp a year or two earlier, who asked her to go to the end-of-camp banquet with him. Later, they corresponded by mail, dated some—she’s always been a little vague on that—and now, even though he lived some 40 miles away, this out-of-town carpetbagger had invited her to go with him to our banquet, and she had accepted.
Before that evening came, Mary Ellen told me the whole truth, not just that she couldn’t go to the banquet with me—I had concluded that her parents didn’t permit her to date yet—but that she had another date for the banquet. Later, after we started dating, she told me, with the benefit of 20/20 hindsight, that she would have much preferred going with me. Considering the seating arrangement for that evening, that was probably true, as I sat across the table from the lovely couple. My first date would come nine months later, after I finally got my courage up to ask her out again. She says she gave me all kinds of hints during those intervening months. Could have fooled me!
Mary Ellen and I were married on December 30, 1967, and God has blessed us with wonderful sons and daughters-in-law—Kevin and Debbi, and Kyle and Min Li—and five beautiful grandchildren—Jacob, Sarah, Libby and Sami (Kevin and Debbi), and Elsa (Kyle and Min Li).Some men say of their wives that “She’s a keeper!” as though the spouse he chose was a qualifying species of fish that met the minimum requirements established by the Department of Natural Resources.
Me? I married a woman, a singer. I love gospel music, and when I married Mary Ellen, I also got an unending playlist of gospel music. Well, it’s not exactly a playlist, because she picks the songs—a few words here, a hum there, sometimes a whole verse—but I enjoy all of it. And whatever song she picks at a particular moment, that’s the song I want to hear. After all, it’s the song of Mary Ellen, and I wouldn’t miss it for the world.
Copyright © 2012
