Dear George,
Last Thursday was our fifty-ninth wedding anniversary. Lots of it is still fresh in my mind. We were married in the tiny Quaker chapel on the Antioch campus in Yellow Springs, My family drove down from Menominee; Katja’s came from Philadelphia. The minister’s name, oddly enough, was Howard Johnson. Antioch students typically composed their own wedding ceremonies in those days, and I stayed up till 4 a.m. the night before, struggling to find some inspiring wording that would last for eternity. Since the wedding was on the hottest day of the summer, I went to the local drugstore to get pills to control my sweating. The pharmacist explained that there wasn’t such a thing as anti-sweat pills. Katja’s parents were convinced that I was the wrong choice for their firstborn daughter, and they were less than enthusiastic about the wedding. I think her father must have said something because my father took us aside the night before and told us in no uncertain terms that members of our family never get divorced. His speech was very convincing and is probably a major reason that we celebrated anniversary number fifty-nine.
Everything about our marriage was a bit of a miracle. I first saw Katja from a distance at the freshman mixer on our first day of college orientation. I’d just turned eighteen; she was still seventeen. She was standing across the Birch Hall dormitory lawn in a white dress, talking and laughing with several fellow classmates. She was beautiful and beaming with joy. I was smitten on the spot and said to myself that this was the girl I would marry someday. Of course, I was much too shy to do anything about it. I’d see her around campus now and then but never had the courage to say hello. In the winter quarter she had a role as a nanny in a Jean Anouilh stage play, and I felt she was a superstar. One night I passed through the common room of the freshman women’s dormitory, and Katja was alone, playing a melancholy song on the piano. I just kept on walking through.
In our second year I did my first coop job in Madison, Wisconsin. Two of my freshmen hallmates had their first job assignments in Milwaukee, and I went by Greyhound to spend the weekend with them. Much to my astonishment, Katja was also working in Milwaukee and hanging out with my friends. We were actually introduced. On my next visit I invited her to Madison, and she stayed in a UW dorm with one of my high school friends. We had our first date, and I told her about wanting to marry her from the moment I first saw her. She got very angry and said that was the worst line she had ever heard. But we did share a good night kiss, and at the quarter break she came home with me to the Upper Peninsula to visit my family.
Life as young marrieds was not easy. After a one-night honeymoon in downtown Dayton, we packed our belongings and left for graduate school. Graduate studies were a grind, and couples we knew were splitting up left and right. Our combined annual income was $4,500. After six years I took a faculty job at the University of Cincinnati, and that involved even greater pressure. As students we had been peers and status equals (however lowly), but now I was a professor and Katja was stuck with being a faculty wife. A depressing, troublesome arrangement. Early in our Cincinnati years Katja organized a women’s liberation consciousness-raising group. As far I could tell, the group’s main topics were the horrors of marriage and the failings of traditionalist husbands. Except for Katja, every member of her group divorced within the next two years. I’m still not sure why we survived. Probably luck of the draw.
In 1969 Katja gave birth to a baby boy. I was shocked to learn she was pregnant because she had been taking the pill, but she said she’d discontinued it when I asked if we should get maternity insurance. Parenthood turned out to be the best thing we’ve ever done. We were entranced with our infant son from the beginning, and being parents together — a constantly challenging and rewarding task — gave our marriage a new meaning and significance.
Now we find ourselves in the midst of growing older together. We each have our respective bugaboos, and we look out for one another. Every couple of months we get to be grandparents with our New Orleans family. Participating in the younger generation’s growing up gives us a new extension into the future. A few days ago I asked Katja what stage she thought we were in. She said with a frown, “The end-stage.” I laughed but I didn’t agree. I’m looking ahead to our sixty-fifth anniversary. It will be a memorable occasion.
Love,
Dave
This is lovely.
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