The Crotcheties

It’s Saturday morning and we’re sitting in bed waking up with a cup of coffee, drapes open looking into the expanse of field.

He: No, I’m not shoveling the mulch this morning, there are other things I want to do, this is your project. I think that what we really need to do is put a web camera right there on the window jam, record our bed conversation and make some money on the Internet.

She: I have an idea. We could move it down a little and instead of us being the talking heads, we could be the talking crotches.

He: Oh, that’s good, talking crotches. (Roaring laugh)

She: Yeah, we could call ourselves The Crotcheties. (Laughter)

He: That’s good, the crotchety Crotcheties. Yeah, the old fogies still do it, point the camera to our crotches, spread our legs. Plenty of people would pay for that.

She: Are you kidding?

He: No. We could open a PayPal account and sell it pay per view.

She: Okay, but it has to be anonymous. I know, we open our laptops, lean back against the headboard, knees up so when we open the screen, the only thing people can see is the back of the screen …

He: and our genitals.

She: yikes, I’m not sure about this. More coffee, dear?

He:  What do we call this?

She:  Sex and the 60’s.

He: You need to spell it out.

She:  Oh, I know.  Elderhostel sex.

He:  Is that when you get beat up with a wet noodle?  That’s pretty hostile.

She:  Get back to your Google.

He:  Have you ever Googled sex?  seen how many entries it pulls up.

She:  That’s it, more coffee. (Thinking, if we can’t web cam it, we can blog it)

Marriage Vows Remembered

This anniversary, our sixth, should not have been that remarkable. What are two 60-somethings doing trying to cavort like our children, with surprises, impassioned romance, champagne glasses raised in toast to the miracle of being together one more year as we get to the place where sex — oh, excuse me, love making — is as good as our imaginations can put together. We sat on the veranda of the swanky southern hotel at the edge of a very proper private university looking out onto an idyllic scene of pristinely manicured golf course bordered by 50 foot pines. This was not our usual habitat. I’d say, the celebration fete was definitely a success. I looked into his blueberry eyes (one of the reasons I married him) and we recalled the circumstances by which we came together eight and a half years ago. He, claiming he never wanted to remarry. Me, claiming satisfaction in just being together in a committed partnership after years of foiled attempts at connection. He, saying he remembered the day, that Fourth of July, when I was on the grill, the grill queen reigns, turning the chicken, so competent. (No woman in his life ever handled a grill with such aplomb.) He steps toward me, arms outstretched with a platter full of corn to add, and blurts, I think it’s time we got married. We are best friends.

What makes a marriage work at 60 when it doesn’t at 30 or 40? How many times do we make those vows, then participate in the disintegration of the fantasy before we get it right? This time, we are seasoned, expect less than perfection. Our ideals are focused on political and environmental issues not on the ideal spouse. We walk through life holding hands, smiling, content, the roller coaster of emotionally charged atmospheric electricity that kindles procreation is past. We sit on the green rockers looking out at the apple orchard growing taller each year, at the society of geese on our front lawns, imagining what it may have been like if we had met at 30 or 40, and knowing it would have been a failure then for us, too.

Now, we start our seventh year of marriage.  The stormy years between seven and 10, when marriages go asunder, partners stray or disengage, marital bliss turns to a nightmare.  We are smarter now, we think.  We know what to expect.  So, when we raise this toast to taking the vows of marriage, we are recommitting to the promise to listen and not try to fix it, love and not withdraw, address conflict when it happens, soothe and support, ask questions.  Still no small feat.

Often, I ask myself what is at stake here?  This could be my last chance to get it right.  I realize that I may have 20 good years left to live.  More, if I’m lucky and my gene pool is consistent and I take better care of my body — my life support system.   At 60 there is less urgency and more thoughtfulness about my intentions.  I am less compelled to travel the globe and more intent on getting to know people more deeply.  My body clock ticks to a different rhythm — child bearing years are long past and I look to a future that finite.  This scares me.  I have never wanted to die.

At the swank hotel dining room, his grown son is waiting our table.  The walls are paneled in rich dark wood, the chairs are deeply upholstered tapestry, oriental rugs cover the parquet floors, lush lined draperies swag the windows, a mouth-blown opaque globe radiates a glow of warmth across the room.   The surprise evening plays out perfectly course by course.  We are too full of wine and red meat and chocolate and champagne to do anything but gently kiss each other on the lips, climb into the plush hotel room bed and say goodnight.

An Ocean of Wheat

Sit on the beach. Look out onto the horizon. It’s Santa Cruz, Santa Monica, Mazunte, Topsail Island. Never mind. It’s Iowa. What’s the difference. There is a sea of waves, the water surges, undulates. A wind blows the wheat, a big sea of wheat waves and there is nothing to disturb the horizon so vast that it is infinity as if I am sitting here on the beach of rich black earth and the waves are real. So what. There’s nothing to say that waves must be wet — amber waves of grain.

On the front porch, on the green rocker, I rock, look up — a North Carolina sky is blue like cornflowers. Pines disturb the long view, there is no ocean in the Piedmont. A hot pink rose climbs the arbor. Fresh planted Confederate Jasmine, smell so sweet like a gardenia, imagine Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, pungeant, sickly sweet, deliciously decadent, twirls up the porch post. We’re in the South now, honey. There’s the cemetery of Confederate soldiers just up the road, Silent Sam faces north in defense of the generations, and a breeze blows across the lawn. Remind me why I am here. The magnolias are beginning to bloom. In the cottage there is no forgiveness because the sisters did not listen to their mother and they are bickering now in their middle age. Over what? you say. Was there not enough to go around? When was there scarcity and when was there abundance? I was the older one and took care of the children, changed their diapers, calmed them when the woman I called mom slept late from nights too long in argument with the man called Your Father, husband she didn’t love. Me, the lonely one, llittle mother, washing dishes piled up from days of despair. The breeze blows and I can smell the jasmine and this is a different place from home.

This is a near perfect day. I want to think that the sisters will reunite, will soothe each other like they used to as children, curled up together in bed as if in mutual protection from the world and the distance sounds, the muffled voices and swallowed cries they didn’t understand. Scratch my back, count to 100. I want to go last so I can fall asleep to the touch of sisterly love. Now, we live far apart, at the two coasts of the continent, barely speaking. Oceans apart. Tomorrow is her birthday. I mail a card. Sign it, hugs and kisses. Hope for the best.