May Day: Not Labor, but a Labor of Love

It's May Day and a warm breeze is lifting the fruit tree blossoms off their boughs and through the air like desert snow. The yellow-green of new leaves on our deciduous trees, and the auburn of our Japanese Maples contrast with the deep blue of Lake Washington and white wispy clouds that slide by majestic Mt. Rainer, still covered with snow.

May Day is traditionally Labor Day in Europe, but when I was growing up, I knew nothing of this. May Day meant picking some flowers from the yard, placing them in a construction paper cone, and leaving them on the front doorsteps of neighbors. It meant a performance in school for our parents, where each class did a different dance. Always floral and happy, May Day was also the day my parents married, at the chapel of Fort Lawton in Seattle, in 1943.

My dad was in the army, stationed at the time at Fort Lewis. As a major, he was entitled to use the small white wooden chapel. My mom flew up from her home in Los Angeles; only a few fellow officers, friends of my dad, and their wives, were present for the intimate ceremony.

It was the beginning of a love affair that lasted 60 years, until my mom passed away in 2002 at age 87. My dad, completely bereft at the loss of his true soul mate, followed her in death in 2004, at age 90. The way they related to each other taught me what mutual dependence of the best kind could be.

My shy and sweet mother, the consistent optimist, never raised her voice. When one of her children--i.e. ME--got insolent and demanding, which I could do with great success since she was so kindly and pliable, the worst she could muster was an exasperated, "some day, you'll see! You'll have children of your own!"

My father, also gentle, could sometimes be driven to the edge, however. At that point he'd explode, raising his voice (never raising his hand), and would scold us and send us to our rooms. But we knew that withing five minutes, he'd be back, softly knocking on the door in contrition, apologizing for his outburst, forgiving us and welcoming us out to freedom.

He spent his 35-year post-military work career as a public servant, the Veterans Employment Representative at the California state unemployment office's Hollywood branch. He sat at a desk in an open room, interviewing veterans and making calls to find them jobs. He also enjoyed brushes with movie stars he'd recruit to speak at annual luncheons he organized to drum up public support. Charlton Heston was a regular volunteer, happy to address the group, represent vets in the community and shake their hands at the luncheon affairs.

My mom was mainly a housewife, until the property taxes on our home escalated to where she had to take a job as a secretary. She'd honed those skills during the war working at Douglas Aircraft, and in their married decade before children came along. It pained my dad that his modest salary couldn't keep up with the taxes and forced his wife to work. Finally, in the days just before California's famous Proposition 13 was passed, the taxes surpassed even my mother's income, and they were forced to reluctantly sell the home of my childhood.

They never complained, but moved to a boxy little house in a lesser neighborhood. After my dad's retirement, they spent no time apart, traveling some and enjoying their grandchildren. They took pleasure in daily highlights--lunch at a chain coffee shop, watching old movies, but mostly each others' company. That's where I learned that a spouse is your best friend.

Anniversaries, if you listen to advertisements, are occasions to buy jewelry, go on a trip, have an expensive dinner out. Not for my parents. My dad would make my mom a card on construction paper with markers, writing a cheesy poem saying she's the love of his life; he called her "Poogie." My mom, a bit less artsy, would buy him a card and write a sentimental message; she called him "Paddy." That was it. They really didn't need documentation of their affection--no gems or bouquets.

The flower gifts on May Day were tucked in paper cones and dropped on neighbors' doorsteps.

Man, Woman, Marriage...Anniversary

I'm trying to rein in my procrastination and write my book on marriage as the combination of opposites. To that end, I've been reading definitions of that august institution, and how those have been twisted of late.

Today happens to be my 24th wedding anniversary. My research has highlighted the ways my husband and I are different, and the unique combination formed by the two of us. I'm fortunate that I'm interested by him every day, often surprised and amused.

After so long together, it may seem odd that he's still a bit alien to me. But part of his masculinity--or perhaps his personality--is a need to have things done crisply, his way, which may not be mine. I know he'd deny that. In fact, he'd immediately list the many ways he gives in to me, often spending his minimal discretionary time accompanying me to places I enjoy (craft fairs, tulip fields) rather than locations he'd prefer (dank forest paths, record stores).

We have different styles, and over the years he's relaxed enough to allow them to co-exist. He let me decorate our kitchen in the bright Caribbean colors I crave. He voluntarily relinquished the entire upstairs of our home to our guests, children and me, lest he discover the disorder he despises. Not that I'm so disorderly, but the collage of family photos on the wall above my desk is to him the epitome of chaos; the clothes dropped by children on their bedroom floors intolerable. In his comfort zone, books must stand upright, arranged by height and color within subject; I'm known to let some slant, and at times my desk is encircled by piles of papers on the floor, organized by task. By contrast, he handles each incoming piece of mail only once, and can't bear to see items that could be disposed of or dealt with resurface again on, say, a chair.

Our differing approaches have enhanced our marriage. I'm easy, flexible, smoothing things out. He keeps me (and us) moving, completing, focusing like a laser beam. Our family benefits from both. As a team, I benefit from him; he tells me the same.

Though I was a proud feminist when that term was progressive and liberated rather than passe, now my life looks embarrassingly traditional. Even biased university scholars presently admit that sex-related stereotypes weren't just the result of oppressive socialization, but based on validated gender differences. Post-women's lib, a gathering current acknowledged the truth; graduates of Women's Studies classes launched Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus onto best-seller lists.

Gender themes have become difficult to abjure. Guys are more physical, sexual, controlling, and competitive than women, who tend to be nurturing, social, verbal, emotional. I've got a dozen books sitting right behind me on the shelf with studies and statistics to support what nearly every culture has incorporated in its structure over the past four thousand years. And yet, policy and politics repeatedly try to deny what physiology posits.

In our marriage, my husband laments the chore of paying our bills, but won't delegate it to me despite my offers, lest he lose control and mastery over even the smallest aspect of our finances. He insists that each expense over $1 be recorded immediately. He's a guy, exhibiting the male need for control in the "responsibility to support the family" arena.

(I know there are many macho men whose finances are a wreck. But they probably express their needs for control in another area. Sports? Work? All of the above? I know there are many wives who are expert in handling family finances. But is it a control thing, or a nest-keeping skill?)

My husband's collection of classical music CDs is aligned in his office precisely, in alphabetical order by composer. The shelves of CDs he has yet to open are in one section (acquisition of the music is his hobby); the discs he has consumed in another. His filing system seems obsessive-compulsive, and yet his vast knowledge of music (and indeed, nearly everything) engenders my awe.

And yet, as invested as he is with his CDs, he is equally indifferent regarding his wardrobe, earning the descriptor "sartorially-challenged." Every plea to take him for a quick trip to Men's Warehouse is rebuffed with disdain. Efforts to purchase clothing for him at Nordstrom Rack result in a perfunctory try-on at home with instant dismissal. "I don't need new pants," he says definitively, light glinting off his shiny knees where once wale adorned corduroy.

After a meeting at the White House, he was taken aside and told his black jeans and light-colored sport coat were a bit below the bar.

But I've given up worrying about that. After all, he understands what this woman wants: flowers. He buys me a bouquet every day. One of many good things about him is that he hears, and heeds. What gender trait causes women to like receiving flowers, especially if you pick them out yourself and present them with a word about why those were chosen? If he's been out of town, the next time he stops at the market on the way home, he gets two bunches. To make up for the gap.

I'll be posting some of what I'm writing, about marriage as the only setting to mesh the opposite sexes. But today, on my 24th anniversary, I'm grateful to have such an endlessly fascinating opposite as my soul mate, with whom to contrast and enjoy. I absolutely cannot believe it's been so many years since the photo above...

Happy Anniversary to ME

Happy Anniversary to ME! I've been married for as many years as...well, as I've been alive. Though my marriage has been wonderfully vivifying, that is not a testament as much to its liveliness as to the fact that I can scarcely believe that I am more than 22 years old. That time can zip in such a blink has been lamented by just about everyone, including my--what? 14-year-old son (!?) who recalls the births of children for whom he now babysits. Well, I recall HIS birth as if it were the proverbial yesterday, and I recall each of my three children as if they are, oh, 7, 5 and 2, even as I talk to them on their cellphones trying to pry out some crumb of what goes on in their lives.
Twenty two years of marriage. Sometimes I get frustrated with my husband, and then he turns around and gives me "that look" and I melt. I don't get frustrated much or for long; he brings me flowers on his way home from work, whether that's at 4 pm or 10. The checkers at the supermarket know him because he's always zipping in to buy a little bunch of flowers, and when she comes through the door with them outstretched in their plastic Albertson's bag, I am always surprised. He chose them; he always tells me why he chose those particular flowers. "I thought those yellow ones looked particularly perky." "I haven't brought you irises in awhile." "I know you love peonies" Well, that one is true but I really don't get many peonies. They don't appeal to his male eye because they usually come, when they do for two weeks in May, as little balls stuck on stems, awaiting their new home before unfurling.
So, you ask, aside from graciously receiving flowers, to what do you attribute twenty-two years of happy marriage? Here are the rules that come to mind:
1. Take it easy. That means go with the flow; don't let things bug you, just be easy. Not much is worth anybody getting upset. Let it go. Just do it, even if you think he ought to. Just forget it. A friend of mine wrote a book a long time ago. You don't need the book, but the title was essential: Winning by Letting Go.
2. Be his/her biggest fan. I just came across a study from the Journal of Personality and Social Psychology (no, I don't subscribe; it was covered in a New York Times article) from about a year ago. It said that the way couples respond to good news determines the quality of the relationship far more than the reaction to bad news. The part I highlighted in pink said that "in most relationships, positive events outnumber negative ones by at least four to one." That means you have four chances to cement the relationship for every "poor baby" opportunity. One thing that I think of is that there are lots of people--ladies--out there who would jump up excitedly to know that my husband was going to be coming through their door. So, every time my husband DOES come through my door, I jump up excitedly. His coming home is good news. And when he gets some CDs (ie classical music) in the mail, that's good news; I get happy for him. If he writes something, just about constantly, I praise him for doing it. After all, he IS doing it; he IS accomplishing. I'm much better at procrastinating. This is not a strategy on my part. Long ago I decided that we are a team, one unit, and if he succeeds, I succeed.
I don't always love everything he writes. But I always love something about everything he writes. I don't always agree with everything he wants. But if I disagree, I try to put it in a way so that he knows I'm on his team, and not trying to undermine him by feeling differently. And I try to explain why what I want is better. He's reasonable. One of his many strong suits.
3. Clothes don't make the man. Speaking of strong suits, he doesn't have any, sartorially speaking. He's a walking fashion disaster. While being religious, he's also holey. Usually at the elbows. You know the old one about having ties older than you are? Yep.
Truth is, looks don't make the man, or the woman, either. As I get older, I hate it. But while denial isn't just a river in Egypt, and denial is my specialty when it comes to aging, sometimes you can't avoid looking in a mirror and at your spouse. I think a happy marriage is about doing what you can outwardly and latching onto that so-called "wisdom" that comes with age--which is just another way of saying that as you get older, you realize that intangibles are more valuable than tangibles, and that the connection with your other half is not about what you see but who you are.
I hear my other half calling, saying it's time to get to bed...he's got another early work call, and, after all it IS our anniversary. Maybe I'll think of more items to add to my list later. In the meantime, it's fun being 22.