Hope springs eternal—sometimes more than once

This week is a special one—at least here at the offices of the Winslow Mail. As readers can clearly see, this week we are running a special section devoted to weddings.

Ah, everyone loves a good wedding. What better place to have a good cry? Where, with all luck, those tears are shed in happiness.

Marriage, in today’s social and political climate, is a sign of hope second only perhaps to the decision to bring a new life into the world. It is a sign of pure faith when two individuals, knowing full well that the well-published odds of that union surviving are pretty slim, pledge undying love to each other until death.

The older one becomes, the more horror stories one hears—in fact, it’s a wonder anyone has the courage to even think about getting married. Those of us who have known a good marriage repress a shudder, saddened that for some people things just didn’t work out right.

Those of us who have known a really awful marriage wonder what we were thinking in the first place (and if we want to be perfectly honest, wish that we had listened to mom, dad, grandma or grandpa).

And just when one throws in the towel and says, “that’s it, I’m not gonna even think about it (or think about it again)”—he or she might as well start wearing a lightning rod during monsoon season, because life has a way of making you eat those kinds of words.

In my circle of friends, two have tried this institution out beyond logic. In fact the very afternoon I wrote this editorial, one of them was in Flagstaff filing her fourth set of divorce papers.

The other has been married at least six times. I’ve honestly lost count.

The funny part is I am convinced that either would make a great wife for someone out there. Their courage to continue to seek that someone amazes me.

It was also today that I received the following letter from my brother, Steve, who is doing it again. Let me share a piece of this with you, dear readers.

“Hey Sis. Guess what??!!?? I’m getting married in less than two months!! You’ll be getting your invitation in the mail within the next few weeks. You are going to be here right??!! I certainly hope so. Christine is really looking forward to meeting you, and I would love to see you. (Not to mention you need to light my side of the unity candle.) Aunt Alma is supposed to be here for the wedding, so you have to—hear me sis? You HAVE to. If you don’t, I’ll send a whole troop of Illinois red necks (in one half-broken down pick-em-up truck) to drag you kicking and screaming all the way here. Now, we wouldn’t want that to happen would we?”

(Goodness no, my reputation as an Arizona hippie-wannabe could never be salvaged!)

His wedding is set for September 4—I shared this with a fellow writer who fairly hollered “That’s the same day I got married! Tell him it’s doomed!”

In all honestly I don’t know of anyone who worked harder to make a marriage work than my brother—he is that type of gentle soul in love with the idea of love and marriage, and that life alone isn’t worth living.

My cousin Doug, the comedian, dips endlessly into our family tree as a bottomless font of content. It could be humiliating to have one’s family history laid out before a crowd of amused people, bent double while wiping tears of hysteria from their eyes. But I know no shame there—hey, I grew up with those folks too.

Doug’s maternal grandmother shared many stories of her courtship days, and how she and her sister attracted—or repressed suitors.

Her father tried to keep the girls away from eager gentlemen callers. Grandma Jones swore she ran right through a bolted screen door to take off with one man who had caught her attention. Even scarier were her efforts to chase off those who failed to meet her measure.

Back in her days, men wore hats. When one date showed more attention to his crisp new fedora than to her, she carefully lay a nest of dried leaves within and set it on fire. Another man was knocked senseless by a jar of cold cream which she had sent spinning around her head in the bottom of a stocking. Needless to say, these two did not pursue marriage to Grandma Jones.

(It occurs to me here that anyone who thought my brother was kidding about sending a truckload of rednecks to collect his sister from Arizona now has an entirely new opinion.)

To those who have any doubts whatsoever that there are perfect unions, they need turn only as far as a well-seasoned couple, made up of two people who have spent more time together than apart to have that belief affirmed.

I have spent a great deal of time around people who have been married most of their adult lives. I’ve worked in nursing homes, and have worked for elderly couples who still live at home but need assistance. I have known the benefits of elderly relatives who remained married to the very end. Not one of those people have ever told me that there were not hard times with the easy, bad with the good. They have weathered heartbreak and depression, loss of children, illness and more.

When I asked them how they got through some of these hardships, without fail, each admitted that their marriage and children is what got them through. Like my brother, I believe that man was meant to have a companion, a helpmeet.

So to all of those idealistic young (and not-so-young) people who still have that faith and that wonderful love, I wish you all the best of luck in a future that will not always be perfect. But, if luck and love succeed, that future will be brighter in the sharing.

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