Fifty Years is Golden

I love my parents. Dearly. Desperately. And have loved them, for forty-seven years and ten days.

Their names are Chuck and Jo Bessey, for those of you who don’t know that, already. And tomorrow, October 1, 2010, is their 50th wedding anniversary.

Wow.

Yes, I love Mum and Dad. That’s not to say that they don’t drive me nuts, sometimes. They do. And… I return the favor. In spades.

That’s not to say they don’t have their faults. They do. But so does their middle dotter.

That middle dotter is me.

How do I adequately express all that these two people have done for me? All that they mean to me?

I don’t think I can.



They were both from poor, working class families. Families which were proud. Families that stayed together. Both Mum’s and Dad’s parents also celebrated more than fifty years of marriage. That’s a heritage of which to be proud, in my book. (Well, not in my BOOK. Mum and Dad aren’t in my book. Because my book is fiction, after all, and my folks are very, very real. Perhaps ‘by my estimation’, is what I should have said…)


Anyway… I’m proud of my heritage. I’m very, very proud of my parents. They’ve hung in there. They’ve survived. They even enjoy one another’s company.

Most days.

And isn’t that what ‘real life’ is like? Nothing is ever rosy and bright all the time. No one and nothing is perfect.



But there are people who are loyal. People who are honorable and trustworthy. People who stand beside each other no matter what, and take their promises seriously. People who put aside their own ‘wants’ and look out for the best interests of the other. Their partners. Their mates. Their spouses.

People like Chuck and Jo Bessey. My parents.

My heroes.

Happy 50th anniversary, Mum and Dad. I love you. Always and forever.



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Top: Mum and Dad at the Piscatiquis County Fair in 1961. Mum was eight months pregnant with my big sister Chris.
Second: Bami and Bappa (Thelma and Arthur Bessey) on their 50th anniversary, December 5, 1975
Third: Mammy and Grankie (Ruth and Milton [Mike] Dolley), August 15, 1981
Fourth: Mum and Dad posing for me in 1980
Fifth: Mum and Dad on Eli's 13th birthday, October 13, 2009

Happy Anniversary!!

Well, here it is. The first anniversary of Grumbles and Grins! For those of you who have been following my blog since its inception, you’ll know that it is also my wedding anniversary. Mr. Grumbles and I have had seventeen years of wedded bliss.

And my first posting to GAG, “A Deer in the Headlights”, documented just how easy we each are to live with.

I teased Mr. Grumbles unmercifully in that first article. See… he’d forgotten our anniversary. And he tried like the dickens to wiggle his way out of it, too! He even pronounced that last August 14th was not, in fact, August 14th! The days were all screwed up—that was all there was to it!

Awww. My poor husband! He really has a lot to contend with. He works hard at his job. Very hard. He’s also raising children and working a small homestead. He’s involved in the Water District in New Portland, and the New Portland Historical Society, and the Lexington History House, here at home. He creates beautiful crafts from things found in our great outdoors and is working on finding a market for them, so that he can have an income-producing hobby which he truly enjoys when he retires. (Keep watch for “The Forest Floor”!) Add to all that: He has to live with ME!

I know, I know… you all are positive that I must be an absolute joy to live with! And… you wouldn’t be far from wrong.

But you’d be wrong.

As hard as it is to imagine, I am a woman with faults. I am absent-minded. I am single-minded. Once I get the bit between my teeth on certain things, I run. I tend to ignore all else (and everyone else) until I’ve crossed the finish line-- leading by a neck, at least.

That means that sometimes, the house is messy. The laundry, while clean and dry, might not get folded for a day or two. Supper might sometimes be cold pizza… or frozen pizza. And Mr. Grumbles might speak to me for twenty minutes, saying deep and meaningful things, and while I hear the words, I might not have listened to them. He drones on and I nod and smile, but my fingers are typing and my mind is a thousand miles away.

And he knows it is. But he loves me, anyway.

I suppose I can’t accuse him of forgetting our anniversary this year. This time, I tried to make it a little easier for him. I tucked a card under his glasses last night when I went to bed, so that he’d see it upon waking. So that he’d have a moment or two of grace in which to compose a plan to show that he’d remembered.

He was up and out-the-door at the crack of dawn and I didn’t roll out of bed until 6:30. When I went downstairs to make myself a cup of hot chocolate, I found a card from Mr. Grumbles on the sideboard.

How sweet.

As I write this, I am laughing. He knows me so well, and honestly? This beats the heck out of a Wal-Mart card, any day! And just to enhance his gift with a bit of the mundane, he left a list with his particular needs at the grocery store; toilet paper and coffee filters. Ah... I love that man. :o)


I’ll share just a couple of the many photos taken on the day we married in 1993. In regards to the gentleman with the goat and the sack of turnips… well, you see; Mr. Grumbles formally asked my father for my hand in marriage. It was an old-fashioned courtesy, but done somewhat in jest, too. I was a single mother, previously married, and I was completely self-supporting. I hadn’t lived at home with Mum and Dad for almost twelve years. But my fiancé did the ‘right thing’ and he and my father had a merry old time trying to negotiate my ‘bride price’ or dowry. Dad thought he ought to get something out of the arrangement. At one point, a camel was mentioned… I remember that. (Dad has ALWAYS wanted a camel. And a bulldozer, too. But I digress…)

Finally, the two men, pleased with their haggling ability and one-upsmanship, came to an agreement. Mr. Grumbles could ‘have’ me for the bargain price of… one goat, and a sack of turnips.

And the Peases always keep their side of a bargain!

Yes, Mr. Grumbles has put up with a lot from me over the years. And, he’s put up with my family and the somewhat eccentric group of friends I brought into the fold, as well. For the most part, he’s a prince among men.

But when it comes to remembering significant dates, he’s hopeless.

Still… I think I’ll keep him.






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Photo with goat: Dad checking out the turnips ("A little wormy, ain't they?") and back-to is a good friend, the 'keeper of the goat', Richard Jordan, whose job it was to hide in the corn patch with Popcorn (the goat) and the burlap sack until Mr. Grumbles' presentation was made...

Correcting the Record...

Well, it’s official. Mr. Grumble has lodged his first-ever complaint!

My husband has been the focus of dozens of my newspaper columns over the years. I’ve teased about his house-keeping skills. I’ve blabbed about his idiosyncrasies. I’ve chuckled over his lack of grace, his shyness, and his typical maleness. I’ve told my readers about his love of junk and how his pat-rack tendencies irritate me, and I’ve even shared the story about the time he picked up a half-frozen dog turd, thinking it was a rock.

Oh, dear. That one still gets to me. Pardon me while I giggle in glee at the memory of that day! It’s just that…oh, the expression on his face! The utter horror as his fingers sunk into the ‘pebble’…the disgust as he tried to extend the length of his arm past its means as he ran to the house to wash off the ‘rock fragments’… and even the pique at ME, for not warning him in advance that stones in Maine were rarely elongated or a bit curly, nor did they have embedded hair in them. I’m such a wayward wife. I really need to do a better job at protecting Mr. Grumble from himself!

I'll say it again. Oh, dear…

Now, where was I? Oh yes... my husband has voiced a protest. He read my premiere posting on GAG, which recounted the details of our wedding anniversary and how he’d forgotten it (although by the time he saw the article, it was also my featured column in The Irregular) and he took umbrage with me. Oh, not for writing the article…he knows I’m irrepressible when I’ve got the urge to tell a story. His indignation stems from the fact that he believes the story is not factual. He still claims he did not forget our anniversary. And because he didn’t forget, I shouldn’t go around telling people he did.

"Well, honey…if you didn’t forget, what would you call it?”

His brow knits in concentration.

"I simply didn’t realize the month had advanced as quickly as it had!”

“Oh, give me a break! You forgot it was our anniversary!”

“No, Karen, I certainly did not. I simply forgot what the date was! I can prove it! I’ll even show you a check that I wrote out just two days before the fourteenth! I dated it the third!”

I can’t help but smile. Stupidity is an excellent defense. Any good attorney will tell you that.

“Okay, Mr. Grumble, I’ll give you that. You didn’t forget it was our anniversary; you misplaced nine days in August, instead. I do apologize for teasing you about it.”

“Well, all right then.” He wears a look of vindication. “But I’d like you to print a retraction.”

“A retraction…” Hmm. This sounds interesting.

“That’s right. I want your next blog to state that I did not forget our anniversary! I’m not insensitive, and I won’t have people thinking that I am.” Ooh, how resolved is his tone!

“Well, hon, I certainly don’t think I made you out as an uncaring jerk. Just a… mildly distracted one. Ah...man, that is–not jerk.” I smiled. “Are you sure, then, that you’d rather I told the absolute truth? That you are not insensitive, but rather, you merely lost track of more than a week, with no idea where it had gone? Because I’ll do that for you. I love you that much!”

“Thank you.” For my compliance, I receive a pat on my head as he walks by on his way out the door. He’s headed to a meeting, you see. Of the Township’s Historical Society. An August 28th meeting. And this is August 30th. The poor fellow.

I hope the other members didn’t think Mr. Grumble was insensitive when he failed to appear. He’s not. He’s just distracted.

Picking up half-frozen dog turds will do that to a man.

We'll Start with a Grumble AND a Grin

Welcome to Grumbles and Grins!

I am excited to have my very own blog, and I hope to meet many new friends this way. I’m a novice–not to writing, for I’ve had a pen in hand since I was a young girl–but to blogging, and to much in the IT world. Please bear with me while I figure this whole thing out.

Yeah…it may be awhile. The gray matter isn’t what it used to be, you know.

Grumbles and Grins–or GAG, as I’ll affectionately call it–is where I will write my thoughts for the day. Why would anyone care about my thoughts, you ask? I haven’t a clue. But I care about yours, and besides…writing of any sort is good practice for those of us who can’t seem to stay away from a keyboard, and who feel the urge to tell stories and create pictures from our words. It’s one of my most favorite pastimes!

And so, for my initial post I’ll give you this picture: A deer in the headlights.

That’s easy to envision, right? Especially if you live in a place like Maine–where our beautiful white-tailed deer amble out to our byways after dark to lick the salt from the road, to escape the thick flies in the forest, or to simply have a spirited sprint down a lane unobstructed by thick undergrowth. And then along we come, interrupting their evening sport with our noisy, smelly, and often dangerous vehicles. Our headlights angle in slivers around the corner–and there they are. Heads come up, bodies freeze in mid-action as they stare at this terrible intrusion into the peace of their night. You can almost hear their alarm… feel their panic as they try to make a snap decision about how to escape this terror thrust upon them. And then the glorious white flags come up–waving a warning to their kin–and away they go, soaring in graceful bounds up over the embankment to the safety of the woods beyond.

That, of course, is what happens in a perfect world.

My husband’s world was not quite so perfect this morning. You see…it’s our 16th wedding anniversary. And he forgot.

A deer-in-the-headlight moment. And I’ve gotta tell you, I can enjoy the heck out of those!

I firmly believe that if a wife is to suffer the disgrace of having her mate forget that ONE SIGNIFICANT DATE pertaining to their LIFELONG COMMITMENT, then she ought to be able to take pleasure in her husband’s discomfort when his failure to remember it is pointed out to him. (In the nicest possible way, of course!)

I hadn’t even left our bed before I realized Mr. Grumble had overlooked the date. He’d already up-and-showered and was just dressing as I awoke at six a.m. If he’d remembered, well…chances are good that he would have wakened me FIRST, then had his shower and gotten dressed. (Or better yet, had his shower, climbed back under the sheets, THEN wakened me, and THEN donned his clothes a half-hour later.) That’s an anniversary ritual…or it should be, in my books!

But no, Mr. Grumble was pulling his socks on, sitting on the side of the bed with his back to me when I reached over and rubbed his back. He turned and smiled that handsome smile.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Happy anniversary,” I replied.

A deer-in-the-headlight moment!

Ah, his expression was priceless. It almost made the whole thing worth it! Disbelief, panic, chagrin and worry…each expression flitted across his face in the space of a second or two as he tried to figure out how to recover gracefully. Without looking like a total bonehead. He was impressively unsuccessful.

“No, it’s not.” Like he could argue the calendar into being wrong.

“Yes, it is.” The calendar is never wrong, and I share much in common with the calendar.

“It can’t be.” The dear man doesn’t give up easily.

“But, it is. Happy anniversary, honey. Your gift is right outside the closet door. Why don’t you go get it?”

“I can’t.” The panic was defeating the chagrin.

“Why not?” Oh, it was hard not to chuckle!

“I have to go to town, first.” My snicker overcame my self-control.

“Oh, brother. It’s too late, now! You blew it. Just go get your present!”

Well, he did. He hated to, but he did. My gift was nothing very romantic…just a new pair of dress pants, a cheap pocket watch to replace his cheaper one, and some new underwear. Hey, I said sixteen years! The honeymoon is over, and practicality wins out.

My husband groused about the fact that not one of my girlfriends took the time to remind him of our anniversary. He muttered that the month had simply flown by too quickly, and if it HADN’T, he would have remembered in time! He said my mother should have given him a hint in the last day or two, so that he wouldn’t be looking like such a dork right about now. Oh, there was plenty of blame to go around. The poor man. His day is ruined now, because he forgot our anniversary.

Men!

I’ll leave you with this. While I am a woman (and therefore, I love to be ‘made of’ and wooed) I am also sensible. My husband loves me 365 days a year. He’s never called me a name or raised his hand to me. He works hard, he supports his family, he is honest and he’s a man of integrity. He loves me, and I know that he does. So who am I to complain if he forgets that today is August 14th, the anniversary of the day he won the ultimate prize? The day the best thing to ever happen to him…happened to him? Nah, I’ll not hold this against him. Not for long, anyway…a woman has to make her point, after all.

On the plus side, in his rush to find an excuse to ‘go to town’, my husband volunteered to keep my truck’s appointment at the garage forty miles away. It was a chore I’d been dreading, having spent my last day off in that same manner. Instead of sitting wedged on a couch between strangers, reading Jeep Magazine and listening to pneumatic wrenches squeal, telephones ring and hammers bang, I get to sit at my computer and write my first blog entry on GAG. Life is good. It really is.

Happy anniversary, Mr. Grumble. And...I hope the repairs aren't too time-consuming.