They got married in June of 1942, right in the middle of World War II. He was an officer in the army, tall and dark-haired, and she was a petite young secretary in Boston who had never planned on getting married and having children. Neither of them knew what they were getting into, but they knew whatever it was, they were in it together.
Flash-forward to fifty-four years later: On the surface, he was just another "grumpy old man." Never one to keep his opinions to himself, if asked, he would gladly volunteer his opinion of the Boston Red Sox, the Beatles, or his long since deceased father-in-law (none of these being a very high opinion.)
His wife, by contrast, seldom had anything bad to say about anybody. She busied herself taking art lessons and swimming lessons, joining book clubs and taking occasional weekend trips with her group of girlfriends. As taciturn as he was, she was the opposite, a social butterfly who loved people and their company.
But above all, they loved each other. When asked what made his marriage a success, about two months ago, he answered, "I always listened to my little lady." And that fact was something noted by many. Despite his rather gruff manner, he always listened to what she had to say and often deferred to her judgment. When she went away on those trips with her friends, she left little love notes around the house for him and called home often. For his part, he spent much of the time she was away asking one or another of his six children, "When is your mother coming home?" In my 21 years, I saw them apart maybe 5 times, if that.
On December 17, he was admitted to the hospital, having not eaten or gotten out of bed for days . His wife hoped it was just the flu, but when she drove him to the hospital, the doctor admitted him on sight and began running a battery of tests. The results came back in a few days: Lung Cancer, so advanced that it had spread to nearly every part of his body, and a malignant tumor the size of a baseball growing in his chest. They gave him anywhere from a few weeks to a month or so to live. They told him he had to stay in the hospital a while, and he replied in his usual fashion. "Oh, damn it. I have to stay here? Fran?" he asked his wife, "Can you stay here too? Plenty of room in this bed." She couldn't. Hospital rules. But I'll bet she wanted to.
On December 24, his oldest son came into hospital room and was told by a nurse that his father'd had a tough night. "Is 'Fran' his wife? He was calling for her all night." she asked, and the son said she was indeed his wife. She arrived an hour later, and was told by the nurse that he was almost gone. She came to his bedside, took his hand, and called his name. He took a final breath and died holding the hand of the person he loved most in the world.
At the funeral, there were two pictures displayed, both of the couple. In one, he's wearing his wartime uniform and a triumphant smile, and she is young and beautiful. In the other, taken at their fiftieth anniversary, he is out of uniform, but the smile is just as cocky. And though they're both a little older, she still looks young and beautiful. Together they raised six healthy, happy children, and saw their thirteen grandchildren grow up. They celebrated with each other in the good times and did the best they could when times were tough. They lived for each other.
Debate all you want about "the nature of love;" I'm not listening. I learned all I need to know from watching my grandparents
