Mom and Dad were married on 8 Jun 63, so this would have been their 56th anniversary. Mom had graduated from high school the day before; Dad had been out for a year, and had been taking art classes at Peabody, before it had been fully absorbed into Vandy.
The first time Dad saw Mom was in high school. She had walked into his class bearing a note from another teacher. Dad asked a classmate who that girl was.
“That’s Madge Harris.”
“I’m gonna marry her.”
And he did.
At points over the years, Dad would joke: “The two toughest years of marriage are the first one, and whichever one you happen to be in at the time.” On anniversaries, he’d say, “Thirty-eight years? That’s a long time to fight a war.” But when the police found his body four days after their 46th anniversary, Mom’s graduation picture was in his wallet.
And although Mom thought Dad was a jerk when they first “officially” met at a roller rink, she eventually came around, and loved him passionately for the rest of their lives. They argued, of course, and came close at least once that I know of to calling it a day. But there was never any question that each was the love of the other’s life, and after they were murdered, I found consolation in the fact that neither had to finish growing old without the other. It was cold comfort, I guess, but you take what you can get in those situations.
So I note their anniversary today, and I’m glad they had each other.