Memoirs of Marriage
E-Book, Englisch, 200 Seiten
ISBN: 978-1-63192-280-0
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)
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CHAPTER I: Marion and Norman (66 years) “The Single Marriage—So Last Century” By Marion Gladney-Glasserow There was still somewhat of a post war housing shortage in 1948. My soon-to-be husband and I were even shorter on available cash and steady income. To my father’s great chagrin, his only daughter was planning to marry an unemployed disc jockey, in those days known more dignified as radio announcer. After our quite elegant wedding atop the Hotel Pierre, we had originally planned to work and live in Washington, DC. But as Norman suddenly quit his job at WWDC Radio, we needed to retrieve the pots, linens and gadgets I had provisionally shipped to the two-room address we had rented in advance of the September wedding. My brother Ric was sent along as chaperone in my battleship gray Frazer. It soon developed a radiator leak requiring frequent stops for refills in the August heat. When we finally got to the apartment in which the three of us were planning to crash, the blast of DC summer that hit us when we opened the door sent us clear across the street to Hotel Statler’s sumptuous air-conditioned luxury. We decided we could splurge for one night, all three bunking in one room. With not one job between us, there was no time for a honeymoon and no money either. And with no place to live it was urgent to return and milk our contacts. Norman had sold his car so he could buy the traditional flowers for the wedding. I got us one winter’s worth of a sublease in the building where my folks lived. But there were six weeks between the wedding and the apartment’s availability. Where to? As luck would have it, Domestic Relations Court Judge and Mrs. Dunham of Riverdale firmly believed a house should not stand empty when there were needy kids like us and well to do folks like them who happened to travel a lot. We answered an ad and were shown a lovely home and garden by their son. When Norman finally got up the courage to ask “how much?” in a tone that strongly suggested, “we can’t afford it anyway”, the answer was “how is $35 a month, if it doesn’t hurt you too much?” We arrived there after a 24-hour honeymoon in New York. There were fresh flowers in every room, a stocked pantry and refrigerator and a charming note from lady Dunham welcoming us into her home, and advising us that we were free to use any room, linens, dishes and even the golden harp in the formal dining room. Adam and Eve in paradise--fully equipped, including the apple tree in the garden. When I brought my Adam a lovely autumn apple, he said emphatically, “you can’t eat that!” I am convinced the boy from Brooklyn thought only store bought fruit is fit for human consumption. But, I too, was not accustomed to suburban life. The Health Department stopped by one morning to ask if I had seen any evidence of rats. I blushingly said “no”, since I quickly realized the bits of stale bread I had frugally left on the back stoop for the birds, I thought, had brought the local rat population to the attention of the neighborhood. This was not the only beastly encounter in Eden, the bride began to itch! Too late in the summer for mosquitoes, wasn’t it? When I showed off my welts and said I was sure they were fleabites, he pooh-poohed it, of course. “I can prove it to you”. My father, a WWI vet, had told us that if you suspect fleas, fill a tub with water, remove your clothes very slowly, and shake them gently over the water. The fleas will jump in and drown. I performed! I had previous encounters with fleas when I lived in Brazil; but there I did the striptease without such an enthusiastic audience. Fleas in Eden probably left there by previous renters who took the dog with them but left the fleas behind. We could hardly afford an exterminator’s visit for a ten-room house we didn’t own. To call young Mr. Dunham was our only option. To soften what might be taken as an affront by this fine gentleman, Norman assured him of this unfortunate situation by saying, “My wife has had experience in this matter, sir.” Ah! The bride from the slums, with upscale aspirations! One flea is preserved for posterity under scotch tape in our wedding album. We never met the Domestic Relations Judge himself, but perhaps we inhaled some of his egalitarian wisdom while sleeping in his bed. Somehow we have managed six decades of jumping over marital hurdles. Of course, we stepped on each other’s toes but also found ways of tiptoeing around our idiosyncrasies. Too often hurt feelings come from unspoken words. Not just the unnoticed vase of azaleas from the garden, the overlooked bandaged hand. No, the words WE supply, mentally, that he might say, should say, doesn’t say, had better not say! We fill in the blanks. Library shelves are stocked with remedies which all boil down to “let it go”. Easier said than done… What we lose when we lose our temper is the blood supply to the brain, “I was absolutely livid!” Yes, ashen, not red in the face. Winning isn’t everything; it’s the only thing…to avoid caring about. Norman is much better at that than I, thank goodness. What’s my excuse? Growing up caught between two brilliant brothers is a powerful incentive for little Sis to strut her stuff whenever possible. Throughout these sixty-plus years, we have pretty much each held up our own part of the sky, the necessities of living about which we had an unspoken division. If not, it’s half-hearted and unsatisfactory to both. To avoid the blame game, it’s great if everyone does what needs doing, avoiding the false hope “someone” will do it in your place. Experience ultimately proves that where you expect to find “someone” you generally find “no one”. Sure, there were slip-ups. One balmy summer evening, sitting in our garden, we were surprised by a visit from the police with our youngest in tow. We had each been confident the other had put her to bed. “No one” had, and she decided to take an evening stroll in the neighborhood. “They’re writing songs of love”…but not about married life. That’s not surprising. Marriage is not so much a ballad as it is a four act play. A time for hot romance and learning about each other… Years dedicated to nest making, career building and child rearing. The family matures and learns to withstand loss and manage gains and success with equanimity. Act four is said to be about “The Best Years”. Then we will finally have time to…well, yes, maybe. My grandfather said, while turning his wedding band ‘round and ‘round, “Strange thing about a gold ring, the thinner it wears the heavier it gets.” Married life is a play in rehearsal – “a repetition,” as the French say. That is what we do, repeat, re-hear, over and over. Mistakes and lessons learned, problems and solutions, promises and regrets, lies and atonement, victories and defeats… We are amateurs at a game no one teaches. There is no script. We ad lib, improvise, invent as we go along. At dawn we imagine the day; at night we write a critique. The most challenging scene is the finale, for then there is no curtain call, no reprise, no “Deus ex Machina” to reprieve the heroes. Twenty years of school may be educational, but the curriculum does not offer “Family Finance”, “Feud Facilitation”, “Parent/Child Comprehension” and a whole catalog of other mysteries and complications that we try to learn on the job. And that includes sex- where the learning curve is fraught with bumps and detours, while media and entertainment pile on ideals that mostly defy reality. Our marriage is purely an invention. We are as much alike as we are different. He eats his corn on the cob across, I eat mine in circles. We each came equipped with plenty of baggage, but also a talent for lightening the other’s load. Most of all, we both have a strong sense of obligation, to each other, to our families, our heritage. After the first phone call from this stranger I walked into the living room where my parents were entertaining and said, in slightly besotted tones, “I just heard the most amazing voice!” Norman had wisely used his sonorous radio host tones to get this girl’s full attention. The tomboy in me suggested an ice skating outing for our first date; but that was not to be. I did not know then that the polio epidemic of 1940 had caught up with him, at 18, at summer camp and devastated his right leg and buttock with atrophy. We arranged for me to pick him up and drive to Greenwich Village for a drink at the Salle de Champagne. When I pulled up in front of the Riverside Drive apartment, waiting for me was this handsome Brooklyn-born sophisticate who leans into my window and says: “Hi, my folks are out. Would you like to come up?” My consciousness had not yet been raised and Woodstock was still a long way off. Things could only go up hill from there. (Maybe!… Some months later when the ring was offered it didn’t fit; it was still the right size for the girl who had owned it, temporarily, before me.) Champagne loosened things up a bit. We talked about NYU, my Alma Mater, which he had also attended for a time. It was his professor there who had suggested he use the name Gladney for his radio career. Less Jewish than Glasserow… It...
