A Very Long Time

I had a call from Dad a few days ago, reminding me that it's Mum's birthday on the 23rd & their 58th Anniversary this week.

I'm really glad he called. I am utterly useless when it comes to remembering stuff like that. I mean, I knew they were towards the end of January sometime, but the exact date? Nah. Just never been able to hold it in my head, even after forty some years.

58 years. That's a bloody long time to be with anyone, and it's a tribute to both of them that they've stuck together. Of course, it was different for their generation. "As long as you both shall live" really meant it. It didn't mean "until you get sick of each other", or "until one of you falls on hard times", or even "until someone more fun comes along", which is what it seems to mean today.

It started me thinking back, again, to that uncorrupted, very different time, when the world stretched for about a suburb and a half, and mum and dad were everywhere, filling that space, larger than life.

We're talking the 60s here, and not the London/New York/Paris swinging 60s, but backwater provincial Sydney 60s, when the place we lived was little more than a conservative, overgrown country town, and the breadwinner worked hard so his wife could stay home and do what wives did then, which was to raise children and provide domestic back-up that would, today, define 'anachronism'.

That was their life. Dad was, to use the yiddish term, "in the schmutter business", which meant he had a clothing factory. It was originally my grandfather's company, but the real drive behind it was dad. He worked hard, often leaving for work before I got up, but he was nearly always home in time for dinner, especially on Friday nights, which were designated 'family dinner' time. And you know, thinking back, I don't ever recall him having to work on a weekend. Not real work anyway. Occasionally, there was maintenance to do around the factory, but that was a family outing. No. Weekends were weekends.

Mum, on the other hand, had the three of us to contend with, and I'll tell you that this was no easy task. My brother, eight years older than me, tall and strong, and two years behind him, my sister, a rebel for as long as I can remember, and then me 6 years later and a good bit frailer than the other two, but smart to distraction and always wanting to know why.

Dad fought hard for our family and he was king. He ruled us with a velvet covered iron fist, which meant discipline was strict-ish, in that what dad said was the law. He was all puff, of course. I only ever recall him striking me once, and in retrospect, I think I might have deserved it. It didn’t matter. Dad was boss, and when he called, we jumped. ‘How high?’ was unnecessary. And mum was his policewoman, liberally interpreting that law and delivering on the whole domestic back-up thing. Mums the world over are always the soft touch.

Mum was a great cook too, by the standards of the day. Her chicken soup and meatloaf, recipes handed down from her mother, were legendary, and her corned beef, thick slabs of it… woo… talk about a reason to stay home for dinner. Then there was her piece de resistance, pavlova, smothered in cream, banana, strawberry and passionfruit. She was so good at whipping those up that she was often asked to make them for friends for special occasions.

I still recall one time when she made one of those... it was for one of her best friends, 12 eggs, maybe more. She left it on the dining room table and then came to pick me up from school. When we got home… gone… our magnificent Great Dane, Dean, had scoffed the lot. To this day, mum swears the dog must have learned how to open the door. That’s ok. Her pavlova was strong motivation and there was one very highly motivated (and now rather happy) dog.

And hard as I try to recall, through my childhood and teen years, I can not remember mum and dad having a real fight. Today, we're supposed to think that's unnatural. Then? I don't know.

They stuck together through some pretty tough times when recession hit too. Very tough, but when dad bounced back, mum was by his side, his new business partner. We'd all flown the coop by then, or maybe I was about to, and those 50s stay home wife values were starting look out of place. Mum would try to tell you it was a decision driven by economic necessity, but deep down, I’m sure she was pleased to be back at work.

Now don’t get me wrong. This wasn’t domestic paradise modeled on the Dick van Dyke Show, and growing up was full of those tired wife/husband/life sentence type jokes that might raise an eyebrow or two these days. Times have changed.

So what is it that keeps people together for 58 years? Here’s what I came up with…

• Those different values helped.
• They had mountains of great friends and a social life that seems, at least in my memory, to have been way too social to be real.
• They were both really active in the community, dad with the Lions Club and mum with the NCJW (when she had time).
• They did stuff on their own. Dad played golf. Mum, tennis with the girls, cards… the usual stereotypical stuff. That time to do your own thing is so important.
• They did family stuff together. We were always going on picnics, outings, excursions and trips somewhere and if it made life interesting for me, it must have made it interesting for them too.
• They made sure they had their own time together. We were always being palmed off to grandparents so the two of them could have time away from us.
• They were a team.

And I really do think they love each other though as they have grown older, they do allow themselves to indulge in occasional petty bickering. That’s ok. After 58 years, they’ve earned the right to indulge in whatever they want.