I happened to realize the other day that the day would have marked my 29th wedding anniversary with my second wife had we stayed married. That would have been something to be proud of, I reckon. As it is, we only made it to thirteen. On the other hand, had my first wife and I continued our marriage, September would mark somewhere around forty-three years, by my reckoning (although, admittedly, I'm not sure of those dates anymore). As it actually happened, we made it to nine. Nonetheless, if you add up all the actual years of marriage with three separate wives you come out with thirty-three years of marriage, so that in my lifetime I have been married longer than not. Which, I guess, makes me somewhat of an expert in the field. Right?
I remember that my first wife and I always went to the beach for a week to celebrate our anniversary. Her father owned a beach house down in Lincoln City. We would just chill there, go up to Depot Bay for saltwater taffy and seafood, go down to Devil's Punchbowl for Mo's Clam Chowder, read books, swim in the frigid Pacific, lie on the beach. We always had a great time there. Right up until we didn't.
My second wife and I would generally go camping at Monon Lake, just up the road from Olallie Lake. It was a dearly beloved place, where I had spent nearly every summer since birth. She and I, and generally one to three children, would camp in the large meadow at Monon, hike and fish and swim and so on. Every summer during that time the weather managed to be perfect. It was a charmed, blessed time. Right up until it wasn't.
My third wife and I had no such tradition. She wasn't that kind of a girl. She didn't like sameness. Still doesn't. On the other hand, I always have. It was an odd sort of union from the beginning and lasted eleven years.
But they were good years, all of them. Right up until they weren't.
I remember that my first wife and I always went to the beach for a week to celebrate our anniversary. Her father owned a beach house down in Lincoln City. We would just chill there, go up to Depot Bay for saltwater taffy and seafood, go down to Devil's Punchbowl for Mo's Clam Chowder, read books, swim in the frigid Pacific, lie on the beach. We always had a great time there. Right up until we didn't.
My second wife and I would generally go camping at Monon Lake, just up the road from Olallie Lake. It was a dearly beloved place, where I had spent nearly every summer since birth. She and I, and generally one to three children, would camp in the large meadow at Monon, hike and fish and swim and so on. Every summer during that time the weather managed to be perfect. It was a charmed, blessed time. Right up until it wasn't.
My third wife and I had no such tradition. She wasn't that kind of a girl. She didn't like sameness. Still doesn't. On the other hand, I always have. It was an odd sort of union from the beginning and lasted eleven years.
But they were good years, all of them. Right up until they weren't.
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