40 Years

My parents have been married longer than they ever were single. On January 18, 1969, he was 24 years old and she merely 21. Times were different back then. Couples didn’t generally live together for a decade before walking down the aisle. Marriage was expected, and even welcomed, for those in their early 20s, if not late teens… and not just for simple folk living lives under strict, conservative ideals.

My mom was from an upper middle-class, Hungarian immigrant family, living in suburban New Jersey; my dad from a working-class, Italian/Irish immigrant family in Oyster Bay, New York. They were educated and they were going places… he to graduate school in Chinese and Japanese language and literature, she finishing up her undergrad in Northern European Art History.

This was the time of free love-- of Hendrix, the Mamas and the Papas, Peter, Paul and Mary and the Yellow Submarine. Men were about to walk on the moon, Woodstock was just around the corner, Vietnam was still a daily horror, and while my parents were part of this 60s generation, in college, they were just “two nerds” coasting the wave of change as it crashed around them. While my father did preach peace at a rally in Cornell months later, he and my mother weren’t rebel hippies in January ’69. They were the boy and girl next door, living their lives as two love-struck nerds who happened to part of an explosive time. You could say they were the members of the 60s generation no one ever talks about ‘cause they weren’t burning bras and smoking weed, but rather hanging out in NYC‘s Chinatown and holding hands.

Mom and dad met a library, for god’s sake! Two weeks later, they were engaged. Six months later, they were married. Neither was afraid of commitment; they embraced it as two naïve kids who felt, without doubt, that this was the right decision.

On January 18, 1969, Alex DeAngelis and Ildiko Pogany became Mr. & Mrs. DeAngelis. For the next nine months, they’d live on the 3rd floor of my grandparents’ house in South Orange, New Jersey. From there, they’d move to Ithaca, New York so my father could attend yet another graduate school. After that, they’d settle in Washington DC where mom would get her law degree, dad would become a Fed and, ten years later, a fat, bald, angry baby would make them the happiest parents on earth. This moment was duplicated six ears later when another rotund baby girl would make the family a foursome.

Four years in Japan, several years in Northern Virginia and hundreds of trips up to New Jersey and New York are just some of what filled the lives of these two former imbecile kids who didn’t know what the hell they were getting into on January 18, 1969. And, yet, it would turn out to be the best decision of their lives. He still says that she has saved his life over and over again. She still says that he’s a person everyone should look up to for his kind heart. In their hearts and their actions, they’re still a couple of cheesy nerds who love each other.

Sure, they drive one another (and, I might add, their two girls) absolutely nuts. There has been yelling and eye rolling, door slamming and bouts of the silent treatment. But, really, they can’t live without each other and they wouldn’t want to.

Every morning since dad left retirement, mom goes down the list for him: “Do you have your keys? What about your cell phone? How about your glasses? Don’t forget your brief case! While you’re out, please mail these bills! We need cash to go grocery shopping! Did you take your pills??,” etc. It drives my father crazy and annoys him to no end. Yet, one morning when mom didn’t get up in time to send him off to work, he left the house without his keys and his glasses. He was locked out of the house and blind. When mom got home that evening, she asked, “What happened?” He responded that his day was a disaster because she hadn’t been around to help him prep in the morning, and he realized how much he depended on her to function. Vindication for mom, humility for dad, and they both smiled at each other and chuckled. This situation repeats itself often, even with roles reversed.

This is what 40 years of marriage can do to you, and, honestly, it’s not that bad. It’s not bad at all. It’s not that, “Oh, we’ll grow to hate and resent each other” and “I can’t believe I shackled myself to this ass for eternity” kind of deal, which is the attitude I think many today approach marriage with: negativity and dread. It’s a, “Hey, life’s tough and cruel sometimes, but it’s also wonderful, and we’re in it together and there’s no one on earth I’d rather share it with than you” partnership.

* * *

I’m their first born daughter. I’ll be thirty in less than a month and I’ve never been in a relationship worth even a footnote in my history. But, I look at my parents and I don’t bemoan my perpetual state as a singleton, because I know that what they have is worth waiting for. For my parents, it came swift and early. They were lucky. For me, it’ll come at a tempered pace because I’m a product of my generation and that’s what’s been required of us in these strange, turn-of-the-century times. We’ll deal.

I raise a toast to many folks from generations past, like my parents, for their fervor and their approach to changes requiring hefty responsibility, with open arms and a smile.

I congratulate my parents on a successful partnership that they’ve nurtured through four decades of uncertainty. Whatever’s come down the pike, you’ve weathered it beautifully. There has been so much laughter, happiness and unconditional love. I admire you and I love you more than the world.

Happy 40th Wedding Anniversary! May what you have rub off on all of us facing the same challenges and blessings that marriage can bestow.

Love,

Roxie