“Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintry light. But you knew there would always be the spring…” — Ernest Hemingway, “A Moveable Feast”
My wife and I have strength, determination and love, which have kept us together through our 35 years of marriage. And now we have three children who are into their own marriages with children. It isn’t easy, but the bonds of marriage never are.
Fortunately, like many couples, we were patient gardeners who have enjoyed the harvest of our lives.
I have found that Thanksgiving is a touchstone to what is important to us and measures the patience and love of a long marriage and the love that grows with our children, siblings and lifelong friends.
Love and working on a garden
Thanksgiving was a special occasion for my parents. I never gave it much thought until they had passed. This week, at the cusp of 60, I realized what made it important: the fruition was from shared work over seven months each year.
Our small farm was not far from the city, and the quarter section that we had afforded us two large vegetable gardens — both protected from the cold northern winds by tall spruce trees. Other than spreading horse manure in the spring and lugging wheelbarrows of ripe beans, carrots, peas and potatoes in burlap sacks to the root cellar in the fall, my mom and dad did most of the work and did it together. I can tell you after my wife and I spent five hours one night tossing snow that threatened to collapse our ceiling — an endeavor during which I slipped from the roof and into a snowbank only once — that a common goal done in the face of unyielding conditions will cement a friendship. My parents had that with their garden for a quarter of a century.
Some Thanksgivings, my dad would butcher two plump chickens we had raised or buy a turkey from his best friend next door.
One thing that stands out in my mind was that Thanksgiving was a labor of love that grew from that garden and having big Thanksgiving dinners.
I found that important because they never had a blissful marriage. Instead they shared the love of a good book, a trim garden and long conversations on economics, politics and national security. I can remember the coffee pot running next to the kitchen table during the 10 or so nights they talked about the Cuban Missile Crisis. It was these things that sustained their love even as their bodies became old and frail.
Love in a long marriage is like a moveable feast. It is not a fixed date but often blossoms under certain circumstances. So it was for my parent’s marriage, and so it has become in mine. Whatever delicacies you enjoy on Thanksgiving, it is my biggest wish that love is among them — the love for your spouse, children, relatives and friends.
Wishing you a loving Thanksgiving,
–John Myers
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