After a week taking pictures in Glacier National Park, Rick boarded the plane in Kalispell, Montana, this morning at 6:50.
At 3:00 PM he fairly skipped to my car at CVG arrivals dragging a 50-pound suitcase, a 900-pound camera bag, and a sagging backpack, but he wasn’t dragging his ass as I would have been after getting up at 4:30 AM and flying all day. Once he gave me a good smooch and hopped in the car, his mouth was off and running: all (you never wanted to know) about hiking trails and waterfalls and switchbacks and such. My review of the Mama Mia sequel was my only contribution to the conversation.
As per our usual routine on the day we return from a trip, we went to Skyline for dinner. I had finished my bowl of chili and crackers and two Diet Cokes. My husband’s four-way and coney sat untouched as he regaled me with descriptions of his hikes. “24,000 steps” is what I glommed onto, and I thought, not for the first time today, how glad I was that he had left me home. He was not in any way boring, I don’t want to give that impression. It was like a surgeon describing a kidney transplant, which I would find fascinating, even though I’d have no desire to scrub up for the actual operation.
I looked at his face, a bit more color in his cheeks than usual, and I realized something: Doggone it, he looked younger than when he left Cincinnati a week ago!
When he finally paused to lift his fork, I asked, “People? Did you meet any interesting people?” He had that look on his face that I had seen so many times on the faces of my 8th grade students when I asked a hard question. I could tell he was thinking, “Oh, were there people there?” But then he came up with a humorous description of a woman, who sounded an awful lot like me, who was traveling alone and talking very loudly in a campground, and then he heard that same loud voice on a trail later on in the day.
He has said to me, “I feel alive when I travel,” and that was so obviously true when I watched him post-trip.
But here is the thing: I feel alive when I am home. Last Saturday, for instance, when I admired my shiny floors and tidy pantry and healthy plants after a day of scrubbing. A day like yesterday: yoga, a visit with an old friend in a nursing home, a family birthday party, play rehearsal, and book club. Or today: three restaurant meals (two at chili parlors) with interesting people, including my husband.
People are puzzled that Rick goes on these photography trips all by himself.
Some people may think he’s up to no good, or maybe that he has a second family. My dad implied as much. He’d say, “I can’t believe you’d let him be gone for a week!” Honestly, I trust him completely.
Actually, that’s not true; I do worry he might buy a new camera when he’s not under my watchful eye.
(I have chosen to take it as a compliment, not an insult, that nobody suspects I’m up to no good while he’s gone.)
Some people ask me, “Don’t you want to go along?” And stare at the same freaking sand dune at sunrise, sunset, and the “golden hour”? To freeze on top of a mountain at 4:00 AM. To drive a couple hundred miles a day, stopping 42 times to get “the shot”? To eat Lunchables in the car and sleep in a Motel 6? Been there, done that.
Nobody ever asks him, “Don’t you want to stay home?”
And then there are the questions that imply something, I’m not sure what: “He’s gone again?” “Where is he off to now?” “Does that man ever stay home?”
We got married 46 years ago today. I was 19. My hair was long, my skirts were short, my bank account was empty. I had two years of college yet to go. I had just changed my major, from drama to elementary education. I had gotten my driver’s license a month before the wedding. I had never paid a bill. I had never hung a picture. I had never voted. (I thought I was a Republican just because my dad’s name was Herbert Hoover Seilkop.) I was a child. Not even a very mature child.
Rick was 22 when we got married. His hair was long, his mustache was short, his tan was deep. He had graduated and, therefore, lost his student deferment. His draft number was 93*, but he dodged the Vietnam War by joining the National Guard. He had just finished basic and advance training as was ready to start his first teaching job. He had never paid rent. He had never hung a picture. He had never put the toilet seat down. He was still a Republican, though he was well on his way to hating Richard Nixon.
He was not an award-winning photographer then, though he had an Instamatic camera, the kind that had a cubed-shaped flash, and he’d take the negatives to the drug store to be developed. (There were lots of pictures of my legs—and it wasn’t because he was a bad photographer.) We still have a lot of those photos, now faded, yellowed, and curled. They were definitely not
art. He had only been on one vacation in his life, a weekend trip with the family to the Smokies, and we still have some of those pictures, too.
If we could have looked at a crystal ball into our futures, we would not have recognized ourselves.
I never would have dreamed that I would go to graduate school and more graduate school and then even more, or that I would become a librarian, a career that would require me to whisper. And the writing thing? I wouldn’t have seen that coming. Would I have ever imagined that I would travel to all the continents? That I’d have bad knees and sciatica, or that I’d be married to an old man? That I’d be an orphan? I couldn’t have understood that nothing would be more important to me than my children.
Rick, who had never tasted shrimp before we got married, would never have guessed that he’d eat sushi in Japan, reindeer in Norway, whale in Iceland, guinea pig in Peru, and crickets in Cambodia. That he’d be a basketball coach, a great senior golfer, a soccer fan, a genealogist. Or that someday he’d be so passionate about the art of photography that he’d need a Sherpa to carry his cameras and lenses. That he’d have a heart attack and he’d worry about time –and his heart –ticking. That he’d be married to an old woman. That he’d be an orphan. That nothing, nothing would be more important to him than his children.
So here we are: 66 and 69 years old. And we are still becoming. We aren’t growing apart from each other; we’re growing into ourselves.
He loves to travel by himself because it makes him feel alive. I love to stay home and hang out with friends because it makes me feel alive.
And since we married so young, we’ve had very little opportunity to be separate from each other, self-centered and selfish. And, to be honest, every once in a while, that autonomy does not suck.
But he’s always glad to come home, and I’m always glad to see him. And we’re both alive, and that’s a darned good thing to be.
Happy Anniversary, Ricky. With love, from Arkansas. (This is an inside joke which I will not explain!)
*The U.S. held its first draft lottery on Dec. 1, 1969, giving young men a random number tied to their birthdays. Lower numbers were called first. Rick’s number was 93 out of 365, so it was likely he would have been drafted and sent to Vietnam. He joined the National Guard before he could be drafted.
Comments:
I cried. I could relate. My dear friend, Sandy, I couldn’t have predicted that retirement would have opened the door for such wonderful friends and experiences. I look forward to every blog post and I want everyone else to know you through your writing. You are amazing and still the matter of the Humor Three…the fine art of listing. – Teri Flltz
I love you – always have, always will. – Rick
What a funny and sweet celebration of a life with your true love, Sandy. I have to admit, I am most alive when I am home, too! But isn’t it wonderful you two encourage each other’s passions for life and can enjoy togetherness and spaces in the togetherness. I loved everything about this essay. -Molly Stevens
I always thought it was unusual that we had this separate vacations thing–people surely reacted like it was weird–but am finding through comments on this blog that a lot of couples do it this way. As always, thanks for reading and responding. Hope you are doing well. Say hi to the kids.
And we are still becoming. Thanks for always giving us “a Second Helping!” – Nancy Jones
I loved this, Sandy. I can relate 100%. Our marriage has this same kind of autonomy which keeps things fresh, vibrant.
As for draft numbers, in the 1969 draft, my birthday number (June 8) was 366. All my guy friends were quite jealous. -Linda Docter
This is my favorite, Sandy, because it holds so much meaning for me. Lee was 23, I was 20 when we married. We’d been together 64 1/2 years when he passed away. Unlike Rick and you we’d always vacationed together with the kids –he had no desire to take a Rick vacation. So being alone smacked me hard in the face. Not that he didn’t aggravate me lots of times or I him, but we were close. Learning to be an orphan wife has been very difficult, probably the most difficult period of my life.
Rick and you have worked it out so well. Happy Anniversary. -Jane Pittman
Wonderful! I too, travel alone as my Rick is a terrible traveler. It took me awhile to realize this and now I venture out on my own. Honestly, other than making memories together, I’m not sure why people travel together. I like making all my own decisions….eating when I want to (and what I want to), relaxing (napping really) when I feel like it with no repercussion….and it’s a $$$ saver!! In fact, I have wanted to go to Glacier for awhile and after reading this I did some research! Unfortunately they are experiencing fires right now, but this may be a 2019 destination!!!! Thanks again for sharing!! -Kerry
Love this! -Claudia
Beautifully written…a perfect anniversary gift. A candid and loving account of your love story.
Happy Anniversary Sandy and Rick! -Susan Lawrence
What a touching tribute! Happy Anniversary, Sandy and Rick! -Elke
This is so wise and sweet and wonderful. Happy Anniversary!!! -Lori B Duff
Happy Anniversary! I can relate. He and Tom are two peas in a pod. I’ve been dragged everywhere and relish just being at home. -Cathy Cook
Beautiful! Happy Anniversary! -Jan
Sandy,
This is absolutely my FAVORITE of all of your blog posts — which is saying a LOT, since there are so many superlative entries! You covered so much emotional territory about the beauty of long-term committed relationships —with wit, tenderness, and a splash of sass! Thanks for sharing your stories with us. – Ellen Austin-Li
I have never met you, Sandy, but I love reading your blog. We are very different in many ways (downsizing and selling our home is not likely anytime soon), but in other ways, we are very similar. My husband and I wed at 19, he joined the Navy to avoid the draft, and I taught school for awhile. Writing was in my blood at an early age, and I never doubted I would do it forever. We have had separate vacations a few times over the years, but I never stayed home to clean. (I avoid doing that whenever I can.) He went on fishing trips and I went on writing retreats. It definitely made us both feel alive, but glad to reconnect at the end. We can no longer take separate vacations because he can’t be on his own for health reasons. If I travel, he goes with me, so I can give him his meds when it’s time. We are just a tad older than you, and will celebrate our 50th anniversary in a few months. Enjoy your separate vacations while you are both healthy enough to do so, and happy anniversary! – Kathy Wiechman
