On this date, August 3rd, in 1932, my parents were married after the Wednesday night prayer meeting in Tremont Temple Baptist Church, Boston MA. That much is fact. Anything else I say here is conjecture, judgment, and supposition.
They couldn’t have been more different: my father, 38, the world-traveling able-bodied seaman; my mother , 42, the Paul Revere House docent who had lived her life within a thirty-mile radius of Boston.
As different as they were, they had two things in common: a deep and abiding faith in Jesus and a loyalty to their large families. More importantly, they believed in and supported each other. I never heard an unkind word pass between them, never heard a raised voice. My mother was the one to say, “Everything will be all right.” They would each say, “Our wants are few.”
They no doubt signed on for a quiet, predictable life, living in an apartment on Beacon Hill, walking 6 days a week to the North End to work. And then, surprise! After six years of that life I burst onto the scene. When I was a teenager, I began to feel guilty that I had been a burden to my sedate parents, but when I suggested this, my father replied, “Honey without you your mother and I would have lived a boring life. But you and your energy have opened the world to us. You have kept us young.”
I don’t know exactly what it is I wanted to say here, but whatever it is, I haven’t said it. Originally I thought to write about their marriage until I realized that although I had much to say about my father and much to say about my mother, I had little to say about them as a couple. They were both gone by the time I was twenty-three, so they are forever frozen in those early memories, and perhaps, anyway, it is always difficult for the child to see the parents as a couple.
Be that as it may, let me quote an anniversary card I saw years ago: “I’m awfully glad you two got married and that I was the kid in your baby carriage.”
Dorothy C. Judd (c) 2015
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