True Love makes a family...67 years ago today.

It was a Tuesday. The smell of peonies was in the air. Freshly picked peonies from various friends, relatives, and neighbor's yards are in vases about the room, too; the room was in the home of the minister and his wife. The piano music begins; the pianist is crying tears...of joy. A minister waits as his son escorts his daughter--the bride--toward her groom. The groom wears a simple suit; the bride, a cocktail-length dress. They marry on a Tuesday because that's when the bride received her paycheck. The only attendants are the best man, and the maid of honor. Once married, the couple spend their first night at the groom's family's farm. It wasn't a quiet night at the family farm, as mischief-makers throw the happy couple a shivaree. Lots of banging and clanging and noise outside the window of the newlyweds.

The next day, the couple--both barely 20 years of age--begin their honeymoon with $75 in their pockets and hope in their hearts.

The date was June 18, 1946. The minister was my maternal grandfather. The pianist? My maternal grandmother. The person who gave the bride away was my uncle. The bride and groom? Delight and FD, my parents. That Tuesday, our family began.

I have always loved the story of how they met.

Mom was casually seeing someone. She always told me he was more interested in her than she him. She was 16 years old. There was to be a church picnic in the park in the town that she lived in since age 10. She invited her friend, and he asked if he could bring a couple of his friends. She agreed to this. One of his friends was...my father. Mom said she fell for him almost immediately. "It began with the smell of his leather coat," she once remarked. Sometime during the picnic, the friend asked--somewhat jokingly--"well, which one do you like best?" Mom, without pausing, pointed to Dad, a handsome young man of 16. Any attempts by any man other than my father to get Mom's attention was lost that very day. And from what I've heard, it was the same for Dad; he loved her immediately.

Later, they would carve their initials and a heart in one of the park trees. I always tried to find it when I went there as a little girl. Never did. ;)

Dad was incredibly shy. From what I was told, it took him six months before Mom and Dad kissed. And that first kiss was thanks to Dad's cousin, Leslie, who dared my mom to kiss my dad. Leslie was not only Dad's cousin, he was Dad's best friend; they were only days apart in age. Sadly, Leslie was lost when the SS Leopoldville was sunk in the English Channel on Christmas Eve, 1944. For more on the event, check out Leopoldville. Leslie's body was never recovered, though there is a memorial stone in the cemetery in the countryside near the Hicks family farm. Dad wept every time he was near that marker. I wish I could have met Leslie, as he really did help to bring our family together.

They were lovely together, by all accounts. There are no wedding photos, but there are a lot of photos of them from the early years, and they were gorgeous. Mom took him to her proms, Dad took her to his proms. A girl at one of Mom's proms, upon meeting Dad, said, "I don't believe I've had the pleasure!" And she said, "The pleasure's all MINE!" Atta girl, Mom.

Mom and Dad raised three kids--Curt, Todd, and me. And they were proud of us and encouraging in our endeavors. Though we didn't live in one of the more famous homes in Marshall, Mom was always convinced that the home would later become the place that a Supreme Court Judge, an Opera Star, and a Professional Athlete grew up. They always told us we could be anything we wanted.

One of my favorite later memories of them occurred when both were much older. I was walking behind them as we went into a restaurant or something. They were holding hands...and leaning into each other, holding each other up. Mom's feet by that time were in excruciating pain from the neuropathy, Dad's balance wasn't that good from his Parkinson's. Yet, they managed to hold each other up, just as they had done all their lives together. True love. And three pretty lucky kids borne out of that.

Thanks, Mom and Dad, for helping us to become the people we are today. And your two grandchildren will carry that forward--of that, I have no doubt. You would be so proud of the young man and woman they have become.

I've been thinking all day about a song from the World War II days, and so I'll post the lyrics and a link to the song here...it's what my parents felt about each other, it's what I feel about John, too.

Love you.

Frank Sinatra sings "Always," by Irving Berlin

Always

I'll be lovin' you, always


With a love that's true, always


When the things you've planned

Need a helpin' hand


I will understand always, always



Days may not be fair, always


That's when I'll be there, always


Not for just an hour, not for just a day


Not for just a year but always



Days may not be fair, always


That's when I'll be there, always


Not for just an hour,

Not for just a day


Not for just one year
But always.

--Irving Berlin