I'm off tomorrow to the shallow south (southern Indiana) to meet up with my siblings, sis-in-law, three neices and one nephew to celebrate with my parents a day we weren't sure they would both be around to see: Their Fiftieth Wedding Anniversary.

On July 31, 1955 my mother and father stood in a little Disciples of Christ Church in Westport, Indiana--she an 18 year old 'retired' professional marimba player, and he a 23 year old bread truck driver. They promised to love one another till death parted them, they promised to cherish one another in good times and bad, and to stick it out for better or for worse.

Many times, there was far more worse than better. Shortly before their first anniversary, their first child, a daughter, was stillborn. Although they had a healthy son the next year, my mother's countenance turns dark when she talks about the 'rough time' they went through the first few years of their marriage. She offers no details, but I have some idea of what caused her pain. But this was a different time, when wives did what they did to keep a family together. I cannot judge either of them.

There were always lots of children, because my parents were licensed foster parents for the county. They always consulted whichever kids were living in the house before bringing in new kids. We never said "No" as I recall. We were raised to believe that family is to be not just appreciated, but shared. My parents shared, over the years, their home and their love with over 30 children.

In 1974 our world was changed forever when my parents were in a very serious car accident on Friday, December 13th. Some of the ramifications were my parents' innability to take in foster children, the loss of our home, and a new role for me as the oldest daughter: that of primary caretaker for my younger sister and my parents.

My mother has had dozens of surgeries, hospitalizations, and medical procedures over the years. (She had a surgery last week!) She carries her medical records--a large thick binder--everywhere she goes. She never leaves the house without it, in case something should happen. In spite of her disabilites, when my father had a stroke last summer, she never left his side. He completed a 5-week in-patient rehabilitation program in 13 days, so he could be home with her, and she could sleep in her own bed once again.

The one abiding lesson from 42 years of watching my parents' marriage is this: the marriage came first. It was abundantly clear to any of us kids that Mom and Dad were in it together. There was no such thing as playing one against the other, and woe be to the child who disrespected one of them in front of the other!

It was the little things, I suppose that I remember the most. Dad had His Chair, for example, and by the time his car came in the driveway at 4:30 in the afternoon, there could not be a kid's behind in that chair again until my dad went to bed. Mom protected that space for him, and we obeyed, not out of fear but out of respect. She respected him, and so we did too. Dad had to care for my Mom in ways that most husbands don't have to. It's his gentleness with her I admire the most. I've never, ever heard him say a cross word to her--not even before the accident.

I've learned a lot about marriage, the better and the worse, from my parents. Here's to you, Mom and Dad. I love you.