This blog post was actually written nearly ten years ago and read by few people. I'm happy to report that a decade later, Carol and I are still, holding hands, enjoying life, and, as you'll read, similarly ready to celebrate our 34th anniversary in the same spirit as our 24th.
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I don't want this entire blog to be about tragedy and
inhumanity, so let me switch gears to something more mundane.
Yesterday, August 23rd [2004], was our 24th wedding anniversary.
We're planning a very special 25th next year, but the 24th is sort of an orphan
when it comes to anniversaries. What is the traditional gift for your 24th? How
about nothing! Look it up. There is no traditional gift for your 24th
anniversary. You're on your own, buddy. Maybe you don't have to buy anything
since presumably you'll need every penny for your 25th blowout. It was like
saying to us, "Your 24th? Pfaw. That's nothing unless you make it to
25." Hey, in this world, making it
to another day is a blessing.
Oh, yes, I see that there is a "modern" gift--a
musical instrument. Now, unless you're a concert pianist, or a rock 'n' roll
star, or a musical producer, what kind of an anniversary gift is a musical
instrument? My wife does not play a musical instrument. What do I say?
"Happy anniversary, darling. Here is your grand piano as a token of our
years together. Would you like me to build a shelf for it?" Or, "I've
bought this lovely accordion for you. Perhaps you could serenade us with
Parisian melodies while we enjoy that wonderful dinner you're going to
cook." I even considered a juke box that plays rock 'n' roll songs from
the 1950s, but it just didn't seem to fit the occasion.
But, of course, I did get her flowers. "If you put up
with me for 24 years, you definitely get flowers!" "You put up with me also," she
replied with a note of concession. We still hold hands after 24+ years, so I
guess that's a pretty good sign that we're doing better than most couples.
After 24 years, if you have laughter in your life, you have love.
We've never gotten hung up on tradition in the past celebrations.
There was no reason to do so this year--especially since tradition doesn't seem
to care about us this year. My wife came up with a wonderful solution. We both
took the day off work, she from her kindergarten students and me from my
writing and editing tasks. After a great lunch buffet at our favorite Indian
restaurant, Passage to India,
we drove north, just above the Indiantown Gap Military Reservation, although I
don't know why they call it a reservation. Perhaps it's because those soldiers
are forced to live there. After finding the directions in a rural part of the
valley, we arrived at Hideaway Stables, which is a good name because I drove
past it before realizing I'd gone to far ("If you get to the Boy Scout
camp, you've gone too far.")
It's been 30 years since Carol was last on a horse, so I was
quite surprised when I realized that she was quite serious about wanting to go
horseback riding on our day. At first, I thought she was kidding, so I jokingly
suggested that, if she likes, I could tie a feedbag to her face, which brought
her familiar squeal of a laugh. For me, it's been quite a few years myself. My
sister in Texas,
understandably, has horses, but for us, there's not much room in the suburbs to
tie a horse up to the lamp post. Ever since Superman (Christopher Reeve), who
was a superb horseman, was paralyzed by a horse, the idea of horseback riding
has not been a priority for me. Plus, when I was acting at Totem Pole
Playhouse with Jean Stapleton, one of the leading men and two of the cast went into the woods
riding. A deer bolted across the path of the lead horse, throwing the actor,
who returned for the performance that evening looking as though he had been
jumped and beaten up by an L.A.
gang. He gave the performance of his life (along with a good amount of stage
makeup) that evening and the audience never saw the brush burns on his face
(too bad he wasn't doing Phantom of the Opera), nor the limp he had
off stage.
For Carol, the last time she was on a horse, it kept trying to
nibble her foot. Perhaps her white sneakers looked like a nice block of sugar.
There's something about Carol's toes. When we visited Cypress Gardens
in Florida
years ago, a squirrel thought her toes looked like a lovely bunch of nuts and
bit her toe. No blood or rabies shots, but we do have a photograph of the
furry, gray perpetrator. Before we met, me once divorced and Carol twice divorced, (my wife, not the squirrel), men, for
some reason, as Carol told me, liked to nibble her toes also. We've always been open enough to talk about anything with a complete lack of jealousy. I don't know if that
squirrel was a male.
"The city slicker express has arrived," I
announced to Ann at Hideaway Stables, which brought a laugh from her. Ann thought
it was sweet that we decided to do this on our anniversary. But soon after we
mounted the horses, under the supervision of a 16-year-old accomplished and patient trail
leader, we quickly felt comfortable. It was like being atop a horse was in our
genes, despite Carol being a born and raised Manhattanite. We were pleased that
we were not led around the corral as though on a pony ride. We wanted the real
experience. We were given the responsibility for our own horses, after all,
they are living, feeling creatures that deserve our care.
"Stay in
line; follow the horse in front of you; don't walk too close to the edge of the
bridge; don't let him eat the mountain laurel (our official state flower is poisonous
to horses)."
With our required
riding helmets, boots, and blue jeans, we almost looked like we knew what we
were doing. I remarked to Carol earlier that Indians were not required to wear
helmets, saddles, and have all those regulations, but she pointed out that I
would not go over very well at the stables wearing a loin cloth. Off we went
for a one-hour trip through the woods and mountainside. That's just enough time
to breathe in the experience of the open fields and dense woods, exercise the
arms and legs controlling the horse without feeling crippled the next day, and
to avoid saddle sores (now I know why cowboys wore chaps).
One could imagine days in the 1700s when there were no
roads, or even carriage trails. The highways were worn, narrow trails through the
woods. Thousands of people could travel that same trail, and aside from not
much growing in the indentations of horse hoofs, mud prints, and turned rich
top soil, there was all the rest of the forest where animals and plants can
continue undisturbed. However, I don't think Daniel Boone would have made it
from his birthplace in Pennsylvania
to Kentucky
and Tennessee
if he had my horse, "D.J." At 23 years old, he was sweet tempered,
but walked at a slow pace and did more than sniff the flowers. It's one thing
to tell a rider to discourage a horse from eating the fauna that grow close to
the trails, but it's quite another to pit the strength of a horse against the
rein-tugging strength of a man. To D.J., it must have been like walking through
a candy store where everything is free. As the horse moved quickly to the side
of the trail to rip off a branch from a tree, or mow the lawn just below him when we crossed
a field, my arms strained to pull him back to his senses and continue onward. I
felt a little cruel trying to deny him his favorite snacks, but he seemed happy
as we continued our slow walk as he nibbled up a tree branch as though he were
drawing spaghetti into his mouth. Fortunately, the poisonous mountain laurel was at a
higher altitude and our trail leader did not seem too upset at D.J. snacking.
Carol's horse, "Alex," did the same thing, and her feminine arms, which were more used to herding our cats and dogs at home, were no match for a stallion. I wonder if this is how the
Indians lost America.
Perhaps their horses during great battles kept stopping to snack along the way to combat.
The weather was perfect. The temperature was perfect. And it
was a perfect afternoon. We now feel like seasoned riders, or at least look
forward to climbing on a horse again. We're even talking about repeating the
experience, only this time taking the two and a half-hour ride into the woods
with camping gear and food and setting up an overnight tent. I can picture the
historic past now, with pioneer tents and Coleman stoves all over "Penn’s
Woods." Well, at least were not traveling with a 35-foot trailer and
calling it roughing it. I highly recommend a trail ride, even if for an hour or
two. Take a day off work--or half a day--and go and support your local stables
to help send those nice young women and men to state and national riding
competitions! We came back and I said, "We're ready for nationals." Seriously,
we may not be much better than novice riders nor ready to leap fences, but that
unfounded fear that might have been inside our psyche for no good reason is
completely evaporated. Sometimes the best way to deal with your fears is to
face them.
By the way, as for those material anniversary gifts to each
other, we decided to spend the money on redecorating our bedroom. Now what
could be more romantic than that?
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