Forty-eight years ago today, Pat and I stood at the altar of St. James Church in Ventnor, NJ, and became man and wife. We were young, thin, and eager to start our new life together.
A year and a week later, we had our son, Hugh P., Jr., two years after that Alison Anne, two years later, Ellen, after that a child I lost at term, then Michael Terence. At that point, I started "artificial birth control."
When Alison was 4 months old, we bought a house on Lower Ferry Road in Ewing Township, NJ, and lived there for the next 41 years.
This happened and that happened and the other thing happened--lots wonderful, some not-so-wonderful, some bad.
Of course, all this is boring and meaningless to the general reader--if you live long enough, you have a variety of experiences. I'm not going into depth or detail; too much to say and too great a probability that what's said will be misinterpreted, so I'm just setting down facts.
Now, I guess, Pat and I are both relegated to the "elderly" box. I don't feel old, but I'm always amazed when I suddenly see myself in a mirror--I look my age. I don't think I act it and I don't think my belief patterns are old, although I could be kidding myself.
The thing I regret most is smoking. We both smoked. A lot. Pat is reaping the dreadful consequences now.
Alison and Mike are coming after work and the four of us are going to Creevey's for dinner--Pat's first outing since he left the hospital this last time. He said he wants to do it and he'll will enjoy it, I hope.
I know I will, just as I've enjoyed these last 48 years. Looking forward to more? Absolutely--I hope we both make it to our 50th.
It's all good.