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“No darling, there are masses of people in hospital at Christmas time. The wards are full as at other times.”

“They are?” He couldn’t believe it. She smiled at him and pushed the slight advantage she had gained.

“Well, it stands to reason doesn’t it? Pain just doesn’t wait until after Christmas to come on, now do they? Pains don’t’ know what season of the year it is, and you’ll always find if there’s fun or a party, or an outing or something nice, you’ll have pains and can’t enjoy the thing. Pains never sensibly appear when there’s nothing jolly to do.”

He agreed with that too, but looked around curiously shattered/ didn’t understand why. She decided not to ask, but to push her position she had gained.

Well, for all the people who had been unfortunate enough to be caught in hospital over Christmas and for the sake of the nurses and doctors who had to stay there over Christmas to look after the sick people. They had a lot of fun and decorations, Christmas gift baskets and nice food, just the same as if you are at home.

“I don’t believe it!” he exploded

“It’s true. Its stands to reason-they want their fun too-and it’s nicer, I should think to have Christmas with dozens of other people with you to enjoy it!”

“How can they enjoy it if they’re ill?” he pointed out after some thought “Not ill, exactly, but on the way to being better only not quite fit enough to go home, if you see what I mean. And some hospitals have television people come and film them so people at home can see the fun their having.”

Peter really couldn’t accept that “Now I know you’re making it up.”

“But I’m not, darling, truly I’m not. We had it on last year, now didn’t we, only you didn’t watch the screen, you were too engrossed in you  new train set.”

That was a mistake, referring to the year before. His father had come home on a flying visit. and had been lying flat on his stomach on the floor with Peter, playing with the train set too. Peter’s lips trembled, but he sternly bit on them and said, “Oh, that! I saw it, but I thought it was a sort of play got up in the studio, not real at all.”

“Oh, Peter,” she said helplessly. Other mothers didn’t seem to have this trouble. The Jones children down the road had all been in hospital to have tonsils removed, and the young Marhams, one of whom was Peter’s age, had made no fuss at all when one had been run over and had a broken leg, and the other two had fallen out of a tree and had concussion and cracked ribs. Their mothers had just phoned ambulances or called the doctor, and briskly gathered things together in cases in off they were bundled, and no questions asked. But Peter had always seemed different. A dreamer, not a boy to climb trees or get run over. A boy who thought and planned, rather than blundered in and out of trouble. A boy who preferred to read adventure books and dream of the time when he would go to the Middle East like his father and work with the oil wells.

“I won’t go.” Peter said suddenly, in a rather frightingly final tone. “Well, anyway, I won’t go for one week, until we give father a chance to come home. Then we’ll see.”

She gasped. “No Peter we can’t wait that long-“It was blurted out before she realized it. All she could see was the grave face of the doctor at the Mary and Doctor Threadingham Memorial Hospital. A big hospital, with a fine staff, but quite clearly they hadn’t liked this case and they wanted the boy in at once, before matters got any worse.

Peter misconstrued. He stood up, still bent a little, and not removing one arm from his tummy. “It’s like I thought. You really don’t expect my father to come home, do you? Not ever. I expect they know he’s dead already,” and his face puckered...

He turned sharply away. She felt he had cut at her with a knife. She took the blow, steadying herself, and then returned to the attack, because she must do this. She was all alone now, and Edward would expect her to do it; reasonably, not clumsily and easily. He would expect her to put it to the boy so that he would go willingly and cheerfully, not just throw his things into a case and bundle him into a taxi ignoring the frozen grief and fear that would render him incapable of protesting even if he wanted to. Edward had had a lot to say about the way some parents take their children to the new strange world of hospital.

She tried again. “Darling, don’t say such things. Listen, I love him you too, you know. He belongs to me as well you. He’s so dear to me-“

“Then why did you let him go out to that old desert to get lost and shot at when you knew all the time that there was fighting going on near? I didn’t know there was fighting. Nobody told me, or else or I’ve asked him not to go. We’re not so hard up, are we, that father has to go to that place to earn his living?”

It was the worst reproach of all. Hadn’t she begged Edward to apply to stay in London at the main office until the trouble died down? And hadn’t Edward just looked at her, and before saying quietly, “You know I can’t do that, Claire! His look had reproached her for putting to him the coward’s way out.

“People have to go to places like that dear, It wouldn’t do if everyone to stay home just there was a bit a trouble-we can’t run and hide until the nasty things stop, now can we?” He went to the bunks and sat done on the edge of the bottom one, thinking. She flayed herself into saying some more.” Darling, I promise you it will be all right. I’ll come and visit you every day-the mother’s do you know. And the minute I hear from Daddy or about him, I’ll let you know. If I can’t come at that moment to tell you, I’ll telephone the ward and the sister will come and give you the news,”

“She will?” He couldn’t believe that. “Why?”

“Because she’s kind, they’re all kind up on the wards. Its fun, you’ll love it.”

“I didn’t see anyone kind when I went to the hospital to be poked and prodded by those men in white coats. No fun, either.”

“That was only outpatients, darling. They’re very busy and they have to get through their work in time to close the clinic for the day, but on the wards where people lie in beds and eat nice food and have fun, there’s plenty of time. She swallowed. “At this very minute, they’re all very hard at working making decorations to put up. Did you know that? And the night nurses put presents on everyone’s bed at Christmas time, and they have shows and lovely food-“

“They do?” He was still suspicious.

“Darling, actually it’s a proper Christmas hospital,” she said, making her last effort and deciding that if she must diverge from the truth it had better be a fine and splendid divergence, and completely convincing. “Well look at the name of the place-that should prove it. Do you know what they call it?

The Joseph and Mary Hospital. There, now!”

God chose Moses to lead the Israelites out of Egypt and take them to the promised-land. Moses’ life was not without its failures, though, he couldn’t trust enough that God wouldn’t lead them astray and instead of asking God for directions chose to wander around in the desert for 40 years.

At this point, we have found through the millenniums that nothing much has changed. All men would rather wander lost in the wilderness than having the appearance of being weak and stopping to ask for directions.

Men are notorious for not asking for help, especially when it comes to asking for directions. They’d much rather travel miles and miles, trying to figure it out on their own, rather than admitting they are lost. This is one of the biggest complaints women make against men, as Deborah Tannen points out in her book, "You Just Don’t Understand" (Morrow, 1990).

Perhaps childhood conditioning has something to do with this tendency. Most often, little boys are taught to be independent and not act like sissies or babies by constantly requesting help. Even though this appears to be a "manly" thing to do, in reality, it is not. If a man needs help or assistance, he needs to ask for it.

If women understand that this merely is one of the "sex differences" in communication, they can help their mate to realize it is okay to ask for help. Instead of arguing, you can say instead, "I know you’d like to figure this out on your own and that you have a good sense of direction, but I would prefer if we could stop and ask someone for directions."

An alternative to this is asking for a "pit stop" to use the rest room and then asking for directions. Once you have them you can advise your spouse that they pretty much had things worked out according to the gentleman in the store. That way your advice is a volunteer gift instead of a force opinion.

By saying one of these you are allowing the man to "save face," as you are now talking his language. In essence, you are allowing him to help you by honoring your feelings of discomfort about the matter.

Fifty years of marriage - where have the years gone? That is a lot of anniversary gifts. However, four children, seventeen grandchildren and four… well almost five-great-grandchildren later, I can see where they've gone. When our parents were married for fifty years, they seemed so old. Why do I still feel young?

We were married during the big war, a four-day honeymoon and then separation for two years. Even though Peter and I went to high school together, we didn't really know each other. We exchanged ideas about what we wanted to do with our lives together through the letters we wrote while we were apart.

After the war, times were hard financially. A daughter was born after two years, followed by a son three years later, and twins 2 years after that. My parents died when I was young and we lived with my in-laws for a while. Theirs was the most beautiful marriage and a perfect model for us. They never exchanged a sharp word with each other-not in front of us, anyway.

Our lives have been filled with love for each other and for our children. We've tried by example to instill in them respect for each other, service to the community, and the necessity of charity. We both worked hard, and now, in our golden years, we're retired and enjoying the fruits of our labor. We try never to go to sleep angry with each other and always to say, "I love you."

I really believe we've had a fabulous fifty years of wedded bliss. If our families were all in town, we'd no doubt have a 50th anniversary party, complete with golden anniversary favors. Some downs, mostly ups, and even in our days of deepest and darkness despair we have the deepest respect for each other and, to my knowledge, have never, ever lied, deceived, or tried to cover up anything from each other.

We struggled through some lean years, not having any substantial finances behind us, but we loved playing house with our great family. Our four children are precious to us, different in so many ways that people wonder if they came from the same womb. But we love them equally.

My having a small business that I conducted from our home gave us the unusual opportunity to see a lot of each other, something not too many couples can enjoy. For us, with our similar likes and dislikes, it gave us the opportunity to discuss anything and everything - minor details that came to mind, we discussed right then and there. It really wasn't too much togetherness. On the contrary, it worked out great. When I retired finally, not long ago, we were so used to my being around that it was natural to spend time together without getting in each other's way. It was a mere continuation of a wonderful relationship.

So as a husband who's proud of his fifty years of marriage and hopes for many more, I believe that what contributes to our success is that we always talk out minor problems and differences that arise between us before they fester and get bigger. We hug each other often. It's good for our souls. We're considerate of each other and give in once in a while, even when giving in isn't what we'd like to do.

The essence of a successful marriage over time is the ability to share power. This requires that power be present on both sides, because if all the power belongs to one person, sharing is not really possible. Sharing power, then, requires planning. Each spouse must do what is necessary to obtain some power and then must be willing to share it.

Even if you are lucky enough to have a lasting, loving feeling, your marriage can fail if your lives are not arranged so each spouse has the maximum chance to respect the other and forgive their inevitable selfish behavior. When both spouses are allowed to make substantial contributions to the relationship, they have concrete reasons to respect, give space to, and forgive each other for their shortcomings.

I am not sure what really goes on in the development of today's relationships between men and women, but thirty or forty years ago relationships were often one-sided and it required some vision of the future to provide for power sharing. The man made a living. The woman made a life. If the man was the center of the relationship in marriage, as was the custom and the woman's role was to make the home, then her status and power in the relationship were precarious.

If the personalities were such that the husband was dependent upon the wife emotionally, or if she was smarter or more stable than he, then sharing power was more easily accomplished. Each needed the other and as long as nothing happened to disturb the relationship, a successful marriage was possible. However, if there was a glitch, the marriage collapsed because the man really had all the power and the wife's power existed only as long as her husband valued her. She had no real power of her own. If her importance to him changed, the relationship changed. This subtle pressure on the wife tended to make her insecure because she constantly worried whether or not she was necessary.

In my marriage, the traditional way was not a reasonable way to proceed, for several reasons. I am too independent to rely on anyone very much and my wife is too insecure to be in such a tenuous power position and too talented to play a secondary role. Fortunately, we worked out a better arrangement than the one in general use thirty years ago.

I married, in my early twenties, a beautiful and intelligent twenty-year-old. She was the best person I had ever met, and so I married her, even though it was not a good time for us to do so. She was much too young. She had no real plans for her life. I was not really mature. Our relationship was full of love but there was little else to it. I was an intern and she was still in college. Life was not easy, especially for her. I knew the time would come when it would not be enough to be beautiful and in love. Long after the wedding gifts were gone, and the wedding party favors were given out, things would inevitably change. She needed to have a life separate from mine so she would value herself separately from us as a couple and I would value her as a person separate from myself. We worked this out together, although we never actually spoke of it in these terms. Later in my life, I encouraged my children to be independent. I wanted them to understand that women - particularly women -need to develop independent strengths apart from their husbands, in order to keep their own and their husbands' respect over time.

When our children were teenagers, my wife went back to school and then studied medicine and became an internist. The process was difficult and required sacrifices on all sides, but over time, it worked. She has been practicing for several years.

There is no doubt that her career has fortified her.

She has a much stronger self-image, higher self-esteem, and is more independent. She is happier than she has ever been. I see her as my colleague and equal in ways I did not years ago, and I respect and value her differently. We have more of a partnership, our marriage is stronger and more stable, and in many ways her added power and value make her more important and powerful to me as well. But it is harder to actually live life this way. Things are hard to arrange day by day, details are inconvenient.

The theoretical disadvantages of a two-powerful person relationship actually become real in the end. It takes some getting used to.

We take our usual walk this morning, although when I wake up I don't want to move. The dry desert winds stir up my allergies and I feel listless, out of sorts. Staring at my red-rimmed eyes and dry, grooved face as I brush my teeth doesn't help the mood. My hair, standing on end, refuses to be brushed into obedience. It falls amiss despire my silver hair clip, a favorite of my wedding hair accessories that I've held onto since that day.

Worse, my knees hurt. I feel like the Tin Woodman in The Wizard of Oz that needed a shot of lubricating oil to get going. The connection of knees - father in wheelchair flashes unhappily in my mind. This was how he lost his independence. He couldn't rely on his knees to walk or drive safely.

"I'm not my father," I say to myself firmly. And more softly, tears just back of my eyes, "Oh, how I miss you, Dad."

"Let's go, darling!" my husband's bright, cheery voice booms from the other room. He speaks loudly, to be heard over the morning news program. I want to go back to bed in silence.

David never takes silence for an answer. Knowing me well, he appears in the bedroom doorway to see if I'm dressed and over my rebellion. He resembles an overgrown boy in his turquoise whale sweatshirt (how could I ever have bought it?), bright red pants, mismatched socks, and run-down running shoes. "You'll feel much better once you get going," he says and kisses me.

His kisses always work magic, even when they're illogically timed.

"Okay," I mumble, giving in quickly, knowing he's right.

At our front door we turn left into the ocean breeze, lured by a view of the sea at the end of the street. We pass some teenagers hurrying to get to school in time for their first classes. Pete stops suddenly, grabs my hands, and kisses me. We both giggle. I imagine that any student who sees us thinks we're absurd-two antique creatures in baggy sweats in an embrace.

I feel lucky and blessed and embarrassed, all at once, ready to walk the earth with this man who rarely fails to delight me. Ready to do anything not to have my body go out on me, like the old woman we saw yesterday, frail and dried as an old leaf, clinging to a building for support, stopping for rest before she went on. He's right. I need the exercise to get my mental and physical kinks out.

We walk to the park bordering the beach, lost in our own thoughts. "See you at Willow Street," he says and begins to jog slowly, still-muscular legs as sturdy as ever, belly an unwelcome, perhaps permanent, visitor.

All the things I wanted to change in him now seem curiously appealing-his passion for golf, his sloppy habits, and his invariable optimism. Golf gives him exercise, friendship, and fresh air and helps him slug back at business frustration, and I'd rather pick up after him than have him be a nitpicker, railing at me for being sporadically messy. I know he'll never change. I don't want him to anymore. We are what we are, and somehow my occasional pessimism and his optimism are the perfect dancers, bridging the changing rhythms of life. And he's more thoughtful than ever, in all the important ways.

Where did all the-years go? Gone, leaving us photographs on the family wall and a residue of the silver stardust that is love.

We meet again at Willow, our favorite street. "Do you still want a home here?" he asks, as though we aren't backed to the wall financially, as though we aren't in debt, as though the recession never happened.

"No," I answer, as if the choice is real. "I don't want a house anymore. I feel more secure in our condo because I'm not afraid to be alone when you're out of town. It's just right for the two of us."

"We could get a dog again," he smiles. "A big Saint Bernard, just like Reggie." I think of the rainy night in 1979, when I could no longer deny that our marriage was in deep trouble. We were lying on the den floor in our tract home, Reggie happily curled between us. A soft porn movie came on and he petted the dog languidly, never thinking of reaching out for me. I remember the ache of being unwanted, of getting up silently and going to bed without washing my face, pretending I was asleep when he came in. When I'm upset, I don't pretend anymore. I talk about it. I don't have the patience to wait. I've learned that much. The more honest I am, the less seems to come up.

The street slopes imperceptibly uphill, but my lungs want more air than I can take in and I fall behind his brisk pace. He turns, missing me.

"I'm not too speedy this morning," I pant. "Go ahead. I'll catch up."

"No. I don't ever want to leave you behind," he says and slows to take my hand and kiss me tenderly.

Memory wants to accuse him: "But you did leave me! You did! Don't you remember? Can you block out everything?" Why can't I do this? It would make life so much easier.

I stop the downward spiral of the blame game. That stage is over. I have nothing to worry about now but time. We're here for each other in a way we never were before, when we glossed over our differences to preserve the image of the perfect marriage. Here we are, wrinkles, bellies, and all, laughing more than ever at the foibles we no longer try to change.

I reach up like a young bride to touch his face, the curve of his cheek, and tilt my face to kiss him. I think I'd rather be here, right now, right this moment, feeling this way, than be young again with perfect knees. I laugh at the unspoken joy that bubbles up, and he looks at me and says appreciatively, "Does any couple laugh as much as we do?" He slides his right hand under the band of my sweatpants, grabbing my behind, knowing I never wear underpants on our walks for exactly this moment.

"No couple I know," I respond. "My behind is getting so much smaller" We both laugh again at my forty-year battle with a flabby butt.

"I can hardly find it," he says, so sincere I almost believe him.

We walk on, a little slower now. His thoughts, I can tell, are on business.

Mine linger on children, grandchildren, and marriage. How many marriages are stronger after a separation? Ours is. Eleven years ago we parted, at his request. He had fallen in love with a younger woman, an employee. We were apart for a year and a half, and I thought I'd never recover from the pain and the anger and the loss of him, but I did. I learned to appreciate myself when I didn't have him to please. Best lesson I ever learned.

So it has come to this: Noticing thoughts fly through my mind like a flock of birds. I choose this one and that, not feeling their prisoner-most of the time. Noticing we're in the fall of our lives, amazed that spring and summer have gone... wondering when winter will come.

It seems that my feelings and ideas about marriage are a function of where I am emotionally, psychologically, financially. Although I thought I had loved, and in a way did love, my first husband, the quality and nature of our love was substantially different from the love I feel now, in my middle years. The predominant recollection I have about my first marriage is that it was a comfortable, safe, and, I thought upon entering it, loving backdrop against which I planned to live out the other aspects of my life. I was excited about being a bride, about the wedding gifts, and even a honeymoon.

I always had certain prerequisites for the man I would marry. My choice for my first marriage met these criteria. At the time I was naive and had little, if any, experience as a single woman. I went from my father's house into the arms of a protective college environment and from there directly into a marriage home. In retrospect I can see we were two innocents who were mismatched. We had different expectations and needs and, unfortunately, never had the opportunity to resolve or even discuss or work them out.

I wish I could claim credit for a brilliant choice of husband this time around, but the truth is that he is a random gift from God. I think second marriages can be storybook situations. The first time, because I was younger, it was easy to drift away from the focus of the marriage. With maturity, financial stability, and grown children, it's possible for me, with will and discipline, to tend the relationship. Despite the complications we experience with blending our families, this marriage is more manageable, under most circumstances, than my first marriage, with its tugs and pulls.

There is another element: my husband and I share a high degree of physical passion, and our need and desire, along with the pleasure we gain from physical contact, affirm that our lust is alive and well. This was totally absent from my side of the equation in my first marriage. People have different opinions about the importance of physical connection in relation to a joyful union. Now I can compare my more passive first experience with the true visceral connection we share in this marriage.

Our passion gives us intimacy, a privacy in our relationship. This bond is for the two of us, and only the two of us, and I don't think it can come from anywhere else. So much results from our intimate connection, such as respect and my desire to give pleasure to my husband emotionally as well as physically. I do for him because the pleasure I get in providing for him is my payback.