Forty-three years ago, in the Greek Orthodox Church of Sts. Constantine and Helen, in Detroit, Michigan, my parents were married in a traditional wedding ceremony. Of course I don't remember this event; I was born three years, three months, and three weeks later. But a fascination set in long ago, and I remember looking at albums, at the square-format photos with thick cardboard backing, photos now bleached out with light exposure and age . . . Without the photo in front of me (I swear it), I can remember the exact orange-pink shade of the roses my mother carried, the cream color and elegant tailored cut of her sleeveless dress. I see her in profile: slim body, head angled down, youthful skin with full, flawless cheeks, the merest hint of a smile like a pale Mona Lisa. I see my father, brown suit (or was this just the discoloration of the print?) draped on a "tall, dark, and handsome" man. Not a trace of silver in his hair yet. He, too, looks fairly serious, but completely content. In the non-memory of their wedding ceremony, my mind replays their walk around the altar: the Greek's Dance of Isaiah, three times around, crowns of stephanotis exchanged on their heads. In the Greek tradition, the couple is both formally engaged and also married in the same ceremony. I remember that when the time came for my own wedding, a pearly branch of the stephanotis was placed in my hair. Since my parents' union, there have been forty-three anniversaries now. I don't recall many of them at all. I do remember the ruby anniversary, though: the fortieth. Three generations went together to Block Island to celebrate: my parents, my husband and I, plus our son. I remember thinking that maybe this was an oddity: wouldn't most couples prefer to be alone on such a special day? But then again, I thought it could be fitting. What better testament to a lasting romance? Lives born from their partnership, a proliferation of vows. With my husband and I pulling out of the fabled seven-year slump (or itch, or whatever you wish to call it), it is hard to imagine the power of forty years, which is the entire length of my life. Maybe we, too, will reach this milestone. Whether we do or not, I thank my parents for the love and commitment they gave to each other, as I have directly benefited; they have shown me what is possible in a relationship, in a marriage between two individuals. I wish I had the impossible (for me) memories of their wedding day—a day of beauty and beginnings, of poignancy and power and fragrant rose petals—but I will happily content myself with faded photographs and a greeting to them: Happy anniversary. May there be many more.
Here is an early music memory: I am very young. If not still a toddler, then not much older. I am running around the living room, squealing with unrestrained delight, while my dad chases me to the tune of "I Am the Lion" by Neil Diamond (Ba-pa-la ding-ga!). He's reached deep down and pulled out his big baritone voice—the one he also used for "Old Man River" on occasion; the one that always awed me. It's the early 1970s, and although hopelessly pop and showy, there is no shame in liking Neil Diamond. Not at this time. Later, I'd go through nearly two decades of keeping this (admittedly) often schmaltzy artist at more than arm's length. When I bothered to remember Neil Diamond, which generally I didn't, I thought of him more like a skeleton in my musical closet; a dirty little secret that, if exposed, would set me up for some heavy razzing from friends. I don't remember when it was that I recovered my dad's Tap Root Manuscript album. It wa...
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