Today is the 32nd anniversary of that day back in 1979 when Amy and I stood before a minister in his living room in Alton, Illinois, and — with his wife, two children and two pets as witnesses — promised to love, honor and cherish each other for the rest of our lives.
Thirty-two years. Since I turn 64 on Saturday, this day means Amy and I have been together as man and wife for half my life. We married just two days shy of my 32nd birthday.
Few gave our marriage any chance of lasting. Both of us came from failed first unions. She was an actress and I was a hard-drinking, hell-raising newspaperman. Some who knew us had a pool on just when the marriage would come crashing down around us. I often wonder what happened to the money in that pool because no one in it gave the marriage more than a year.
Yet somehow it did last. The bond we pledged on that cold December evening in a Mississippi River town survived my drinking — which thankfully came to an end 15 years later — my ego and my many failings. Some said I didn’t deserve someone like Amy. In many ways, they were right, but sometimes we get lucky in life.
Our marriage survived, it thrived and it continues to this day — 32 years later.
Happy anniversary my love.