This month, on that day when so many couples celebrate their new or ongoing relationships, my wife Sam and I are marking the 40th anniversary of the birth of our love. Like so many of us, we usually treat ourselves by going out to dinner, spending more money than we ought to and remembering the magical beginnings of our budding relationship.
The stories we tell have survived four decades. Like the time I brought out my Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary — which weighs 20 pounds and is bursting with words you and I will never be able to pronounce, much less use — and I read from it, as if telling a story in a strange, chanting rhythm. Sounds weird and boring, I know, but it was one of those you-had-to-be-there-moments. Maybe had something to do with the laughter-liberating qualities of cannabis, circa 1973, you think?
We used to park and make out on a bluff overlooking an ugly mosaic of oil rigs, storage tanks and dirt service roads that scarred the barren, desert-like landscape. Not exactly the twinkling lights of a big city or a Montana sky, but i