For Richer, For Poorer

The Next Great Adventure: A True Story

For Richer, For Poorer

Just before the wedding, in January of 1983, my friend and mentor, David Johnson, gave me some marriage advice that he said he was passing along from Jerry Hancock.

"There are three things you need to take care of in marriage - money, sex, & in-laws - not necessarily in that order."

When I shared that advice with Cindy she mostly agreed, but said she would replace sex with romance. I was 22 years old. For me they were the same thing so I didn't see any need to argue the semantics. It seemed like solid advice. My biggest concern was the money part. We were pretty broke. I didn't see how we could get poorer, but I also knew that if we didn't start making some progress toward richer that it could become a problem.

The "for richer, for poorer" part of the vow seems to have an economic intent. Even at 22 I knew that marriage required huge practical considerations, everything from housekeeping to managing finances to common courtesy for each other. Our goal was never to be wealthy, but we did want to make money a non-issue. My parents argued about money a lot. Cindy's father, Darvis, was the tightest man in 5 counties, at least until Cindy's brother Rodney took the title away. We were both acutely aware of how money impacted a marriage, and we took "for richer, for poorer" seriously, by working hard and steadily and, for the most part, living within our means.

Over the next 35 years I learned that romance does not, in fact, equal sex, and that rich or poor applies to more than finances.

We spent our first Christmas together, just us, in our one bedroom apartment in Atlanta, Georgia. We

had gifts for each other, and a few that had been mailed to us from friends and family. We had a small, real Christmas tree and part of our Christmas budget included lights and ornaments for it. We cooked a special meal. We spent time on the phone, in the days of long-distance charges, with family back in Texas. I learned that "It's A Wonderful Life" was Cindy's favorite Christmas movie and it seemed to always be on. It was a wonderful first Christmas together.

When I close my eyes and put myself back in that place, the memory that comes back is Cindy waking me up early, telling me it was time to go open the presents that Santa had left. We never did the Santa thing growing up, Santa was for suckers, but I woke and smiled and said "let's go!" I had a Santa present for her, too. She was anxious to see if I liked the present she picked out; she was excited to give it to me. I was anxious about the presents I had bought, too, but in a different way. I was worried about it. Would she like it? Would she think it was silly? Would it be sufficient?

I received a present from Darvis and Frances, my in-laws. I fretted over what it might mean, why they had picked that particular thing. I wondered about their motivation ... did they do it out of obligation? ... what were they expecting from me? ... did Cindy coach them on what to get? To my credit, I did discuss this with Cindy. I confessed I was not good at receiving gifts. In my world there was always a cost associated with a gift. I was always acutely aware of the sacrifice that had to be made to provide a gift for me, and consequently there was always gift guilt, that my gift from limited resources meant someone else got something less. Cindy spent a good part of the day convincing me that my gifts were given out of love, and not for any other reason. I had always enjoyed giving gifts, but never knew how to receive a gift. Learning how to accept a gift was my most memorable present that year, and it made my life richer.

Christmas in Plano, in the house on Emerson Drive, was always memorable. By that time we weren't as worried about having the money to spend on presents, but rather if we were spending too much, if we were spoiling our son. Once, we bought him a Thomas the Train table top railroad as his big Santa gift. My high school friend, Linda, who now owned a toy store in Amarillo, sold me their store display at a discount. We frequently spent Thanksgiving with my family in Pampa. We had new friends in Plano from our church. All of my siblings and their spouses and families came to visit us at one time or another. There was always at least one Calhoun family holiday activity at our house. We had visits from old Kraft friends, like Gloria, and old Garland friends, like Cindy P. My brother's mother-in-law, Detta, made traditional British Christmas pudding for us one year. Even my old Pampa friends like Eddie and Denton friends like Joey stoppped by.

There was always a party, a Christmas get-together of some kind. It could be work related. It could be family. It could just be the girls from the bunco group or couples and kids from church. The world I grew up in was very insular. There were no family get-togethers at our house, other than my older siblings making it home for the holidays, and I honestly don't recall my parents having any social friends, and they didn't have anyone over to the house. Cindy pulled in everyone from my life, from high school friends to new acquaintances, treated them like family and taught me to be welcoming, to be hospitable, to enjoy being with family and friends, and it made my life richer.

I distinctly remember waking one Saturday morning around Christmas in the house on Celadine. It was cold out. The heater was on, blowing warm air across our bed. Either the sun was just rising or it was overcast; the light coming through the slats of the window blinds was muted. Cindy and I were sleeping back to back, and as usual, she had crowded me to the very edge of my side of the bed. I rolled toward her, nudging her back to her side to gain a little extra territory for myself. She woke briefly to tell me, "It's early. It's cold." She turned back toward me, searching for the warmth on my side of the bed, and ended up with her head on my shoulder. I marveled at how well she fit, how I knew the smell of her hair, at how many times this scene had been repeated over the years. I surrendered myself to the familiarity and comfort. Time stopped, and I wondered.

We had been to a Christmas party the night before, a group of church friends had gathered at someone's house to eat and drink and sing carols. This particular seasonal Saturday the schedule for the day was light. Some last minute shopping where Griffin and I would go out to buy his Mom's present and maybe pick up some gag gifts. It was also the day for Griffin to bake Oatmeal Scotchies for Bonnie. There would likely be an impromptu get together for a meal with friends at some point. Cindy had presents to wrap, which would take several hours and a few Christmas movies to complete. Kerry would likely come over to help. Nothing seemed urgent. Nothing seemed difficult. I was looking forward to it all.

As I lay there, wondering about it all, I was overwhelmed with contentment, almost to the point of tears. Our home. Our family and friends. Each other. I realized how fortunate I was, what a blessed life I was living, and how I had spent far too much of it focusing on my discontent. Growing up I moved carefully to avoid amplifying the underlying tension in our house, trying to steady the emotional whipsaw.  I was never quite good enough, and consequently never really succeeded at the balancing act. When you know you're not going to win, it's easy to give up, blame yourself, and be discontented. On that morning, in that moment, with that brief experience of peace and personal insight, I found a new source of strength, a new way of accepting uncertainty. Shortly, I would come to need it more than I imagined.

I attempted to capture that morning in a rambling, mystical sort of blog post in January of 2014, though on re-reading it's more confusing than explanatory. In simpler terms, the richer from our wedding vows did not ultimately mean money. It meant the complexity and depth and character of anything that develops with use and age and stress over time. Whiskeys and wine, antiques and everyday objects, your life and relationships ... they all develop their own unique and truthful richness, a patina, that can't be manufactured or faked.

Cindy made my life richer by teaching me how to give and receive gifts, by expanding my concept of
family and what familial relationships should be, and by walking with me on a path that eventually allowed me to glimpse contentment. I hope that I made her life richer as well, but it's hard to see the impact you have on others. My intention was to enrich her life, not take from it or make her poorer, because I loved her. Surely I must have, given the time and energy we spent on each other, but even if I did not, I still remember our first Christmas, where I learned that gifts given and received in love need to be cherished, not questioned. It is a rich life, indeed.