It was more than a spat and less than a blowup. Even as little kids, we knew something was going on, something like a slow burn.
On my parents’ 59th wedding anniversary today, I’m remembering that quarrel with curious affection. It’s the only time in my childhood I recall any obvious disagreement between them. And I smile just thinking of it.
What was it about?
Division of labor, the sort of dispute that has surely plagued marriages since the institution began.
These days, solutions are hammered out through communication, or with chore charts stuck on refrigerator doors. My parents weren’t ones for chore charts, oh no. Their solutions were far more creative.
Here’s how I remember it.
On a summer day in the early 1960s, we were getting ready to “go to the lake.” In Spokane, where I grew up, that meant close-by destinations in northern Idaho – Coeur d’Alene Lake, or Hayden, Spirit, Pend Oreille or Priest lakes.
We were headed to Priest Lake for the day. My mother had been up early making potato salad and other picnic food, packing bathing suits, towels, sweatshirts, everything three small children needed for a long day of swimming and boating.
Our old boat, an aluminum Crestliner, was hitched to the car. My dad was set to go and we kids were restless. We were all pushing my mom to hurry up. In the years since, I’ve learned how aggravating “C’mon, Mom” can sound when uttered by kids who haven’t lifted a finger to help.
Little annoyances built up to a grand statement by my mother. Showered, dressed and ready to leave, she announced she was staying home for the day.
My father, a smart man, didn’t escalate the tension. He just piled the three of us into the car, and off we went.
I was only about 8 years old, but the rest of that day is one of my clearest and best memories. We broke all the ordinary rules.
My dad launched the boat and took us to a beach on the west side of Priest Lake. We swam all day, with no mother-imposed time-outs for resting or to have Coppertone slathered on sunburned shoulders.
Our dad let us walk way out in the bay, made shallow by a broad sandbar. We ate my mother’s lunch, which she had painstakingly packed in a cooler.
Knowing now how awful any discord with a partner feels, I admire how dear my father was to his kids that day. We stayed at the lake until nearly dark.
He didn’t dare take us home without feeding us dinner. That was long before every town had a McDonald’s. We ended up at a storefront diner in Priest River, Idaho, where the only other customers were tough-looking loggers.
We ate breakfast for dinner.
When my brother didn’t finish his hash browns, a burly cook peered over the counter from the kitchen to inquire, “Whatsamatter with the spuds?”
That line is still a family joke.
It was late and the house was quiet when we got home. We never heard a word about our parents’ disagreement. It turned out, the joke was on my dad.
Years later, my mother let my sister and me in on her secret. It was tucked in a hatbox high on a closet shelf. In the era of Jackie Kennedy pillbox hats, our mom had gone shopping that day. In the middle of the summer, she bought a mink hat. It was “quite expensive,” she told us.
She never wore it.
That hidden hat was her own memory of the wonderful day we had with our father.
Maybe I should have waited until their 60th anniversary to write this. Maybe I shouldn’t have written it at all. This page is labeled “Local.” There isn’t much that’s newsworthy or local about my 83-year-old parents, who are celebrating today in Spokane.
I celebrate, too. I grew up so much luckier than so many children. In my entire childhood, I remember one fight. Not an angry word was said.
My parents are a year shy of a big milestone. I sent a card and a token gift, things that don’t begin to say what I feel.
I feel lucky. I’ve seen how big milestones are built.
Columnist Julie Muhlstein: 425-339-3460 or muhlsteinjulie@heraldnet.com.
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