A Ferris Wheel in Orbit

If there’s one thing I’m good at it’s picking lint off the carpet. I’m OK at picture-straightening too but it’s lint-picking that I have refined to the status of art. Bend, reach, snap it up, there goes the lint.

“I will admit you’re an expert at it,” my wife, Cinelli, said to me last Friday. It was July 30, our 50th wedding anniversary. “Watching you pick lint is like watching Tiger Woods swing his 10 iron.”

“I don’t think there is a 10 iron.”

“Well, whatever. No one picks a better lint. You’re the best.”

“Are you saying that just because it’s our anniversary and you can’t think of anything else to say?”

“Not at all,” she said. “You do a lot of things pretty well. Let me see, you . . . er . . . um . . .” She thought about it. “You built that towel rack in 1957 at our old house! I’ll be, it still stands, not a crack in it.” Pause. “I believe that was the last physical work you did? The rack of ‘57?”

“You’ve forgotten the fish pond of ’82.”

“Do we count the fish pond?”

“Why not?”

“Well you dug the hole all right . . . but nothing else happened and the hole filled with dirt again.”

“Well, to hell with the fish pond then.”

“That’s what I say, Elmer. To hell with the fish pond.”

“Can you believe we’ve been married 50 years?” I said.

“Oh, yes,” she said, quick as a wink, “I believe it all right, that’s for sure, uh-huh, yes-sir, I sure do . . . “

*

We were in a restaurant overlooking the San Fernando Valley as darkness approached. I could see her reflection in the window facing the view. Lights speckled the night behind her, creating an illusion of stars in her hair.

“You’re staring at me,” she said.

“I’m studying.”

“I feel like a bug under your microscope. What do you see?”

I see a face caressed by time, the way spring deepens into summer. I see a smile which, like a river, changes with the light. I see eyes whose gaze exceeds the horizon. I see roses. I see sunlight.

“How did we manage 50 years of marriage?” I said.

“By dividing the chores. You write and I do everything else.”

There has never been boredom in our marriage. Our points of view crackle with emotion. Our arguments flash and roar like a storm over the ocean.

I can remember a marriage-threatening clash over whose turn it was to feed our old dog Hoover. We broke it down into small elements of time, proving, disproving, maintaining, relating it to other events, demanding, assuring.

The debate lasted 20 minutes. Hoover got tired of waiting. He shuffled into the dining room and ate our dinner right off the table.

*

I like being with Cinelli. I think that’s part of why it’s lasted. I mean, we don’t wear his and her T-shirts or matching jumpsuits, God forbid, but we do like hanging out together. She says I barely make it as a husband but I’m a terrific date. Whatever.

There is no perfect way to sustain a marriage. “Round each curve with caution,” a friend once said. It’s advice best ignored. We sail the curves at high speed, faces to the gale, laughter to the wind.

Most relationships are Ferris wheels, circling in the same place, seeing the same views. Ours never has been. Think of a Ferris wheel breaking loose and soaring over the Pacific, up past the clouds and into space. Think of a Ferris wheel in orbit.

That’s what makes it interesting. We go to Africa. We go to China. We go to the Arctic Ocean. We drive into quiet corners of Europe. We crisscross the United States. The winds of distance call. Adventure beckons. We orbit.

We also understand stability. The importance of family. The maintenance of home. The dedication to work. The need to give back. We understand that life isn’t all party. Someone has to pay the bills. Someone has to pick up lint.

An editor said, “What’s it like being married 50 years?” It’s like renting your first apartment. It’s like having your first baby. It’s like buying your first house. It’s like war and bylines and growing a garden. It’s the heat of summer and the cool flow of autumn.

But most of all it’s watching the face of someone with stars in her hair and never tiring of it. Time and the seasons pass gently that way.

*

Al Martinez’s column appears Sundays and Wednesdays. He can be reached online at [email protected]