“The Gold One”
Virginia and Freeman just celebrated their 50-Year Anniversary. Their son, Michael, threw them a big party over at the church, and we had barbecue and all the fixin’s. BBQ is pretty much the scriptural meal for celebrating stuff. I think it’s somewhere in Deuteronomy.
Fifty of anything is a lot, and when you’re talking wedded years, it’s a whole lot. That’s why they call it the Golden Anniversary. Since Kay and I couldn’t afford to get ‘em anything made of gold, we decided to give them some golden memories.
Golden memories are cheap as all get out, but they’re so valuable. I’m fairly sure our best friends would’ve rather had something in real gold, but we’re not that good of best friends. To tell the truth there hasn’t been a great deal of friend nurturing of late.
That’s what I talked about while emceeing the anniversary party. The emcee can say just about anything he wants. That’s why they call it “Emcee.” It stands for… I have no idea. Just one of those weird words.
So, I told everyone at the party how the Plilers used to be. We went everywhere and did everything together. We had birthday trips where the birthday person was given $15 to spend on something they wouldn’t ordinarily buy. Something fun.
Virginia always bought candles, ‘cause she’s a goober. Freeman would buy fishing lures or ammunition or camouflage drawers. Camouflage something. Kay usually got costume jewelry, and I usually bought something in a cashew. Roasted, chocolate covered, honey-coated, peanut-butter drenched, Cheeto-mixed… anything in a cashew.
Besides the birthday trips, the Plilers and Hayters also used to camp out a lot. We had to borrow the Jackson’s camper until Virginia and Freeman broke down and bought one of their own. Took me forever to persuade them to do that. The Jacksons were good friends, but I just hated to keep borrowing their camper.
We also used to eat supper out every Thursday. In fact, the death of that tradition is what signaled the demise of a wonderful friendship. And, do you wanna know what caused it? Grandkids. Grandkids can really mess up a friendship.
It happened all at once, too. I called over at the Plilers’ one Thursday afternoon and asked where we were gonna eat. Do you know what Virginia said? “Oh, we can’t go out tonight, ‘cause the grandkids are coming over.” That was her excuse. The Hayters were weighed in the balance and found wanting.
It went on like that for several Thursdays until I just quit pushing. You don’t hafta hit me over the head. And that’s what I told all of those gathered at the anniversary party. No one can compete with grandkids. You might as well load up your bean dip and nachos and head for the casa, ‘cause the grandkids are going to rule.
By the way, all the grandkids were at the anniversary party and heard me say all of this. If any of them felt the least bit guilty, I couldn’t tell. I shouldn’t blame them, though. Seems that most parents love their kids, but they worship their grandkids. Humans are the only creatures that are big on grandkids. Do you think chickens care for their grandkids? They couldn’t even pick ‘em out of a carton.
Kay and I never had kids, so Virginia and Freeman were like our grandkids. -- Uh, strike that. But, you get the point. – Point being, we enjoyed the moments. Do you know who got me started writing this column? Virginia. Back in ’79 The Hayters and Plilers had just returned from a tubing expedition in New Braunsfels and Virginia recommended I write a story about it and submit it to The Courier. Thirty-five years later I’m still writing for the Courier and The Villager.
By the way, Virginia became a teacher because of her best friend. One night around a campfire I asked her what she’d like to do if she could do anything. She said she’d like to be a teacher. I went way out on a limb and said, “Well, why don’t you go to college, get a degree and teach?”
She did, too. Impressed everyone she knew, and helped hundreds of students move on in life. And, I’m the one responsible. Well, I had a hand in it.
And, Freeman? Don’t get me started. I don’t want you to take advantage of him, but Freeman will do anything for you. He’s helped us move four times, taken me to the doctor a few times, fixed stuff for me all the time… He’s “Good ‘ol Free,” and always will be.
That doesn’t even touch the surface of what all that couple has meant to Kay and me. And, that’s what I told ‘em at the anniversary party. Instead of waiting to say good stuff at their funerals, I got it out of the way while they’re still alive. I’m not sure that’s scriptural, but I did it anyway.
And, yes, they’re still our best friends. We don’t rate up there with their grandkids, but who does? Makes no sense, you ask me.
End
Mark@rooftopwriter.com
Virginia and Freeman just celebrated their 50-Year Anniversary. Their son, Michael, threw them a big party over at the church, and we had barbecue and all the fixin’s. BBQ is pretty much the scriptural meal for celebrating stuff. I think it’s somewhere in Deuteronomy.
Fifty of anything is a lot, and when you’re talking wedded years, it’s a whole lot. That’s why they call it the Golden Anniversary. Since Kay and I couldn’t afford to get ‘em anything made of gold, we decided to give them some golden memories.
Golden memories are cheap as all get out, but they’re so valuable. I’m fairly sure our best friends would’ve rather had something in real gold, but we’re not that good of best friends. To tell the truth there hasn’t been a great deal of friend nurturing of late.
That’s what I talked about while emceeing the anniversary party. The emcee can say just about anything he wants. That’s why they call it “Emcee.” It stands for… I have no idea. Just one of those weird words.
So, I told everyone at the party how the Plilers used to be. We went everywhere and did everything together. We had birthday trips where the birthday person was given $15 to spend on something they wouldn’t ordinarily buy. Something fun.
Virginia always bought candles, ‘cause she’s a goober. Freeman would buy fishing lures or ammunition or camouflage drawers. Camouflage something. Kay usually got costume jewelry, and I usually bought something in a cashew. Roasted, chocolate covered, honey-coated, peanut-butter drenched, Cheeto-mixed… anything in a cashew.
Besides the birthday trips, the Plilers and Hayters also used to camp out a lot. We had to borrow the Jackson’s camper until Virginia and Freeman broke down and bought one of their own. Took me forever to persuade them to do that. The Jacksons were good friends, but I just hated to keep borrowing their camper.
We also used to eat supper out every Thursday. In fact, the death of that tradition is what signaled the demise of a wonderful friendship. And, do you wanna know what caused it? Grandkids. Grandkids can really mess up a friendship.
It happened all at once, too. I called over at the Plilers’ one Thursday afternoon and asked where we were gonna eat. Do you know what Virginia said? “Oh, we can’t go out tonight, ‘cause the grandkids are coming over.” That was her excuse. The Hayters were weighed in the balance and found wanting.
It went on like that for several Thursdays until I just quit pushing. You don’t hafta hit me over the head. And that’s what I told all of those gathered at the anniversary party. No one can compete with grandkids. You might as well load up your bean dip and nachos and head for the casa, ‘cause the grandkids are going to rule.
By the way, all the grandkids were at the anniversary party and heard me say all of this. If any of them felt the least bit guilty, I couldn’t tell. I shouldn’t blame them, though. Seems that most parents love their kids, but they worship their grandkids. Humans are the only creatures that are big on grandkids. Do you think chickens care for their grandkids? They couldn’t even pick ‘em out of a carton.
Kay and I never had kids, so Virginia and Freeman were like our grandkids. -- Uh, strike that. But, you get the point. – Point being, we enjoyed the moments. Do you know who got me started writing this column? Virginia. Back in ’79 The Hayters and Plilers had just returned from a tubing expedition in New Braunsfels and Virginia recommended I write a story about it and submit it to The Courier. Thirty-five years later I’m still writing for the Courier and The Villager.
By the way, Virginia became a teacher because of her best friend. One night around a campfire I asked her what she’d like to do if she could do anything. She said she’d like to be a teacher. I went way out on a limb and said, “Well, why don’t you go to college, get a degree and teach?”
She did, too. Impressed everyone she knew, and helped hundreds of students move on in life. And, I’m the one responsible. Well, I had a hand in it.
And, Freeman? Don’t get me started. I don’t want you to take advantage of him, but Freeman will do anything for you. He’s helped us move four times, taken me to the doctor a few times, fixed stuff for me all the time… He’s “Good ‘ol Free,” and always will be.
That doesn’t even touch the surface of what all that couple has meant to Kay and me. And, that’s what I told ‘em at the anniversary party. Instead of waiting to say good stuff at their funerals, I got it out of the way while they’re still alive. I’m not sure that’s scriptural, but I did it anyway.
And, yes, they’re still our best friends. We don’t rate up there with their grandkids, but who does? Makes no sense, you ask me.
End
Mark@rooftopwriter.com
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