To have and to hold

I have a beginner's mind and heart

I’m getting married one week from today. For a 65-year-old lifelong bachelor, that’s in and of itself a big statement. This is what I choose. To celebrate and make sacred this amazing relationship to an even more amazing woman.

My relationship history has been a long and winding one. Mostly I’ve participated in serial monogamy but not always. I’ve also chosen serial and not so monogamous. I’ve also chosen long periods of solitude and singleness.

Love and Marriage, love and marriage
Go together like a horse and carriage.
This I tell ya brother,
Ya can't have one without the other.

Love and marriage, love and marriage
It's an institute you can't disparage.
Ask the local gentry,
And they will say it's elementary.

Try, try, try to separate them.
It's an illusion.
Try, try, try and you will only come
To this conclusion

Sammy Kahn and Jimmy Van Heusen, 1955

That was written in 1955. Obviously, our culture has changed a bit since then.

What is real love? I thought I knew. I did not. What I knew was an approximation of love based on my biological instincts. I knew lust. I knew how to take care of my own needs.

Why is this time different? For so many reasons. I’m different. This courtship was different. This woman is different.

Poets and songwriters write about falling in love. We don’t fall in love. We might fall on our faces. We could fall down the stairs. Falling implies an accidental—and more importantly—downward motion. There is nothing downward or accidental about love in my humble opinion. I’m no expert, but I’ve certainly been long enough on this planet—and had thorough enough experience in relationships—to understand what love is and isn’t. Falling ain’t it.

Building love. That might be a more appropriate and approachable way to describe the process. A loving relationship takes time. It takes intent. The key elements of honesty, trust, commitment, and work are not things that we refer as having fallen into, are they? You don’t fall into trust. You earn trust. You build love—at least this is what I’m learning—by putting your partner’s needs ahead of your own, while making sure you take care of yourself at the same time.

Lust, on the other hand, is a different beast entirely. A chemical reaction based on pheromones and physical attraction and sexual tension. Some people are lucky enough to have both—a strong lustful reaction to a potential partner, coupled with the time, patience, and effort to build a foundation where love can emerge and flourish. Many are not so lucky. The lustful phase diminishes or ends entirely, and what is left isn’t sustainable. Our ridiculous divorce rate might just be a manifestation of that fact.

I had planned on getting married early. As I wrote about in a previous essay, life had a different plan for me. I unpacked this a bit in my piece Fatherhoodlessness back in September

After having my heart dragged across a Texas field, stomped on by a herd of large critters, tattooed across the sky for God and all the world to see—the idea of marriage became something I put up a wall against. It wasn’t love that I was resisting. I wanted love. I wanted what I thought was love. My definition of it—my experience in it—was chronically short-term and explosive. Because of those experiences I couldn’t think that my marriage would be any different, so why do it? I managed to stay single long enough to bear witness to many of my closest friends blowing up their own marriages. Couples that I had stood up for at their weddings, now bitterly lawyering for their own pieces of the shattered puzzle.

Does intent and choice have anything to do with love?

Family love: Clear intent but maybe not choice. We were born into this.

Love of friends: Shared experiences. Both choice and intent.

Love of pets: Same here—both intent and choice. The one lovely caveat is the way our pets love us back. Humans aren’t capable of such unconditional love. Animals are.

Custodial or caregiving love: Maybe less choice, but certainly intent and necessity. Can sometimes be considered duty or work.

Romantic love: Ahh this one. It should be a choice and it should be intentional.

Sexual love: Oxymoron? Choice and intent should rule. But does it always? How many sexual relationships happen under the influence? How many actually turn into love? How many of us can separate the two things? What does one thing have to do with the other?

Objectified love: Sticky wicket here. “I love that.” What are the narratives around desire that are installed in us and taught to us? What does consumerism, advertising, and social media feed us? Can there be anything healthy about a “type?”

Possessive love: I simply must have her. Once I do, no one will ever take her away. Often seen in abusive relationships and domestic violence. The intent is to control.

Dependent love: “I can’t help it—I just love him.” Not much choice or intent being demonstrated there. More like need. Can love really be based on dependency?

Back to my own experience. All I’d ever known is different than what I know now. What I know now is that love is a verb. Love requires action. Love gets built. Love doesn’t just happen.

When Ann and I met 6 years ago—nearly 7—neither of us were looking for anything. Truly. She was a couple of years past the end of a 28-year marriage. I was single—always—and had moved from dense urban living in Denver to rural life in a small Texas town. By choice. I certainly didn’t move to a 10-acre plot of land in Texas outside a small town in my late 50s to meet a woman. I wanted room to roam. Peace. Privacy. A bunch of rescue dogs surrounding me. I got all of that and more.

We met at an addiction and trauma conference in Austin in early 2017, where mutual friends of ours were presenting. I give thanks eternal to Dr. Harry Haroutunian, Jerry Moe, and Carol Teitlebaum. Suddenly there we both were and there was mutual curiosity. Since we lived nearly an hour’s drive from one another, it was left to an occasional dinner or lunch to determine if there was any common ground—anything worth pursuing. We did pursue it, albeit very slowly.

Ann moved to an apartment in Wimberley to cut down on the daily commute to the women’s treatment center she was running in Fredericksburg, and to maybe help us fan the flames of hope in our relationship. We didn’t even use the word at the time.

We were getting to know one another better. Both of us circling carefully around each other and the idea, while simultaneously buttressing our own defenses against the inevitable hurt. I had (still have) 4 large, male rescue dogs on my 10-acre spread. It was heaven on earth for us boys. Fully fenced with woods and trails, a seasonal creek, a swimming pool, and hundreds of nesting and migratory birds. Loads of critters and snakes. Ann had recently lost a young dog of her own to disease at a young age and had sadly parted with another as part of her divorce. I was pressing her to consider a rescue of her own to keep her company in her apartment. She slowly warmed to the idea and began looking for one at the same local organization where I’d adopted two of my four.

And then came an Angel in the form of a small Terrier/Chihuahua mix. Oreo was a devastatingly cute and all-loving creature sent by God and the Universe to crack open two hearts calloused by, and doubtful of love. He picked Ann—like they do. We both were instantly smitten and had no clue the of the role Oreo would play in our lives. The little 20-pound dog with the 100-pound attitude joined my pack of ruffians and led them on a wild chase around the acreage. He had found his forever home with Ann, his alpha with me, and his brothers in my pack. Ann and I continued our safety dance around each other, taking a weekend trip here and there, and deepening our conversations. It is impossible to accurately quantify the impact that little dog and his enormous heart had on our relationship. It would not be a stretch to say that we wouldn’t be here today without him.

Everything that Oreo did he did with abandon. He chased. Hunted up and down the trunks of live oak trees in pursuit of squirrels. Down into burrows in chase of small critters. He loved with a fearlessness that inspired both of us. The ice began to melt around our long-broken hearts. That little black and white canine creature of this world—with a spirit from another world—reached into the fibers of us and brought us closer together in our shared love for and with him.

We survived Covid together—the isolation of the ranch a perfect place to spend the time away from others in our community. Visits by Ann and Oreo to my Happy Dog’s Ranch were long and playful.

Then, just as we were considering the next steps in our relationship, Ann’s 94-year-old mother reached across the country from New Jersey and called Ann home. Ann made it to her bedside just minutes after she passed over. Her body was still warm in her bed as Ann wept and comforted her two sisters. Two days later they would bury their mother next to their father who had passed a decade earlier. That Friday evening home at the ranch, my pack of 5 was entering a long Memorial Day weekend. Just after feeding time and chores I heard a commotion on the front porch. Oreo was crying in pain. The other 4 dogs surrounded him. I picked Oreo up and immediately knew that he’d tangled with a Diamondback Rattler. I guessed that he had been struck by the venomous snake protecting itself in one of the many burrows across the property. I swooped him up in my arms, secured the other dogs in the house, and took off for help. Our wonderful local vet—just four miles down the road—was all closed up at 6:15 PM Friday at the beginning a long holiday weekend. I had no choice but to drive the 50 miles in rush hour traffic to a 24-hour veterinary hospital in Austin.

Just then a violent summer thunderstorm broke out. Sheets of rain fell as I was negotiating the back road two lanes into the city. Oreo’s consistent cry brought tears to my own eyes such that I could barely see through the windshield wipers furiously attempting to clear my view. “Hang on boy.” Over and over, I touched him as I broke every law of the road, passing over double yellow lines, running just-turned red lights, and using left turn lanes to advance my forward motion. The normally 45-minute drive took 90 in the pounding storm and traffic.

I could not yet call Ann.

I arrived at the vet and ran with Oreo in my arms to a locked front door. I pounded furiously on the door. Finally, a vet tech opened it and gasped at the sight of my angry and fearful tear-streaked red face. She said calmly, “I’ll take him. We’re still under Covid restrictions. (May 2021) You must go back to your car, get on the website and give us credit card information before we can treat him.” I did as ordered and sat for 40 minutes until I got a phone call. “We’ve begun the anti-venom but it appears he was struck twice in the shoulder. We’ll do the best we can. Call us in the morning.”

Doubt, anger, fear, and guilt all boiling to the surface. My love for the little dog was so deep that I couldn’t imagine losing him. Nor could I imagine the phone call I must now make—telling Ann that Oreo might die on my watch while she was burying her mother. “Oh God please.”

The phone call with my sweetheart was one of the first moments when I realized I’d be with her forever. The love and concern in her voice—for me—was so powerful that I crumbled on the phone. If she could forgive me for this—this epic failure on my part to keep her dog safe, what could it mean for us?

And she said:

“I am so sad. Whatever happens it’s in God’s hands. Oreo loved you so much Dee. It’s not your fault. He loved every minute of his time doing exactly what he was doing on the ranch. He will always be with us. I love you Dee. I’ll be home soon.”

Little Oreo hung on for 3 days. It was interminable. I was inconsolable. After all my pleading they finally broke their stupid Covid protocol and let me in to see him on Day 3. I FaceTimed with Ann as he lay there swollen and stiff. I ran my hands down his little body and he gently thumped his tail, locking eyes with me and licking my hand. The next day he passed over, unable to withstand the effects of the massive shot of venom he’d received.

We were so very sad for so very long. We worked our way through the grief as best we could with the tools we had been given in recovery. We knew—just knew—that the spirit of that little dog had been sent to us with the purpose of bringing us closer together. We would honor that feeling.

Ann very nearly refused to come over to the ranch after that—the scene of the crime. She was able to once we got Oreo’s ashes back. We had a heartfelt ceremony under one of his favorite oak trees surrounded by my dogs. I had a pet portrait made from one our favorite pictures of the little Bean-head. Bean-Bean was my own nickname for Oreo.

For my part, I went to an EMDR specialist that helped me work through some of the trauma and guilt of what I had been through that day trying to save Oreo. I could not let it go—I was triggered by rainstorms—by driving down that same road—by the mere picture of him. Eventually—with the treatment—I was able to remember Oreo exactly as he was—joyful in his spirit.

If we can get through this together, what else can we survive?

A couple weeks went by. I had already been entertaining the idea of selling the ranch. If anyone remembers what it was like in the Spring and Summer of ‘21—people were bailing out of the cities into the country. I had received dozens of cold calls from realtors promising ridiculous returns on my investment 5 years hence. Before Oreo left us, we had discussed living together but that it would be best to start fresh rather than having her move into my smallish bachelor ranch. So I sold it, with a caveat that I needed to stay as long as it took to find a new place for us.

The only issue with selling at the very top of a market is that you must buy anew at the top as well. We looked and looked all over surrounding communities and nothing fit. One day in August I spotted a place on Realtor.com that had just come on that day. By 4 pm we had a full price cash offer in the seller’s hands and the next day we were under contract. We found literally the one house in our price range in the entire town, and guess what? It is perfect for us and the dogs.

That was another moment I realized I’d be with this woman forever. She was willing to commit to sharing a home with a lifelong bachelor AND his four, 70-pound dogs. Ann is certainly not a dainty woman—she is tough in a way that I’ve never encountered before—she simply speaks the truth and expects it back—directly. That said, going from zero to four big dogs overnight is no small thing. Those boys dance to a different tune under her watch. Whereas I’m their alpha plaything and pretty much anything goes, around her they’re sweet and obedient and protective.

We live a life of independence and mutual respect. We come together intentionally and enjoy every single moment together. And we laugh. A lot. Ann has nearly 40 years of recovery and he occupation for nearly that long is as a therapist and counselor. She works with individuals and couples both, using her training in long-term recovery, Imago, and Somatic Experience to guide her clients. Having a therapist as a love partner has many benefits and a few trapdoors. In our shared love language, we navigate that narrow path tremendously well. Never does she therapist me. That said, what we know about ourselves, and about each other, directs us in how we treat one another on a daily basis.

Last Christmas I bought Ann a beautiful silver ring with her birthstone Amythest in the natural shape of a heart. I nearly gave her a heart attack by kneeling in front of her on Christmas morning and offering her the box. My words were “I give you this as a representation of my commitment and love for you—at least until my 65th birthday”—which was coming up a couple of months in February. She giggled and accepted the gift with grace. Another example of how she loves me. No judgement. Just joy and curiosity.

I know what you’re saying, “Really?” You have to understand—this was a process for me. Baby steps were the only way I knew how to tread down this road. We’re both Aquarians so there’s that—always an adventure. During this year I had made up my mind to propose marriage. There were several times—while we were on trips together to visit her sisters or my brothers or my parents—when I thought “this is the perfect time to do it”—surrounded by family to celebrate with. I’d gear myself up for the moment and the words would not form in my mouth.

In October, we’re sitting at our kitchen table having a bite of lunch. A normal Tuesday—except Ann is relating a dream to me that upset her. The details aren’t important, but the moment was. We were both vulnerable. I said, “well then you should marry me.” She giggled and said, “of course I would.” And I said softly, “I’m asking you to be my wife.” Tears were followed by “Yes.”

There have been countless moments of reflection for both of us since that day two months ago. We decided to bust a move and have a December wedding right here in our little town we call home. As you may imagine, when two 65-year-olds decide to get married the invitation list is potentially unwieldy. We both know a lot of people. We decided on “small and sacred” as a theme, and the invitees would be limited to family and friends with whom we’d spent meaningful time with—together as a couple.

And so it is nearly here. Next weekend our treasured people arrive to celebrate with us.

I am having a difficult time bringing this essay to its end. Because endings are not what it is about. My full heart and my occasionally squirrelly mind are convinced beyond any doubt of this:

All the lessons I've learned.
All the money I've burned.
All the things that I thought were, but they weren't.
All the trials have added up to her.

Jackopierce “Trials”

So many relationships that I’ve had, and that others now have, are based on potential rather than reality. “He’s perfect once I can get him to do less of this and be more of that.”

Nope.

Acceptance is a key to love. I love all of the bits of crazy she has. I love the weakness and vulnerability she lets me see. I love her strength. Our intimacy is effortless.

I place her beside me, not above or below me. I honor her but don’t worship her. I treasure every moment with her—knowing that it is precious time that we are granted. With our pasts, it’s truly a miracle that we’re still here and somehow found each other.

Here we go!