45

(an honest tribute to that work of staying together)

Published in

Tiny Myths

7 min readFeb 28, 2015

Happy Anniversary to Bruce LaGrant and Ellen the Shady

Dorothy and Aurelius made a few things in their time. He was brilliant, filled with idea. Thoughts on war, and real estate, and the languages of men. She loved kindness and sweetness and being in awe of all that’s around her. A simple girl, a man of the letters. ————From them came Bruce, a boy of the world, a man of his own complexities.

Clayton and Willo were common folk, perchance a little dull. But their souls were ever shining. She, a governess inside her own home, raising youngers. He a work horse with dreams that were quiet, like fish in their streams. He came calling to court her sister, ended up instead with this Leah of his laughters and of many virtues. ———They had daughters, and Ellen was their child, expression of all the spriteness they never unbottled, in keeping with their times which were lean on grand dreams.

Bruce, being pulled by stars that were not meant to be kept indoors, gallavanted his neighborhoods, strewing with mischief, sampling the wares of the smoky streets of his town.

Ellen, a bit crushed with simplicity and things too modest for her soul, stoked big dreams and knew in her heart she wouldn’t settle for a ho hum. She peered the world of fellows and set her heart on one that strongly lit her flame, even though his wick be a bit offtrimmed from the boys of her church and the dreams of her parents. She was a dreamer all her own.

Bruce had not intentioned to be a one woman man. In part he couldn’t help it; he was a bit of circus exhibit for female interest and the training of all that was honorable and upright was not a garment he wore heavily on his journey.

Ellen herself knew what it was like to be a bit at the center of attention. She was the baby of her family. She had no problem begging and whining and plotting for what her heart was after. She knew the sort of path her ma and pa had prayed and hoped for her life, and she too wanted to eventually get there. But there were so many flavors of earth to scoop up and try before she got to the glory lands.

Soon as young people do, they were wed before they were wed, and then they were married. And then came the children who come with that coupling of so many differences in a boy and a girl. Who could have known there was some much boy juice and so little girl serum in the genes of their chromosomes. And so they kept wondering if girls were in their future.

It wasn’t easy being parents so quick and so many at one time. It wasn’t easy to live on so little with so much pressure. It wasn’t easy to have not pre-carved out their path. But heaven had somehow linked the two together. And words from her parents kept beaconing to God’s hallways, begging great mercies to keep their ships afloat, the unioned boat unsinking.

Bruce fed his family via his voice on the airwaves. People loved to listen to him spin those records and talk those events. He came alive in that microphone. And he’s never stopped dreaming about saying smart and important things to help people solve earth’s connundrums so heavy. Many people loved him, that hood turned husband turned father turned DJ!

Ellen, of champagne wishes and caviar dreams, started off by cooking fish sticks and mac and cheese for those 4 hungry boys. And soon she too had found her profession to keep the family’s boats afloat. She was off to the offices of so many important doctors, keeping files straight so the actually right hearts got stitched, and nobody got an aorta transplant when all they’d wanted was a nicer pair of . . . . jeans.

Soon their kids grew, and became swimmers and spellers and lifeguards and athletes. While yet their heads were spinning, Bruce and Ellen beheld their offspring climb and fall, befriend and marry. And what could they do but pray and try to keep a foundation where each of their boys could bring their family’s to drink coffee and swim and to laugh and play games.

So how did they make it. To 45 you know? That’s not a small number. Their road was no rose bed. It wasn’t always pretty. And it wasn’t all thorns either.

It’s been said their commitment to others has held them with a common vision. Others have claimed it was a promise they made. To each other, to God, to their family, to their world. There are far worse things then being clumsy 3-legged racers, who limp earth’s shores, with a promise tied to their shoulders. Who burden difficulty to testify to something which lasts a bit longer.

Some say people who stay together through hardship are not doing anybody any favors. But others say a knot that has weathered the best that the ocean had to offer is something to weep for, to work for, to take hope in. To honor.

Sometimes love is dirty. Sometimes it’s salty. Sometimes it is scabby. Sometimes it is old. Sometimes love got broke a few times. Sometimes it wears stitches and casts and even prosthetics. But a very broken love is something higher than a love replaced, a love vaporized, a love ejected, and a love long abandoned.

Bruce and Ellen walked the strange roads. The ones that are unique to the cells in their souls. Their children have loved them and raged in their hearts at the imperfections we all inherit. But their children have known that their parents did not give up easy. Have not abandoned those vows long made. When they’d rushed the earth, to feel unlonely, to feel wed.

And here they are still. Grumbling like old Jewish grandparents. Mumbling plans, and prodding each other. Loving their grandchildren. Playing with their grand-dogs. Keeping their home a home.

And that’s far from nothing. It’s better than tragic.

It’s hope.

It’s work.

It’s not giving up.

It’s a handshake and a kiss when somebody has bad breath in the morning.

But what can you do? Here’s an idea. If you see those two walking, with no words in the neighborhood, pulling a wagon, without any children in tow. Raise a glass. It isn’t just pretty people with perfect lives we salute in this world.

It’s also the finishers. The ones who are faithful. The ones who say sorry. Who try it all again. The ones who forgive what seems all unforgivable.

All for the sake of a faith that it all absolutely matters. That no deed goes forth, believing in the light, leaning in on the truth, without a drop of rain being caught in an eternal bottle, and a mention and a notice from the One in Heaven who cared just enough to keep their houses afloat.

Happy 45!