Fifty Years is a Long Time

Today my family is going to a 50th Wedding Anniversary party for my aunt and uncle. I’m fifty-one years old, so that means that for just about as long as I’ve been living and breathing and learning about the world, my Aunt Carm and Uncle Johnny have been doing the same thing — as a couple.

When they got married, JFK wasn’t even president yet. To their grandchildren, JFK is a distant historical figure.

In the 1960s, Aunt Carm and Uncle Johnny used to go out dancing every Saturday night with Aunt Margie and Uncle Charlie, who are both gone now. The two women wore white go-go boots and jersey knit shifts for these dates with their husbands.

Aunt Carm wore “Dynasty”-style glamour dresses to her own children’s weddings in the 1980s, and now she still looks really good for a woman in her early seventies. And Uncle Johnny is a tall, distinguished-looking, white-haired charmer.

I can’t wait to toast them and that big number — 50. Fifty years is a long time. And yet, to a loving bystander, they don’t seem to have changed much at all.


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