It's Valentine's Day (he wrote, belaboring the obvious) as I write this, and I've always been a tad cynical about these obvious Hallmark Holidays. A big portion of the purpose behind these holidays is to fatten the wallets of florists and greeting-card creators. That's fine; there's a market need, and they fill it. But if you really love someone, you shouldn't have to go out of your way to demonstrate that; you should show it every day. That's how I try to live. And, given that sometimes my wife and I don't see another human for a week or more at a time, it's a good thing we get along as well as we do.
What's funny is that I didn't have a very good track record before she came along. My first marriage? We got married when we were 19 and 18, and divorced when we were 25 and 24. I had another long-term relationship, a live-in that lasted about two years before coming apart. I was growing pretty cynical about the whole romance thing, despite having the sterling example of my parents, who were happily married for 71 years.
Then came the fall of 1990.
I had left active duty and was serving with a Colorado Army National Guard medical company at the time. In November, if memory serves, that company was called to active duty for Operation Desert Shield, as it was known then, which became Operation Desert Storm and which is generally referred to now as the first Gulf War. It was while I was in the theater of operations as part of General Schwarzkopf's Traveling Road Show, Highway of Death Tour, that I met the woman who caused me to toss my cynicism out the window.
I was a first lieutenant (1LT) and Headquarters Platoon Leader. She was also a 1LT, the admin officer under one of the docs in the 2nd treatment platoon. As I was in charge of the motor pool, supply, food service, and the like, I was visiting all of our far-flung locations at least weekly, and she and I became friends. It became my habit to drop in to see her in at King Khalid Military City, where her platoon was working at the airfield in an installation called MedBase America.
My first exposure to her iron will and utter fearlessness came late one night when I strolled in to hear her voice raised, shouting in anger. "Get your a** out of my aid station," she shouted, "...and don't come back unless I send for you!" I walked in to find this 4'11" 1LT, in her BDU pants, brown t-shirt, both hands bloody, a splash of blood on her face, blood spattered on her shirt. I realized that the person she was shouting at, one bloody finger pointed at his nose like a sniper rifle, was a bird Colonel, who towered over her - but he spun and stomped out. Turns out he was a brigade commander, and was miffed that some refugees were being seen before some of his people; his people had minor injuries, whereas some of the refugees' injuries were far more serious. That's how medical companies work: You triage by seriousness of injury, not by nationality, and she was the triage officer.
The next day, that same Colonel came in, asked her to gather her platoon, and apologized for his behavior to this diminutive 1LT in front of her people. That was well done.
A week or so later, after a late-night snack session in the chow hall, she and I walked to the motor pool, climbed into the cab of a parked Army 5-ton, and got all tangled up. We're still tangled up today, and nothing - nothing in my life gives me more joy than that, than her.
In this coming May, we will have been married for 34 years. She's a wonder: She maintains our rural Alaskan household. She's a master at sourdough pizza crusts and taking our huge raspberry harvests and converting them to preserves and a beautiful, clear red wine. She deals courageously with nerve damage from low-level nerve agent exposure in 1991, and yes, she has a letter from the Veteran's Administration acknowledging the cause of her chronic pain and balance issues - but while many would allow themselves to lapse into lethargy with such a condition, not my wife, mother to four, grandmother to six, editor, publisher, small business owner, Alaskan, American. And, to this day, in memorial of the difficult choices she had to make as a triage officer in 1991, she wears a silver raven on a chain around her neck. In Celtic mythology, the ravens were the agents of the Morrigan, the death-goddess, who flew over battlefields to choose who would fall, and who would live - a pretty good description of what a triage officer must do.
She has more physical and emotional courage than anyone I've ever known. I'm more fortunate than I can describe to have her in my life, and I love her more than I have words to say.
That's romance. That's love. Not flowers and candy. Not sparkly greeting cards. This is the kind of love that endures.
Read More: Happy Skunky Valentine's Day!
So, yes, if you love someone, you shouldn't have to go out of your way to show it one day a year. They should know it, every day, every week, every month, every year, even if it lasts a lifetime. Love isn't about flowers and chocolates. It's about a family raised, homes built, a lifetime together. It's about a world, a life, that two people build together, and about a legacy of love one leaves to their children and grandchildren. That means more than any Hallmark holiday.
This seems appropriate.
