Lucille "Boots"
and Howard "Monk" Meineke (as newlyweds in 1946)
June 1996
Dear Boots and Monk,
How easy it is to picture you as Boots and Monk—your high school nicknames—though you are approaching your 75th birthdays. In my eyes, you are forever young. You love each other with an ageless quality, and I—your grateful son—feel privileged to witness and enjoy that love.
When young lovers touch one another, it is usually for their own pleasure; I imagine this was true for you in your earliest years together. You touch for many purposes now--often to lend a hand getting up the stairs or into the car. Even so, there is warmth in your eyes as you reach out, and I can see Boots and Monk finding pleasure in every touch.
Mature love is less self-centered. I'm certain we children helped your growth toward mature love. We provided you with at least four families to raise—enough responsibility to keep any lovers from being too self-centered. Sandy and I were your first family. Five years passed, then Barb and Nancy rearranged the family into older and younger sets of kids. Seven years later, Kristy arrived, and eventually the Meineke clan looked like six parents and one child. When the older children moved away, you were left a family of two parents with an "only child." You've experienced it all; but just in case you're still game, I'm still hoping for a little brother.
No one was a stranger in the home you created for us. No matter how many extra folks sat down to share the silliness and laughter of the Meineke dinner table, Mom would work her kitchen magic, and there'd be plenty of food for everyone. You two were bookends at either end of our big dining room table. Mom, I would think after all these years you'd have learned to stop smiling when you say, "Oh, Howard..." if you really wanted Dad to quit playing games with his food, telling ridiculous jokes, and shooting napkin free-throws into your water glass. You know you can't demand more mature behavior with a grin on your face—then again, maybe every comedy team needs a straight-man.
Somehow, you both managed to share a career, as was apparent when I came home for Dad's recent surgery. Dad's notoriety at the hospital didn't surprise me—that's to be expected after fifty years of teaching at the medical college; but just as many people knew Mom everywhere we went at the hospital, due to years of volunteering with the university women and hospital auxiliary. In Dad's hospital room, you were like a king and queen holding court; a steady stream of well-wishers and gift bearers paraded through all day long. That was good—for in the midst of so much life, there simply wasn't room for death. So I guess you'll be celebrating your 50th wedding anniversary this month, after all.
Maybe you've noticed the current national debate about divorce reform. People generally agree there's too much divorce, but they disagree about what should be done. Some want to do away with "no fault" divorce laws, making it harder to get divorced; they believe society needs to demonstrate it has a stake in the preservation of marriages and families. Others argue that you can't legislate matters of the heart; they believe tougher divorce laws will only lead to more acrimony between divorcing couples, and that children will pay the price. Sometimes it sounds like the only choice is between holding bad marriages together or making it easy to retract solemn vows; neither sounds hopeful to me. Other voices need to be heard—those of couples who have built fulfilling lifelong marriages, and of their children who have benefited from those successful marriages. Unfortunately, speaking up for marriage has become a sure fire way to draw criticism in today's society—to be labeled naive, pollyannaish. Nevertheless, I don't intend to let your 50th wedding anniversary pass without telling you what your marriage means to me.
Even as much as I'm grounded in life by having the love of a father and a mother, I'm also grounded by your belonging to each other. The shelter you create for one another is also my home—a place apart from the ravages of life, where I can draw strength to face life. I'm inspired by your shared sense of duty to family, friends, church and community. Because I am your child, I've not been privy to all the intimacies of your relationship. I can only assume there've been times when you've caused great pain to one another—maybe even moments when you wanted to be free from one another, when the word "divorce" fell from your lips. I don't know, and I don't need to know. What I do know is that whatever problems tested your marriage, you worked them out between yourselves. That is what has allowed me—your child—to embrace you both as one, and in that embrace, to find strength and hope.
It only seemed appropriate that the rest of the family should leave you a moment to be alone before Dad went into surgery. I won't ask what you said in parting, but from a distance it looked like a relaxed "see you later," though you both well knew those words might be the last you would ever speak to each other. Was it inconceivable that even death could bring an end to your life together? Maybe so. After all, could imagining eternity together be any more daunting than imagining a lifetime as husband and wife? Thank you for your enduring faith and commitment. It is a priceless gift; and because of it, I too can imagine that twenty-six years from now, Susan and I will joyfully celebrate our 50th wedding anniversary together. Wherever you may be when we celebrate, I can only imagine that you will be together—and that you will still be young. So may it be.
Steve
Note: Lucille Meineke passed
away in February 2003. Howard Meineke followed her in September 2008.
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