Although I grew up with my grandmother only three blocks away, Roy and Dorcas were my other, pseudo, grandparents.

Growing up, my best friend Jenny lived down the street. On nice days, and not so nice ones, I would wander down to her house to play. She lived with, and was raised by, her grandparents, Roy and Dorcas, above. (By the way, they’re standing in front of the house they live in. The same one I knew and grew up in and around).

I remember we used to get into all sorts of things – old oatmeal containers became the arms and legs of a robot, a huge pine tree became our “secret” clubhouse, puffy paint was used to sign into to pretend doctor’s appointments where Red Hots candy was given as prescription “medicine.”

I moved away when I as 18, but Jenny and I keep in contact through Facebook. She’s married with a one-year-old now. Recently she told the story of how Dorcas had fallen and although the hospital wanted her to recuperate in a nursing home. Jenny said absolutely not! The best place for her is at home, taking care of Roy. Because that’s what she loved to do. And Jenny was right.

I bring these two up because Roy died recently from brain cancer. He was in his late 80s and Dorcas was in her early 90s. Both still living in the same house for all those years.

They were married 68 years.

Let me repeat:

68 years of marriage

That’s longer some people live. Certainly longer than most people get to be married.

Raising children. Then raising a grandchild.

I never quite got the chance to ask them what makes a marriage last so long. How you can spend year after year with someone and not get tired, or bored, or grumpy. Or if that stuff all happens and love just trumps all that anyway.

Commitment is probably what it all comes down to I suspect.

If anyone reading this blog has thoughts or comments, I would love to hear them!

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