My parents epitomize the joys of a lifelong romance

In the Reader’s Digest version of my life, I once dated a young graduate student who lived with monks in a monastery and dumped me at a surprise birthday party which just happened to be on Valentine’s Day.

So the surprise was on me. The good news? At least it wasn’t my birthday.

The following morning, fuelled with plenty of coffee, bagels and leftover cheese cake, (I needed my strength) I attempted to confront him at the monastery.

It galled me to no end that our relationship had ended so suddenly over a couple of cheese puffs and mediocre white wine. (It was the ‘80s). I was unsuccessful.

According to one of the monks, he was out, unavailable or possibly out of the country. I asked him if monks, like nuns and priests, took vows against lying, but I got nowhere. 

I wouldn’t say I was marred for life but you can see why I’m a little skittish about Valentine’s Day. Lest anyone think I’m a cranky cynic, I do believe in true love. I’m just not a fan of the big gesture.

I think there’s an excellent chance that if you’re wooed with a private jet filled with roses; you’ll feel a little gypped when it’s time to take the bus.

Big gestures also run the risk of being terribly unimaginative. Cole Porter was right, “flying too high with some guy in the sky is my idea of nothing to do, but I get kick out of you.”

The stuff of real romance tends to be the small and knowing gestures from the one you love.

Long ago, when my grown daughters were napping babies, I used to open our kitchen door so that I could listen to my favourite neighbours.

Without fail, the same scenario played out each day; she would make him lunch, admonish him to eat more and then, for the remainder of the afternoon, he played her favourite nocturnes on the piano.   Well into their eighties, they held hands, flirted with each other and always kissed at the door on returning home. Bogie and Bacall were the movies, but they were real. 

As a young teen, I used to cringe in embarrassment every time my father whirled my mother around the kitchen in an impromptu waltz. He usually employed this fail-safe routine any time he did anything to annoy her.  He was an amazing dancer and she was putty in his hands on the dance floor — even if the dance floor was in the kitchen. They were the real thing too until my Dad was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. 

Their romance started quaintly enough, at a church dance. Those were the days, my mother would tell me, when a man really knew how to foxtrot.  Couldn’t you just swoon at the very thought?

On their first date, he was unsure of what colour she might be wearing so he brought her two corsages, just in case.

That was the night she fell for the handsome, but not terribly tall man who made her feel as if she were floating every time he held her in his arms. A small gesture turned into the love of their lives.

Sometimes they would sing to one another. Does anyone do that anymore?  They were each other’s best company and as long as they had each other they didn’t need a thing in the world.

They had their moments but there were never storms, never hurtful or harsh words, only the deepest love and respect for one another.

My dad once said that marriage is never a fifty/fifty proposition since sometimes you might have to give one hundred and fifty per cent. He told me that he was one of the lucky ones; with my mom he was never in that situation.  Then he would wink.

I can still hear my Dad croon the opening bars of one of their favourite songs. My mother would sing it with him and then give him a kiss. I guess it says it all.

‘Maybe I’m right and maybe I’m wrong

Well maybe I’m weak or maybe I’m strong

But nevertheless I’m in love with you.’

You could do a lot worse than hearing three simple words, “I love you,” every day from the love of your life, for as long as you both should live.