August 7th

Every year this date rolls around. Every year it kicks the memory into gear. Sometimes, I notice that the date is coming; sometimes, I notice that it just past. Today, however, as I viewed one of my recently posted blog entries, it hit me on the same day. I was married on Saturday, August 7, 1982. Divorced a little over thirteen years later. It's funny how lives change and how the events of our past continue to hang on—in this case, like the burrs from a field of weeds that stuck to my socks when I was a kid

For those of you who weren't there, it was a clear, very warm day in Laingsburg, Michigan. The corn was a good six-foot high or more in the field next to my soon-to-be-in-laws' home. The wedding would take place in the shade of the big tree in their front yard. Our friend Lynda (or Linda—however she's spelling it these days) had spilled a pan of baked beans on the living room floor as she was bringing them out the front door of the house. I had prepared several tapes of recorded music for the day (Martin Mull dominated the mix: "What say you and I get normal/It don't have to be that formal/We'll just sit and watch TV like others do"); the Reverend John Carson would preside. Tony and Ann May would stand with us as our witnesses.

It was a purposefully small event, with the bride's sister Paula taking photographs. My parents and one of my three brothers (and his family) was present; one of my college roommates, Dan Graves, was there, as was my advisor from school, Barry Piersol, and his wife Vickie.

Now, it's been almost nine years since I moved out of my house and into my apartment. The years have been kind to me, actually, as I have been blessed with many friends. I have been able to pursue life from a different tack. Music, which has always been a major part of my life, has become not only more important, it's become my life's work—for the time being, anyway. (My position is scheduled to be terminated at the end of this month.) I also spend an enormous amount of time as a volunteer with a local folk music organization.

I'm doubtful that these things would have happened had I not gone through a divorce. As Jackson Browne sings in a song that seemed to carry me through the darkest of divorce days, "I thought that it would kill me, but I'm alive."

While it is easy to hold onto the bitterness that comes with being the jettisoned half of the household, every day that passes lessens the desire to do so. Slowly, but surely, the focus has shifted away from the pain of loss to the thrill of living; the love and kindness of friends—old and new—has supplanted the hurt and ill-will. Loudon Wainwright III always has seemed to have the perfect song for every occasion. Interestingly, he always seems to write them at about the time I happen to be living the same experiences. "Our Own War" came out a little after the divorce became final.

Our Own War
© Loudon Wainwright III, 1997 Snowden Music, Inc.

Hostilities ended, nobody cared
Anymore for the war, so a truce was declared.
So it ends in surrender, then there's peace at least;
Arms are withdrawn and fire is ceased.

To stay in a skirmish one needs appetite;
Two need desire to keep up a fight;
But when appetite's off and desire is gone,
Then the fire is held and arms are withdrawn.

When losses and wounds are grievous and gory,
When the battle is pitched, in the field there is glory,
When hearts just aren't in it, retreat leads to rout
And arms are laid down and the fire goes out.

We remember the ones who run out of dumb luck;
Monuments are erected and statues are struck;
But we tend to forget if and when we forgive,
And the survivors survive but they never quite live.

As for our own war, yes, I recall it well,
Just what it was like our own personal hell.
I've forgotten the good times—heaven's so vague—
But I remember the battles. Oh, how they raged!

When losses and wounds are grievous and gory,
When the battle is pitched, in the field there is glory,
When hearts just aren't in it, retreat leads to rout
And arms are laid down and the fire goes out.