70 years of marriage. Through feast and famine. A young city girl and daydreaming country boy. A catholic and a protestant. Irish and French. Reticent and gregarious.
He jumped off a pier in Bay St. Louis, MS on July 4, 1938. He landed on her sister Merrie Gayle but it was Fannie that he fancied. She was petite yet curvy. Black wavy hair and thick eyebrows. I have a photo of her, standing in a restaurant parking lot, wearing saddle oxfords; it is black and white of course, but you can almost see her blushing.
It was a whirlwind romance. Married February 15, 1939 in the big house on St. Charles Avenue. He had big plans... oil, land and money. He eschewed college to make money faster. He was jovial and good looking but had a fierce temper.
She was young, 18, and naive. Her family spoke french and had servants. His father was a country dentist, though he had studied in Vienna. Her sisters would marry men with college degrees, but Billy and Fannie were eager to get started with life. They could smell opportunity and it was heady.
Money was made. And money was lost. Great wealth and staggering loss. He was a gambler. A business gambler. He took risks. She held the fort.
Children were born. First Billy, then Susan, Merrie Gayle and finally little Gussie. By the time Gussie was of age to go to college, only a state university was feasible. In fact, at her fancy private girls school, their daughter Merrie Gayle had to seek financial aid.
Her love was unwavering. When business deals went bad, they fled the Delta and headed to the Coast. A fresh start.
A timeless love story. Is it touching enough that I can forgive him now as he encourages her, semi-comatose, to live another day? He cannot let her go, cannot fathom a day without her. He sits by her bed and holds her unresponsive hand, watching Wheel of Fortune. I know her. I can read her heart. She is living for him. Who will take care of him, she wonders. What will become of B? She drifts in and out of consciousness. You think she is sleeping and then you hear "God Bless You" in a small voice when you sneeze. I know she is still there. But I am willing to let her go... I am wanting to let her go. Dear God, take her and end this suffering. And yet... what will we do with Grandaddy? How can you fill the void made from abstracting 70 years from someone's life? Truly. Who is he without her? Does he become again that gangly 23 year old dreamer, living in the last year of his life he lived without her? At 93, he can't possibly begin again.
As I watch his sorrow unfurl like some dusky funereal rose, I wonder how can we possibly pick up all the petals?
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