When I met them, Jake and Myrtle were both in their 80s and closing in on 60 years of marriage. 60 years! I hardly knew anyone who'd been alive for six decades, much less married for that long. I kept staring at them, studying them like they were a museum exhibit. Look. They keep smiling. Wait, now they're holding hands.... She just brought him some tea.... He's helping her down the steps. I'm sure I made them nervous with my psychopathic ogling.

The two met and married in the late 1920s. As the story goes, Jake was hanging out downtown with his best friend when Myrtle passed by on the other side of the street. "I sure would like to meet that girl," Jake wished out loud to his friend. "I think I can arrange that," said his friend. "She's my sister."

* * * * *

"It's a great adventure!" their lives said to me. "Strap on that life vest, hang on and paddle hard! Go for it!" That's what I needed. They provided for me a vision of marriage, a good marriage that handled whatever life threw at them, and thrived — all the way through to the end.

By then my wife [Alfie] and I were a few years into our marriage, doing our best to manage the unpredictable currents of young couple-hood, banging off rocks and getting stuck in low water and shooting thrilling rapids. Whenever our paddling was out of sync and the water would splash over the nose of the boat and douse our faces, I'd look up ahead, beyond the roaring whitewater, and see Jake and Myrtle, holding hands and cheering us on, assuring me that a little water in the boat is OK. Just bail it out, make adjustments and keep going.

Twelve years later, with each new bend in the river, Alfie and I keep learning to better navigate the waters and row in unison (which says more about her than me, because if I were paddling with me I'd want to turn around and whack me in the head with an oar).

Paddling after Jake and Myrtle
By John Thomas