My grandparents, Jean and Mort Schur, met a little over 60 years ago at a wedding. She was already pinned to a fella; he was single and feeling no pain from a couple scotches too many. Morty managed to woo Jean in a matter of days and within a year, they were engaged with a cigar band for a ring.
On January 26, my grandparents, will celebrate their 60th wedding anniversary.
Sixty years - for twice as long as I've even been alive - they have lived together, laughed together, shared secrets, shared losses, been the best of friends and soothed each other in times of pain. "G&G," as my family refers to them, started from literally nothing, my grandfather working his butt off to become a top forensic CPA who, at 82, still works for the love of it. He goes into the office a few days a week, leaving younger (but not faster) employees in a slack-jawed wake of awe as he strides past in his slick black button-downs and blazers, giving advice on everything from marriage to childrearing to athletics (he can golf his age). But he drops everything at a moment's notice to get home in time to drive my grandmother to her hair appointment (macular degeneration has clawed away at her eyesight, so he acts as her sight)
My grandma has molded the minds of literally thousands of students as a Sunday school teacher - recently, she was honored for 50 years of service - and every year on Purim, the holiday celebrated by dressing in costume, my grandpa magically appears dressed as "Chicken Man," doling out trinkets and toys to the kids who clamor around him and his crazy rooster outfit for a sparkly ring or a mini-puzzle.
Every year, these two keep on going, both in their personal and professional lives, and in their love. In a world of starter marriages and inappropriate affairs and midlife crises, they have kept on going.
My mother was born with a never-before-seen illness that required immediate surgery and long months of 'round-the-clock home care. They kept on going.
My mother's sister, Linda, who I am named after, died in her early teens of cancer. Enough to break many couples apart. Jean and Morty kept on going.
Laughter fills their home - the same home their children were raised in. You can hear it as you approach from the driveway; it hits you as powerfully as the smell of Jeannie's matzoh ball soup. They literally delight in each other company, teasing and exchanging glances. My grandpa tries to talk at a holiday dinner, perhaps some ridiculous story about how he actually is the person who invented the question mark or iodine or jogging, and my grandmother shoots him a look across the table and shouts, playfully but stern, "Morty! Be quiet. People don't want to hear your iodine story again!" My grandpa grandly clamps his hand over his mouth but quietly whispers to me, sitting next to him, "Isn't she the best? Uch, I love her so much."
They have traveled, cruising the Orient Express, visiting their homeland of Israel, sunbathing in Florida during the winter. They have made other trips - sitting shiva for friends passed, whispering words to lost siblings at chilly gravesites. They saw both of their grandchildren get married, Morty always the crier of the two. They love Cirque du Soleil and stare up at the performers, holding hands and smiling in delight together. She is always taken care of - the best seat wherever they go, her diet Coke ordered with very little ice, her chicken breast cooked very, very, very well-done, understood? As she tried on outfits for their anniversary party, he was stealing into the women's dressing room, throwing clothes over her door and urging her to try on more, more, more! At dinner, I watch as they fall into laughter - that crazy, uncontrollable, can't-catch-your-breath laughter that comes with an inside joke or a sense of humor only someone you're that close to gets. Always, they end the days in each others' arms. That, I believe, is how they've kept on going.
Their love is a fearless love.
Just a few days after meeting in 1946, Morty left to serve our country in World War II. When he returned from being stationed overseas in Germany, he wrote my grandma a love poem. Here, I share it with you, his simple words and rocky cadence more beautiful than anything I could possible write.
Just Stuff
(Circa Nov. 1946)
To Jeanie,
It's warm right now, tho to others it may seem cold,
It's a feeling in my heart that makes me young, tho I'm not so old,
What is this thing that turns my blood to fluff,
Spicy food, the breeze thru the trees, a fight, no hon, it's just stuff.
What is it that keeps me from eating food right,
What is it that makes me roll and toss and squirm all night,
What ever it is, it's kinda rough,
What did you say, no, that's not it, it's just stuff.
What make a person like me write poems this way,
And think about tomorrow, a dreamer if you would say,
And when problems arise, they're not so tough,
All due to this wonderful, curious thing called stuff.
You're wondrin' what stuff is, that's hard for me to say,
But whatever it is, I've been feeling it all day,
Only there's something missing, it's only when you're not near,
It's the lilacs on your breath, the smell of roses behind your ear,
The lilt of your laughter, the sparkle in your eye,
The look when you get miffed, the softness of your sigh.
But I'm getting away from the subject, your faculties have carried me away,
To define the word stuff would take more than a day,
So if you will be patient, I'll summarize the above,
The word stuff is so simple, all it is -- is love.
From, Morty