The first part of July was very full of relatives here at the homestead, and my relatives run the gambit in ‘size’ designations between morbidly obese and thin as rails. I’m a sort of in-between person. Weigh the same now (approaching my 40th anniversary next month) as I did the day I graduated from high school and the day I got married. Don’t tend to gain or lose and never have. Hubby is one of those ‘high metabolism’ sorts who could look like a starving Ethiopian with little trouble just by skipping a few meals, but keeps firm muscles under the no-fat covering by getting way more exercise than most guys these days. Comes from the homestead lifestyle, heating with wood (thus cutting and splitting), maintaining the acre of up-and-down yard, and playing lots of ‘challenging’ disc golf.

Our daughter takes after him. You’d swear she’s got a giant tapeworm or something watching her woof down more food in a single sitting than I’m likely to eat all day (or over two days!), never gains an ounce and has to eat lots to maintain what little she’s got. Her son takes more after his father, and could easily put on significant weight if he’s not careful. Of course his diet is worse than ours – he likes fast food burgers, fries and soft drinks, whereas we are mostly vegetarian, seldom eat out, and drink primarily our great spring water in herb/green teas or plain, or mixed with straight fruit juices like blueberry, cranberry, pomegranate or some combo. All of us get sugar cravings occasionally and are known to pig out on chocolate or other candy, but that’s rare enough not to be a big deal, living as far from town as we do. Daughter likes a little coffee in her sugar, when she’s not here a pound of sugar can last for months. Hubby and I don’t use it in coffee or on cereal (though we do like fruit on our Cheerios), and don’t drink milk straight-up ever. Daughter can consume a gallon a day without even trying.

Out of five kids in my family, 4 of us siblings tend to be slender like me. Yes, the poundage has rearranged quite a bit over the course of my 58 years, but you’ll have this (it’s a gravity thing, I think!). The youngest, my baby sister who had a 17″ waist when she got married, is now morbidly obese. She and her three children spent four days here, took grandson back with them to Florida. Her two sons are like her hubby, high metabolism guys whose plain old nervous energy keeps them skinny. They don’t exercise or even go out of the house much at all, so that’s not a factor. Her daughter is just now ‘chunky’, risks being fat as she gets older if she isn’t careful. Our parents weren’t fat folks, in fact, Mom was a runway model with long legs and perfect posture, lots of grace and beautiful chestnut hair – a real beauty. Grandparents weren’t particularly large on either side, though my father’s sister was a fat woman as was my mother’s grandmother. So there are no doubt a few fat genes in the mix, where there seem to be none on my hubby’s side.

And indeed genetics do play a role. Primarily, I suspect, in how metabolism is regulated, along with hunger signaling and tendencies to store fat. But my observations also tend to support my strong suspicions that most of it is diet and exercise habits. Primarily diet. This was doubly confirmed during their four-day visit, when we had to be the food suppliers.

Now, I’ve an ample garden and the apples are ripe, the pears are dropping, and there’s plenty of juice, tea, milk, cereal (Cheerios and plain Shredded Wheat), whole grain bread, cheese, pickles, canned veggies, etc. I cooked dinner every night, usually a bean dish (Mexican), potato soup, salads, vegetable plates, linguini or ravioli, etc. None of them would eat a bite of any of it. Over those days the bring-home from work for hubby consisted entirely of a 24-pack of Coke, a gallon of whole milk and two giant-size boxes of Frosted Flakes. Sis and her daughter ate bowl after bowl after bowl, finishing off both boxes every single day. Niece also whined constantly for someone to drive to McDonalds and get her bacon cheeseburgers, though we never did.

When I visit them I observe their diet too. Bags and bags of fast food burgers and crap piled on the kitchen table, cabinets chock full of snack foods, a fridge full of fatty lunchmeats, ice cream, chocolate milk, etc., and boxes, bags and wrappers piled in corners and along the walls of every room. They haven’t had a working stove/oven in 15 years, but sis doesn’t cook anyway so there’s no need for anything more than the hot plate her hubby and sons use to make themselves occasional Campbell’s Soup or canned spaghetti and meat sauce or beef stew. Adding it all together in my head, I figure they must spend 5 times what we do for a week’s worth of food, and not a single bit of it is what I’d considered healthy.

This of course isn’t everybody’s story, but it certainly plays a part in most of the “obesity epidemic” in this country. Bad food, bad habits, bad choices. And sis, being an RN who actually knows the reality of such things, expects just like most of the rest of ‘em that medical science will simply come up with a “fat-pill” one of these days that will keep them skinny without them ever having to change a single thing about their choices in life. I find that terribly sad.

Now, I’m ten years older and will probably die long before she does of something or other. She could well be like my great-grandmother, who we called “Big Mama” and who lived to be an obese, chain-smoking (corncob pipe), happy and semi-healthy 100. So general health isn’t a terribly good argument to use if the person is perfectly happy as they are. She does have some issues with depression, but not considerably large ones (no more than the rest of us, I’d say). She and hubby love each other just as they are, the kids are well-adjusted enough to function, they seem to enjoy their life fine. So I don’t bitch, I just stand in awe and wonder.

I do perceive an odd American mindset in all this. Sort of flagrant indulgence in the deadly sin of gluttony (as popular these days as lust, greed, wrath, sloth, envy and pride) as a way of life, with full expectation that somebody will ‘cure’ the deadly results without the person having to give up the sin. I also am guilty of not feeling too sorry for the greedheads on Wall Street (who DO NOT deserve to be bailed out with my hard-earned money!), the lusty free sex addicts and serial semi-monogamists, the angry old racists who disrupt Town Hall meetings with their hatred, the evil torture-enablers who want to be tyrannical dictators, or the fat folks who live in a pile of empty food containers they can’t even manage to throw away.

That’s probably pride on my part, though I’ve nothing much to be proud of, so I’ve my deadly sin too. I don’t tend to fat. That’s because I don’t eat a lot, and I don’t eat junk. But if I WERE constantly hungry and DID eat junk, I’d weigh what she does. I’m too dumb to be greedy and too lazy to be rich, though I’d sure love to be not-poor for a little while in my life. Not ever likely to happen, though. Maybe I’d have been a loose woman had I not found my soul-mate early in life, so I can’t too much fault those still actively seeking The One in their own lives. And if I didn’t mind living in filth, I probably wouldn’t ever clean my house (or my daughter and grandson’s rooms, which qualify in spades for the ‘sloth’ designation). I do get mad enough to be considered ‘wrathful’, often at things I can do nothing about and sometimes at things I could do something about if I approached them differently. The Irish in me is just an excuse, so I’m no doubt guilty of that one as well. We’ve all got our issues and our weaknesses – our deadly sins – one is no better or worse than another.

So I just love ‘em. It’s all I can do. Try to encourage them to get more exercise or eat better when they’re here, but giving in and buying them most of the junk they want anyway just so they’ll be happy. Simply like being around them when I can, try to understand where I am overstepping and shouldn’t interfere, accept them as they are and as they come just because I love them. Life is hard on all of us, for sure. And no one can live anyone else’s lives, nor reasonably force them to be someone they’re not. So through the years I’ve learned to take things with a grain of salt, enjoy what little time I get with people I love, and try most of all to encourage their happiness. If what would make them happy is not something I can provide or they can ever provide for themselves, they’ll just have to learn to do without.

Like when some young relative who dropped out of school because he thought the requirements too stringent bitches that Bill Gates hasn’t yet made him the multi-billionaire VP of Microsoft (or some such ridiculousness), I just laugh. What’s the point of pointing out how silly that sounds? Or when another young relative bitches that nobody is giving her a nice car for free when she’s got two DUIs and wrecked the last one and is too drunk most days to hold a real job, what’s the point of suggesting that she quit getting drunk all the time, get a job and buy her own damned car? Or when another relative complains about achy knees and a bad back that make the stairs to the bathroom too difficult while weighing three times what a normal person weighs, what’s the point of pointing out that’s probably why she’s sore? All these things are entirely self-evident. They know that as well as I do. So they’re just sounding off, I make small noises of sympathy, then distract them with some other topic or project.

Still loving them, still glad to have them in my life, still thankful for the time in life I get to spend with them. And in return, I’m thankful that they don’t spend much time on my deadly sins and giving me advice I won’t take about how to ‘fix’ my life. Who knows? Maybe someday somebody really will invent a sin-pill we can all take to fix what our indulgences do to our lives and health!

Yes, Grandma is once again gifted with a baby grandson, this one making his appearance on Valentine’s Day! No doubt a signal that he’ll be as much of a heartthrob (and/or heart-breaker) as his big brubby and his Daddy, whom I often describe to people as one of…

The Few, The Proud, The Incredibly Good-Looking. Yup, he’s a Marine. Seems to like it okay, will soon hit the decade mark with the Corps. We’d been hoping he would be stationed nearer, but it seems they like him too much where he is now. Welcome to the world, grandson #7!!! I hope it treats you well, and that you will spring lightly along your journey.

Proud and happy as I am to report another grandchild in the growing ranks, it’s been a rough couple of months on the loss side of the scale too. First a friend succumbed after a hard-fought five year battle with ovarian cancer. Days later a another dear friend discovered he had cancer of the spine. He went out relatively quickly, which is just as well with this particular cancer. Yet another old friend fought his cancer hard, checked out last night.

This photograph is of a Christmas season show for our popular New Vaudeville Night in Florida nearly 20 years ago. The weekly fun-fest was sponsored by our friend Rick whose kite shop served as our anchor, and who died in April of last year.

There on the left is our son – who died in 1992 – as EB [Easter Bunny] wearing a Santa suit and being berated by the three characters on the right for trying to muscle in on Santa’s extended holiday money-making gig. EB only gets one day a year, and since he’s laid off in December anyway, thought he’d pick up some extra bucks filling in for Santa at some mall or shopping center – or New Vaudeville Night.

Second from left is our friend Gus, who on this occasion is Santa’s son Solomon Claus, filling in for the old man by gathering up the Christmas wishes of a host of lovely young women in the audience that night. Gus died a few weeks ago. Next to him is the show’s emcee, Nelson Nermal the Nerd, who is the only one still kicking. And on the right is our friend Jerry, dressed as Uncle Sam who is also there trying to muscle in on Santa’s gig. Jerry died last night [2-18]. No wonder we’re feeling really old lately (and not just because it’s February)!

I asked my Mother-in-Law a loaded question once when she was losing her dearest friend since childhood to cancer. This was before our own loved ones and peers started dropping like flies. If we reach a time when more of our loves are on the other side of death’s veil than are still present in the world, does death start looking less like an enemy and more like a friend? She didn’t answer, which was probably wise of her. More than two decades later I am beginning to recognize that I’d known the answer all along. Just dreaded the experiencing of it, I guess.

Through these sad weeks filled with painful deaths and significant losses, one event serves to reinforce the lesson learned. Dearly beloved Great-Aunt Melba died too, a week ago Monday. Peacefully in her sleep, age 96. No fear, which is just the way she’d lived.

Seems when contemplating life and death on planet earth from this end of things that there’s a lot we could fear if we were inclined to do so. Fear for the newly-arrived, for what their world will be, how they’ll make their way in it, what suffering they will no doubt see. Fear for the checking-out, wondering if this veil of tears was all there is, or if it really is just a sort of grade school for something more waiting for us once we’ve shed our cages of gross matter and moved “on” – wherever “on” might be. And at times like these, I usually end up right back where I started on the never quite objective contemplation…

Being afraid doesn’t generally prevent people from being born, and it’s never stopped people from dying. Every single human here to wonder (and/or fear) gets both conditions whether we want them or not. So I’m siding with Aunt Melba on this one – No Fear.

Joyful greetings, young grandson! Tearful good-byes, my dear ones.

In the immediate family circle are O’Sheas and Coins and O’Cains and O’Rourkes and other names so blatantly Irish nobody could confuse the issue by the number of Rastas and Buddhists and Presbyterians and atheists (and God-Knows-Whats) in the crowd. Even though we did outnumber them. After the mass there was a photo collage presented in the fellowship hall, probably 600 people stayed to see it.

The trip to Jamaica and those tough-looking Rastas who literally carried Rick for miles into the mountains to see a holy man. The Tibetan monks and their beautiful sand mandala who were so delighted by their host’s soaring spirit. The notable artists and musicians who never passed through without spending time with Rick. The children he’d taught through the years, now grown with children of their own old enough to go to college. The beautiful red-haired boy, the courageous and determined young man, the cultural guru, the thin and frail middle-aged man who looked an awful lot like Jesus if that holy man’s eyes twinkled nearly as brightly as Rick’s.

We cried buckets of tears, but were reunited in our grief. We had too often lost touch over the decades. All past petty tiffs forgotten, love of Rick uniting us all once again as if we’d never grown apart. Then, later that evening, came the wake…

It was in the city near Rick’s house, hosted by a wonderful couple with one of those Irish names and an acre of yard. All of it put to use for this event, and all the neighbors forewarned. There were two groups of fiddlers and harpists, a stage at the other end of the yard stacked with equipment. A couple dozen notable rock and reggae musicians jammed all night off and on. A drum circle filled in the breaks. There were children lined up for the tree swing and trampoline, guarded (and herded) by teenage volunteer sitters. There were rows of tables filled with food, watermelons galore, coolers of pop and water and more beer than anybody could keep track of, magically replenishing kegs of Guinness, and a picnick table bar on the deck stocked with more kinds of wine than I could identify as well as literal cases of Jameson’s Irish Whiskey. Parking overflowed the vacant lot a few blocks away manned by volunteers with light sticks, a constant crowd of about 500 constantly shifted through the night. It was still going when we checked in, 8 hours after driving home through three states!

My friend Rick enjoyed the love of so very many people, each of whom claimed him as his/her BEST friend. He could make you feel that way even in a crowd. What we all received from him is important enough to last these generations for many generations more, and comes complete with the power to change the world. We are so blessed…

The greatest gift Rick gave to those of us who loved him is each other. Our charge now is to hang on to those ever-widening, ever-proliferating circles of love and friendship. My family’s all for it (though we won’t be moving back to the city). I think a lot of others are too.

Kiteriggers Memorial Site

6. If You Live Close, Set Babysitting Rules

If your kids live in the same town or area, you may fall into the “convenient” babysitter role. I’ve known grandmothers to get hoodwinked into providing full-time day care for young grandchildren because their daughter decided she didn’t want to deal with real day care when she went back to work. There’s nothing that can sour a grandma-grandchild relationship faster than a grandma who feels abused by the presence of that grandchild.

If you don’t plan to be full time caregiver, don’t volunteer for the job and don’t accept it when offered. Remind the kids that you already paid your baby-raising dues, and don’t plan to start all over again. Also beware of being the “convenient” sitter on call for any time the kids want a night out. Sometimes this can translate to indulgence, while putting the kibosh on all your plans for what YOU want to do.

7. Avoid the Dueling Grandmas Game

Often a grandma can be snowed with tales about what the ‘other’ grandparents do. If you fall for it, you may find that you’ve been hoodwinked into donating way more time, money and/or “goodies” than is good for anybody!

Often these days there are 3 or 4 grannies per grandchild, what with the burgeoning divorce and remarriage rate. And that situation has often conspired to contribute serious spoilage to the new parents as well as the grandkids. Parents and grandparents who vie for affection with bribes and fancy gifts aren’t really buying love. If love is what you’ve got to offer, it will be valuable in its own right.

8. If Finances are Tight, Consider Your Contributions Carefully

When families are starting out they often don’t have the accumulated means to buy a nice house or car, to purchase the nicest clothes or accessories, or afford the best pre-schools or private schools. Grandparents with money will often be asked to help.

Always consider whether what you can give is going to help or hurt the family in the long run. If you give them a down payment for an over-valued house with an ARM mortgage, they’re probably better off renting awhile longer. If the public schools aren’t bad, don’t get snookered into private school tuition just so the parents can brag. And if you don’t have much to spare, invest it for the grandchild instead – an educational fund is always a good investment that will benefit the child when she or he needs it for their own necessary future.

9. Respect The Parents’ Wishes

Sit down with your child and spouse and talk about what their parenting philosophy and hopes are. Then support that as much as you can. If they don’t want their child to watch violent television or movies, don’t let them watch such fare when you’re in charge. If they are raising their child to avoid meat, don’t sneak hot dogs or beef stew into ‘em. Same if they want their child to snack on fruit instead of candy, etc. If they’ve decided on a religion you don’t share, don’t try to undermine it.

This is basic common sense if you expect to have a significant role in your grandchild’s life.

10. Pay Personal Attention to Your Grandchild

Parents have a lot on their minds, often not much time for ‘quality’. Especially in households where both parents work full time and there’s more than one child a single child may feel she or he doesn’t get much one-on-one attention. Parents do the best they can, but the modern world isn’t easy.

A grandmother can offer a good chunk of that good-natured, non-judgmental, look ‘em in the eyes kind of attention that helps to bolster a child’s self-esteem. You can even be rewarded for this when that grandchild calls fairly regularly just to chat about what happened in school, who’s mad at whom, and share the details of their lives that are very important to them, but may not be so important to over-harried parents or siblings.

Posts to This Series:
Part 1: Tips 1 – 5
Part 2: Tips 6 – 10
Part 3: Tips 11 – 15

The Older Child Adoption and Permanency Movement logo – Adopt Older Kids and Youth: A-OKAY.

It’s really kind of strange. When our own children were babies – and at 14 months apart, they were babies at the same time – we were positively terrified by them. Or maybe by our own perceived responsibilities FOR them. We spent many a long night just watching them sleep, deciding what we would and wouldn’t do in relation to the way our parents raised us, sowing the seeds for all new mistakes we invented along the way.

We didn’t have much furniture, being in the Navy and having to move every few months. So when hubby was at nuke school (that came between A-school and sub-school) in Bainbridge and we were living in falling-down WW-II housing blocks in Aberdeen, we put a mattress in the middle of the living room floor, pillows against the walls against which we could sit.

Daughter, our eldest, was just new to walking and didn’t mind having to crawl on soft living room floor one bit. Son wasn’t yet a year old, crawling and rolling was his main means of locomotion. I recall days and weeks spent doing nothing (apart from the usual cooking, dishes and laundry) but rolling around on that mattress with them laughing as hard as they could. Or just watching them wrestle with each other. They were so beautiful! So new, so promising. So much our responsibility!

Our neighbor downstairs was on welfare. Had four children – all girls – and one on the way, her occasional live-in honey (and father to all, far as I could tell) was a truck driver, “home” only now and then. We often heard them fighting when he was around, and her yelling at the girls when he wasn’t. They ranged in age from 2 to 6. Blonde haired, blue-eyed, they looked amazingly alike.

That neighbor apparently wasn’t as worried about the future of her offspring as we were. One day I opened the door to go to the laundromat and found all four of them sitting at the top of the stairs looking hungry. It wasn’t 7 a.m. yet.

All kids look hungry when they’re at your door or in your kitchen, any time of day and all the way through high school. I already knew this from raising my own little brother and sisters, there being 5 children in my own family. They usually lack proper boots and coats and hats in bad weather too. Wise to that game, I knew it wasn’t a sign of abuse. Just kids being incorrigible.

So I invited the girls in, fed them cheap cereal and applesauce, then dropped them off at the building stoop as I headed down the block with mine in the double stroller with laundry baskets stacked atop the sunshade.

Naturally enough, they appeared on my doorstep regularly from then on. Even after the new baby was born, Mom apparently locked them out early and didn’t open the door until late. I didn’t have the balls at the time to complain, so that little apartment with the mattress on the living room floor was home for nearly 6 months to six children. I’m sure the complex neighbors thought they all belonged to me. I didn’t mind all that much.

Soon hubby was transferred to Philadelphia in transit, then on to New London for sub school, I went with the children to stay with his parents in Oklahoma, then with my Dad in Kentucky when hubby went on his first Polaris patrol. Never saw or heard from those pretty little girls again, have no idea if they all grew up and if they did, how they turned out.

But I’d bet you a fin that if you knew one or more of them today, and asked them about their “difficult childhood,” they’d say they remember the lady upstairs with the babies, who had a mattress on the living room floor instead of a rug, and enjoyed nothing more than playing with them all day long. And who made really mean PBJs and oatmeal.

After the Navy years, as our kids grew up, there were of course many more strays. Sometimes our kids would bring them home, sometimes they’d just find their own way to our home. It was always crowded, I always cooked for a crowd, and it was a very rare evening hubby and I ever got to spend alone. Ended up actually adopting three teens of a friend who died, I consider the rest adopted as well even though we never went to court. Their children count among my grands too, and still the house is usually overflowing and I still cook for crowds.

We thought that when ours grew up (finally!) they’d leave home and start their own lives, I’d be able to actually wear some of those sexy nighties hubby gives me for Christmas and birthday every year, but which I never get to wear. It never worked out that way, though. I’ve got a wonderful collection of soft, silky, frilly little nothings that still have the tags attached, some of them 15 or 20 years old! I am pretty sure I wouldn’t look so good in them anymore even if I did get the chance to wear ‘em.

And you know what? I don’t believe I’ve missed a darned thing! Once you start looking at your life from this end of it, and start weighing the pros and cons of what dreams you had that never came true versus what nightmares you had that did come true, wearing sexy little nothings doesn’t seem to count for a whole lot. If in the end a life is valued for how it touches on and affects other people’s lives over the course of the journey, then I must be very rich even though it’s sometimes a struggle just to put food on the table. And that’s worth more than that red silk teddy with the Belgian lace… which I’ll probably leave to one of my beautiful daughters – tags still attached – when it’s a certifiable antique. They’d love to have it!

One daughter, her annoying (and very loud) boyfriend, one niece and her not-annoying boyfriend, two semi-sons and their wives, one grandson and three old Navy buddies (plus 2 wives). It’s been a busy week here at the lake house for Mama and Papa Elf, who always stretch out Christmas over the entire length of the holidays. That’s a perk we give ourselves after a grueling season at the mall contributing to the Pagan trappings of the consumerist frenzy.

I’ve baked cookies and managed two batches of fudge that ended up as chocolate syrup on ice cream instead. I’ve cooked lots and lots of meals and done more dishes than should be allowed by law. I’ve attempted to lay down the gated community ‘law’ to the annoying boyfriend who apparently believes we’re all deaf because he is, and have so far managed to prevent any real damage to my sister’s nice new retirement home. I did fall down the steps from the loft on my way to the bathroom this morning, thereby breaking my foot.

So now I’m ensconced on the wing chair in front of the fireplace with my foot on a pillow. I’m not cooking, not washing dishes, and not cleaning up after the barbarian hoards. They’re all leaving tomorrow, so hopefully I can get all the Christmas decorations packed and the sheets washed and the kitchen and bathrooms sanitized in time to make it home for dinner! The beautiful log McMansion no worse for wear and tear, myself a bit more battered (and gimpy) than I’d have liked. Pretty much par for the course.

I figured out awhile back that everybody’s family is dysfunctional to a certain extent, some more than others. A family as big as mine has more than its share of off-colored sheep, but I love ‘em all anyway. Did talk to younger daughter who couldn’t make it here for the holidays, and have been participating regularly in her “Virtual Baby Shower.” Our Marine warrant officer son called Christmas Day to tell us he’s transferring to North Carolina in May, which will put two more grandchildren within easy spoiling range!

I hope the holidays have been full of family, friends and fun for all my readers out there, and here’s hoping that 2008 will be a more hopeful year for everyone, all over the country and all over the world. Peace on Earth, good will to everyone regardless of age, sex, color, culture or beliefs!

Taking a bit of a break from All Baby, All The Time, thought I’d do a little strolling through human history to see what there is to see about the institution of marriage. I’ve been wondering why some people want to cling to exclusive cultural frames at a time when about half of traditional marriages end in divorce and the benefits of marriage are being denied to whole segments of the population altogether. Maybe understanding something of the history and traditions associated with the institution could help our society to figure out what marriage is in the modern world and who may claim the right to *be* married.

I was inspired to go looking by an op-ed by Stephanie Coontz in the New York Times entitled Taking Marriage Private [Nov. 26]. She begins the article with a question, and a historical observation:

WHY do people — gay or straight — need the state’s permission to marry? For most of Western history, they didn’t, because marriage was a private contract between two families. The parents’ agreement to the match, not the approval of church or state, was what confirmed its validity.

Now, marriage seems an odd institution if you look at it dispassionately. Almost as if it became an issue only when humans invented a patriarchal type of society where men claimed the power to make all relevant decisions about everything, probably testosterone talking (not to mention sheer size). I mean, everybody always knows who the mother of a particular baby is – who would dream of questioning who gets her stuff when she dies?

Deal is, confidence of paternity isn’t such a ‘Duh’. Unless that baby looks so much like Elmo that only Elmo could be his father, there’s no real way to know – before the advent of modern blood and DNA testing, that is. So various cultures all over the world developed all sorts of odd rules, regulations and customs related to marriage and responsibilities in private households and private families. Some were quite weird by modern estimation.

When Christianity took over the church (which was the state) decided it had the power to decide who was married and who was not. Suddenly the parents didn’t matter anymore – their approval was not required. Oddly enough, for much of the 1600 years of church rule, the priest didn’t count either! Any male-female couple could claim to be married so long as they both agreed that they’d exchanged vows of some sort.

In 1215, nearly a thousand years after taking over, the church defined a “licit” marriage as one where the exchanging of vows happened in the church in front of witnesses. This made their children “legitimate,” as if any child could be considered an “illegitimate” person, which is total hooey. Still, people who didn’t get married in a church had the same rights – their children were legitimate, the wife could inherit, and prohibitions against divorce applied to them too.

States didn’t get involved until the 1600s, mostly by requiring that marriages be registered by the government. It started out as a way to prevent couples whose parents disapproved of the match from getting married, but there was no way for states to stop couples from eloping regardless of what the parents thought. States also had to recognize cohabitation as “common law” marriage for the legal rights inherent.

In the US the government got particularly ambitious to regulate citizen’s rights to marry whom they chose during the last part of the 19th century and this unbridled power-grab continued through the 20th century (and now the 21st century). in the 1920s there were 38 states that prohibited interracial or intercultural marriages. 18 states prohibited remarriage after divorce. Most of these laws were stricken in the latter part of the 20th century, even as the government began relying more and more on the legal marriage license to mete out resources to couples and decide who is a dependent of whom and who could access official records deemed “private” (like medical records).

In some cultures people were not allowed to be married (by whatever definition the culture provided on the rights and responsibilities end) until they’d proven themselves fertile. In other words, the woman had to be pregnant. Pregnancy has traditionally been a good excuse for marriage, and it’s the one my husband and I used back in 1969 when we eloped. Our parents were dead set against the match, so we just showed my belly to a judge and he waived requirements for parental consent.

That was the last of the “good old days” way of doing things, apparently. In this first decade of the 21st century a full 40% of children are born to unmarried people. Half of marriages end in divorce, spreading dependency, responsibilities and rights over several households. Nearly half of fathers never provide any support for any of their children through women they don’t live with. And it’s not strange at all anymore for couples to divorce because one or the other of them decides s/he is gay. Which means that lots of children have two fathers or two mothers in at least one of their homes.

In fact, things on the marriage front are so weird lately that I think the government would do best to just get out of the business of deciding who “deserves” basic human rights or contractual rights. Why should they care who partners up to buy a house or start a business (or family)? Shouldn’t the testimony of the people involved, their families, friends and neighbors carry more weight with family and probate courts than a piece of paper? Shouldn’t people who can establish by basic means (mailing address, joint bank account, home ownership, etc.) their working partnership be eligible for rights of survivorship and dependency? Does it matter what sex they are, or even whether they have sex? Why?

Marriage as a rite and a party and a way of life isn’t going to go away any time soon. But no one else – and no institution of government or religion – can make a marriage. That’s up to the people who make the commitment to each other and any children they have (together or between them). Your religion may not approve of two men falling in love, or two women falling in love. So what? Why should that dictate what rights those lovers are entitled to as citizens of their town, state and nation, any more than it should matter that one of them is black and one is white?

I personally think it’s well past time for the religious to pay more attention to their own marriages. They might not be so prone to divorce if they did that. They wouldn’t have time to worry about their neighbors’ love lives if they paid more attention to their own. If and when religious people become perfect exemplars of marital bliss, they might have something pertinent to say about what makes people happy together for a lifetime. Until that happens, they should just butt out of everybody else’s business!

[/rant]

Links:

Taking Marriage Private

Wedding Traditions and Customs around the World

International Wedding Customs… Different Strokes for Different Folks

Discovering Wedding Customs and Traditions of the Past