At times it is almost overwhelming watching my father hold my mother’s hand and tell her that he has loved her since she was fifteen years old. This December they will have been married sixty-six years. My father will be 84 and my mother 83. She still will kiss you when you bend over to kiss her, and when you say that you love her, she will answer with “I love you.” And at times that wonderful sweet smile of hers will break through the darkness that clouds her mind, and you know that somehow, somewhere there is an essence of her lingering on.
I tend to think of the human brain as being composed of trillions of little lighted rooms, one for each of the cells that it contains. In a well functioning brain, I imagine it filled with pulsing, racing light. My mother’s brain I think of as a flickering dimming system, the lights slowly going out as the ravages of Alzheimers turns off the lights one…by one.

If there was a beginning, then let it begin here. It was 1940 and it was between classes at Crowell High School. The handsome young man was going up the stairs to his class. He had recently transfered to this high school because his own school in the nearby small town of Truscott had closed, and all the students were being bused to Crowell. This was in West Texas near the point where the eastern edge of the panhandle meets the Red River–in that part of Texas where the soil is red and sandy and the imagination is inspired by the views which stretch out to forever.

As he climbed the stairs, he passed this beautiful girl whose dark hair fell down past her shoulders, and whose lovely face, slim figure and hazel eyes immediately attracted his attention. He walked a few more steps and then paused to look back at her. Much to his surprise, he saw that she had also paused and was looking back at him in admiration. This is the way that my father and mother met.

The options were limited in that small town if you wished to take your girl on a date. Fortunately, my father’s best friend, C. J. Kelton’s father had a car and let his son use it, and he would drive my father and mother all about. I have seen photos of all of them on the bridge over the North Wichita River, laughing and having fun. My father with his football letter jacket and a white scarf about his neck, standing besides my smiling mother, my father and C.J. standing with their arms about each other’s shoulders. There also photos of my dad and C.J. in their football uniforms. Dad played quarterback his senior year and C.J. fulback.  My mother was a cheerleader.

As their love grew and as all the young men were being drafted into the military to spend their lives in the war machine of World War II, they knew that they didn’t have much time until my father also would have to serve and would be swept up into the dark maelstrom of war. They decided to marry in their last year of high school in December, 1942. They spent their honeymoon in the hotel in the nearby “big” town of Vernon on the town square with the courthouse in the center. In later years they would both delightedly point out to me the upper story corner room where they stayed, as we passed by on visits to my grandparents.

Both my father and C.J. graduated from High School on a Friday, and on Monday, both left for their military training, my father into the army and eventually the army/airforce, and C.J. into the marines. My father survived the war, whereas C.J. died a hero’s death on the black sands of Iwo Jima (Fifth Marine Division), winning the Navy Cross, and leaving a hole in both of my parent’s lives. My father is 84 and has lived a long, loving life, whereas C.J. died  (KIA Kelton, C.J. Pfc 5th Tank 5th Feb 22, 1945, Iwo Jima) at the age of 19 and his bones have lain in those dark volcanic sands of Iwo Jima for 63 years.

My mother’s beauty was matched only by her personality.  I have known lots of people over the years, and I know that I am prejudiced, but she has the sweetest, most endearing personality of anybody that I ever have known unless it was her own mother, who if anything was even more sweeter.

And it is upon the love of my parents for each other and upon the love that they gave without reservation to me and my siblings which has been my steadfast rock throughout my life.  It has been upon this assurance that formed the foundation of my life and has allowed me to weather the sorrows that life can hand out.

The love and tenderness of my mother towards not only the people around her, but also toward all of God’s little animals filled me with a reverance and love for all living things.  Her appreciation of the beauty about her, and her communication of this to me has remained with me all my life, allowing me to live and appreciate the now of my existence.

My father’s quiet gentleness and strength, and tolerance and forebearance has also helped to form what I am.  Over the years my admiration for my father has grown greater and greater.  I have come to realize that I have unconsciously tried to imitate him throughout my life, trying to become the man that he is.  This is something that I have only recently come to realize.  I have also come to realize that this amazing man is not only my father but my very best friend whom I love with all my heart.

I received a call from my father this morning letting me know that my beloved mother has been admitted to the hospital.  The prognosis was not good according to the doctor.  My brother and sister and father were all there keeping vigil.  I called back a few hours ago and the situation had improved slightly.

All stories must end.  And this particular love story has entered its final chapter…in once sense, and in another sense,  the love generated by these remarkable people will go on and on…like ripples from a stone dropped into calm water, radiating outward and touching shores undreamed of.