This is a love story, well, partly a love story because there are two tales I would like to share with you. One is about the love a man and a woman had for one another for some forty years. The other tale is about the greatest gift someone can receive. That gift is the love given to someone by another. So, you see, both stories have one thing in common. They are about what has become a rare commodity, love.
Floyd and Mary were young. The year was 1942, and they were seniors at Pineville High School. Floyd played basketball and Mary cheered as the ball fell through the hoop. The two talked to friends at Bonnibel's gathering place and, like all their friends, they swam just above the Havenhurst dam and ate ice cream there while the warm summer breezes dried their hair.
The last summer following graduation came to an all-too-soon end, as did the carefree days of youth for Mary and Floyd. The two were married in the fall of 1942 and, as jobs were hard to come, by Floyd joined the Navy. The world was embroiled in a terrible war and Floyd soon found himself in the South Pacific manning the tail gun of an airplane.
Mary gave birth to the first of the couple's three children and, with the help of friends and family, found a way to survive. Every other day, Floyd and Mary wrote letters to each other. Floyd talked about the war and life in the Navy, while Mary wrote about life in Pineville and how fast the couple's son was growing. Each ended their correspondences by writing, "I love and miss you so much."
The war eventually came to an end and Floyd returned home. Once again, he found that work was hard to find, so he enlisted in the Marine Corps. After all, serving in the military was the only occupation he really knew. So it was that the couple left Pineville and began a life moving from one place to another.
Floyd, a career military man, went to work each morning at the nearby base. Money was always tight, and Mary also took jobs. She was a salesperson and, by all accounts, she was a good one. She sometimes worked at a local Ben Franklin Five and Dime or at a nearby department store.
The life Mary and Floyd shared as wife and husband was not always without problems. Mary once accused Floyd of seeing another woman. Floyd at first denied the accusation but then admitted his transgression and asked for Mary's forgiveness. She threatened to leave her husband but, eventually, she gave him another chance. By all accounts, he was a faithful spouse for the remainder of the marriage.
There came a time when Mary didn't feel comfortable without a glass of whiskey in her hand. Floyd noticed the partially-filled glasses but, when he mentioned her love of the alcoholic beverage, she said it was nothing to be concerned about. Mary's love of liquor increased and, eventually, she became an alcoholic. Floyd stood by her through the tough times and, eventually, she overcame her illness.
Although the vows that the two took when first married were tested, the bonds of marriage were never broken. The love each had for one another was far greater and stronger than the obstacles placed before them. The marriage survived.
Mary and Floyd remained wife and husband for forty-four years. Mary died suddenly and unexpectedly in 1986. Floyd remarried some years later, but he once told me that Mary was his one true love. Mary and Floyd were so very fortunate to be the recipients of someone's love, and that brings me to the second part of my story.
I have an admission. Not long ago I said something that wasn't true. I suppose it was a lie, but I rather look at the comment as an untrue statement and one made not maliciously but uttered more of convenience.
Some time back I spent a very nice afternoon with a charming woman. We had a very well-prepared lunch and talked for hours about our lives -- more past than future -- I'll acknowledge. She too lost a marriage partner and, although we all seem to move on with our lives, it was obvious that she greatly missed her husband.
There came a pause in the conversation as we both tried to move on to a more current topic when she said, "I'll never get married again." I suppose the comment caught me a little off-guard and without thinking, and I suppose as a means to be agreeable, said, "neither will I." The response seemed to fit the moment and the conversation, and the afternoon moved on.
I later regretted my words. I don't know why, but some things bother me for the longest time, and I'm using this story to admit my lack of honesty. Well, at least my quick response was without thought. Speaking without thinking seems to be a fault of mine.
If the question was once again posed to me, my response would be, "maybe." You see there is one thing in life that I find more valuable than anything else. That single thing is the knowledge that someone loves me. If marriage was the means to once again be loved, I wouldn't let some words, a ring and a piece of paper stand in the way of being loved.
It has been more years than I care to discuss, but when the angels guided my wife to the hereafter, I choose to believe that she took the love she had for me with her. I can't explain this logically, but each day I have the feeling that her love for me lives on somewhere. I know that my love for her may have gone through changes, but it hasn't diminished.
With my many flaws and imperfections notwithstanding, someone loved me. If I lose everything in my life, nothing can take that away from me. The chance that I might be loved again is out there, and I dare not put conditions on the receipt of that most precious of all gifts, love.
Floyd was by no means a perfect man. He was prone to narcissism, imbibed in intoxicants far too often, and had difficulty expressing his love for those around him. But, despite all those faults, Mary Loved him.
Mary too was flawed. She was at times conniving, untruthful and, for a time, found the taste of liquor far too refreshing. But she was Floyd's true love. He loved her.
Both Floyd and Mary were such lucky people for they were loved, as too was I.
Stan Fine is a retired police officer and Verizon Security Department investigator who, after retiring in 2006, moved from Tampa, Fla., to Noel. Stan's connection to Noel can be traced back to his grandparents who lived most of their lives there. Stan began writing after the passing of his wife Robin in 2013. The opinions expressed are those of the author.