Happily Ever After... .

There’s a saying… that men marry hoping nothing will ever change about the woman they wed… and women marry hoping to change everything about the man they wed.

I don’t usually put a lot of credence to such sayings, but I sometimes wonder if there’s more truth there, than not. I haven’t seen many genuinely happy marriages. Mostly it's been marriages where, at best, the couple settles into benign tolerance of one another. 'A “…better this than being alone, I guess… maybe… ." sort of acceptance of each other’s presence in their lives. 'But there’s almost never anything joyful or companionable in the union.

I wanted a marriage anchored in genuine partnership and companionship… two people supporting each other… helping each other to evolve… contributing their efforts toward creating happy, fulfilled lives for themselves and their children. 'Not glued to each other (I enjoy my autonomy, & would have hoped my partner did his, & mine too.) -- but still united in the important aspects of a relationship. ‘Never found a man who saw it quite the same way though. Still, I would have never married, even if I had found the right partner. There would have been no state involvement... no licenses signed. Such things never protected or helped anyone. They aren’t needed to make a life-commitment to someone. And the right partner, would also have known that.

But... that’s — not this story.

A friend married a few years back, for the second time. Already I see sadness in him. There’s no question but there’s some “buyer’s remorse” there… though being a private person, he has said nothing.

When he married the first time, as a very young man, I wanted desperately to take him aside… or his prospective bride… or preferable both -- to beg them to wait at least just a couple years. They loved each other… or thought they did. But even a couple years would have shown them both that they wanted, at heart, completely different things out of life. They married… and many of their years together were not happy… and in the end – it ended.

And now he has married again. ‘To a woman who is the 2.0 version of wife #1 -- but with a more un-nerving edge to her. He considered her to be sweet, like-minded, and delightful. She was intrigued by his personality, and his position in life. They honestly didn’t know each other well enough to consider marriage. Yes, they “courted” for a couple years, but that courtship consisted of phone calls & visits back and forth -- with weeks apart in-between.

Someone should have reminded them both: anyone can be on their “best behavior” for a few weeks at a time... . And now, he has the look of a man who wishes he’d mulled over his life choices and options bit more… while she is actively rearranging their entire lives.

My heart aches for him. But he is proud... stubborn... and nothing would have deterred him from this choice... or made him take a deeper dive into considering it. Anyone who would have suggested more consideration... a slower pace... would have only encountered his wrath.

So... why is this playing in my head? Obviously, it's n.o.m.b. But I care enough about my friend, to want to see him happy. And I keep remembering another conversation, with yet another friend, about his own first, failed, marriage. He said the thing that hurt him most was that, after his marriage fell apart, so many of his friends and family members spoke up, noting that they had always felt the union was "ill-advised" at best. "Why," he asked, "didn't anyone say anything before we got married?" I asked if he felt he would have actually listened, if anyone had done so. He believes he genuinely would have been prompted to reconsider things.

That's not always the case though.

My friend who's now in his 2nd marriage, is not naive. He does not lack intelligence. His life has given him a full -- often distressing -- panoramic scope on people, predilections, and proclivities. He chose... what he chose.

But... even when my friend was a young man, I always thought:
"Any woman who is his girlfriend or wife, is going to have to understand she will never--or at least rarely -- be #1 in his life. She will come behind his career... any children he may ever have... his friends & extended family... his faith & spirit… even, often, himself... ."

I didn’t consider any of that to be inherently bad or selfish... but it definitely had to be parameters his prospective mate could accept and live with.

He's a good man. ‘Kind, decent, funny, and caring… but on his own terms. He has no inclination to “babysit” a spouse, or feel that he should choreograph his every move with her. And while the first rush of “love” may declare “...anything at all—so long as you’re happy!” -- everyday life often changes that viewpoint. That’s the tipping point… for my friend… for so many people.

Now, with the insight of years behind, I might even have suggested, had he ever wanted my opinion -- which he did not -- that my friend never marry at all… … but instead have chosen a life-companion with whom he could share partnership, support, & intimacy... while they both continued to live full, autonomous lives. ' Preferably, probably, in separate homes… or cities… or states.

I’m sure my friend would be happy to rip my head off and ban me forever from his presence thrilled to know how I would have “fixed” his life for him.

©️ dmj 2026
(6-22-2026)

William Faulkner, Have I Got a Story for You! (Part I)

William Faulkner, was an astute & poignant chronicler of life in the post-Civil War / early 20th century south. He was altogether a brilliant writer who brought to life the ethical problems in the changing south, as well as the social, emotional, and physical burdens of shifting lifestyles and mentalities.

I admire him as an author. I have not yet managed to forge my way, fully, through even one of his books. There’s a simple reason for this: it was always hard for me to read a Faulkner novel… when I was forced to live a Faulkner novel.

My immediate family – the five of us – managed to bring a full Faulkner character list into the confines of our 1,875 sq. ft home. ‘Some of us playing double roles, yet. We had alcoholism, mental illness, infidelity, social isolation, family alienation, untreated physical illness and injuries, and gender discrimination, among other things going on. 'And half of us did it with a genuine southern accent in the bargain.

My parents were born and raised South Carolinians. All of my family is from the South Carolina, North Carolina, Tennessee, and Georgia areas. I was, in fact, the first “Yankee” to be born into my family. My parents landed in Wisconsin in 1953, thanks to the G.I. Bill, and my father’s love of hunting and fishing. He had taken a job in Los Angeles – but did an interview in western WI as a courtesy, since it had already been set up. One look at the wonders of the Mississippi Valley region though, and he called L.A…. rescinded his job acceptance… packed up his wife and 6 week old daughter (my older sister)… and left Knoxville, TN to head north.

Dad loved horses... and his dream had been to buy a small farm close to the mid-size WI town we lived in, so he could raise & breed them. My mother, however, wanted nothing to do with moving “to the country” where she’d have to listen to “…deer stomping and frogs burping…” day & night. As a non-compromise, my father bought an asbestos sided house on the busiest street in town, barely a block from a hospital, and a convent. My mother – loathed living in WI. To be fair, she hated living anywhere except for Winnsboro or Columbia, S.C. -- the towns she had lived in all her life. Even Knoxville had been accepted reluctantly, as only a temporary residence, while my father finished school.

By the time I came along, in 1957, my father was drinking heavily -- well on his way to becoming a highly functional alcoholic -- and he had taken a mistress. Occasionally, he’d bring her home to have dinner with all of us. He never referred to her as his mistress, of course, but even as a toddler, I was well aware something was way off. The town we lived in wasn’t big enough for this situation to be buried. Neighbors were scandalized -- and intrigued. My mother was angry -- and depressed... to where she spent the bulk of her days in bed. My sister and I just kind of enjoyed the peace that descended on the house, once the primary warring factions split up. That happened when I was roughly eight. Prior to then, my father hadn’t spent much time at home… but afterwards, his appearances occurred only on Sundays, and holidays.

My mother did rally herself from her growing depression and agoraphobia long enough to make a third attempt at a “band-aid baby.” The result was my brother… and damned near a death sentence for my mother. By the time he turned three, Mom handed him over to my sister & me to raise – and succumbed fully to bi-polar illness, and rheumatoid arthritis -- neither of which she was willing to seek any treatment for. A few years down the road, both of her legs had to be amputated due to sepsis, and she died early, at only age 63.

(To be continued)

©️dmj
July 2026

William Faulkner, Have I Got a Story for You! (Part II)

Our house functioned with a strong patriarchal focus – despite the patriarch not even being in residence. As the sole reigning son, preference was given to my brother in almost everything: money, attention, medical care, life experiences… . My brother admits to this day, “We didn’t have much growing up – but I got the lion’s share of what we did have.”

There’s an example of this that still bothers me to this day: when I was in college, as an archaeology student, I had the chance to do a summer semester in Egypt. I’d managed to earn & save most of the money I would need, with the exception of about $800. I asked my parents if they could consider fronting me the money—with the understanding I’d be paying it back, with interest. I was given only a “we’ll think about it,” as a response. In this same time-frame, my sixteen yr. old brother had been bitten by the motorcycling bug, and was trying to buy a new motorcycle. One afternoon my father stopped by and handed my brother a $1,200 check--the down-payment for the motorcycle. Egypt was never mentioned again, by any of us. It’s not something I ever want to be petty about… and yet, I don’t think there could have been a more on-point example of how “sons vs. daughters” were treated in my family.

My sister and I also -- more troublingly -- had genuine medical needs that were ignored, including my sister’s congenital heart defect, and my scoliosis. Had my sister been treated as a child for her condition – which would have been a fairly simple procedure – it probably would not have killed her when she was 63.

Our primary functions seemed to be viewed as housekeepers, babysitters, cooks, nurses for our mother… . We were encouraged to go to college & get degrees though—my sister and I. It wasn’t due to any thoughts of female equality, or furthering our potential, sadly. It came down to the simple fact that all my parents’ friends were happily sending their daughters off to college, along with their sons. For my parents to have discouraged us doing the same – especially when we were both excellent students – would have been questioned. Openly, and deeply.

‘Couldn’t have that. Appearances were everything, after all. But we did have expectations set out for us: my sister was to become a teacher; I was supposed to have become a nurse – mostly to take care of my mother, of course. Neither of us, ultimately, did what we were supposed to do… but we made those decisions only after our mother was dead… and with the knowledge that our father didn’t care one way of the other.

In any case… my sister – who, by age 14, was beginning to have her own problems with bi-polar disorder -- & I raised our brother as well as we could, and tried to keep him from becoming totally feral. Surprisingly, he turned out to be a fairly decent guy – not at all the twat one might have expected.

As with most dysfunction families, we had our successes… our happy moments… , though, in her 40s, my sister once bitterly noted: “That’s just it though, isn’t it? Why should we have to fine-comb our lives to ferret out an occasional good memory or happy time? Does that happen in normal families?” Every time I think about her saying this, the Cowsills’ song “Some Good Years” starts playing in my head: ‘a song written by members of a very dysfunctional family, who were trying to hold it all together & undoubtably often asked themselves the same question.

I can speak only for myself, but I don’t view my younger years as tragic or traumatizing. I had autonomy… I learned how to take care of myself… I learned not to expect anyone else to ever be at all concerned about me. I don’t think either of my siblings, or I, grew up with any real expectation that we’d be protected, or truly cared for, by our parents.

It probably has made me a very uninviting romantic prospect for most men… but it’s also had the positive effect of never letting me feel panicked about my ability to take care of my children, or myself. ‘Far more value in that, I think.

And it’s what came through in so many of Faulkner’s novels too: that the hardships & utter ridiculousness of life, often led to the characters in his books becoming… maybe not better people… but distinctly people with more insight and self-awareness. People with ability to handle themselves in a world they didn’t even recognize, anymore.


©️dmj
July 2026