“I’ll never forget the last time I saw them together,” said Trish, my former neighbor, about her in-laws, Ralph and Janet Holmes. 

“They were leaving Mom’s house after dinner, walking out to their car, holding hands. After all those year of marriage [53], they still held hands.” 

A few days later, on July 7, Ralph died in his sleep. 

There’s something especially touching about long-married couples that still enjoy each other’s company. My own parents (coincidentally named Rolf and Janet) are that way. Married 51 years, there are still times when I’ll see the two of them holding hands or catch Dad giving Mom a playful swat on the butt. 

I can’t imagine one without the other, and recognize how lucky I’ve been to witness a marriage like theirs. 

My friend Debbie recently started dating a great guy named Darren, and she told me she’s nervous because “everything’s so easy with him.” Debbie’s never experienced easy before. I told her it had been that way with me and Geoff–that everything fell so smoothly into place, there were no awkward moments, no upsetting revelations. We brought out the best in each other, the funniest, the most thoughtful. We still do. 

My conversation with Debbie reminded me of a story I’d saved. I went searching for it, wanting to share it with her, and when I finally found and read it again, I decided it was something others might benefit from reading as well.

It was an excerpt from a 2006 posting titled “A Brief Reprieve” by Jeff Simmermon on his blog, And I Am Not Lying. 

“You can read so much online about dating. Everyone wants not just a partner, but the perfect partner. We want flat abs and wit, we want money and initiative, frequent great sex AND fidelity, humor, business acumen, and flawless manners. I think we’re missing the boat. 

“That’s the stuff of great beginnings. That’s what we say we want, a beginning with sparks and crackle. This weekend, I spent a lot of time thinking about the end [with my ailing grandfather]. And when my own end comes, I want someone to stand there with me as my body fails, feeding me, hoping and praying that they can stand next to me for one more night, one more year, while our bodies and minds gently give out together, until the only thing left is our love for each other and the people that care for us. 

“You can keep your flowers and your nights on the town. Take all your dinners, all your dates, your designer jeans and your brand-consciousness, all your nights out at the club, because unless you can give me–and unless you’re patient enough to let me give you–what my grandparents give each other, all you have is special effects without a script. High expectations, but no substance to hold them up.” 

That kind of love is something to strive for. Those who put too much interest in their mate’s appearance or income or status are cheating themselves–and their partner–of experiencing the sense of peace that comes from knowing your other half is, and will continue to be, completely there for you. Being able to give yourself over is such a gift. Try to envision the object of your affection someday being the one changing your diaper or feeding you when you can’t. If you’re able to see them doing so with patience and compassion-and able to see yourself doing the same for them-then you’re mightily blessed. 

While that might not fit the traditional idea of romance, little could touch the heart more than to know someone loves you that much.

I recently read an article where the author, Walker Lamond, told how he’d begun compiling a list of life lessons he’d learned from his dad.  He wanted to pass them on to his own future offspring. But rather than record the wisdoms he got from his father, he found himself listing 10 things he wished his father had taught him-things like how to fish, how to work on a car, and how to never underestimate his fertility.

It occurred to me that I should write a list of my own since I’ve learned a lot from my dad, but when I sat down to write, all the things I came up with were things I wish I hadn’t learned. And not just from Dad.

For instance, I wish Dad hadn’t taught me to eat pancakes with jelly instead of syrup, even though they taste much better his way. I’m seldom tempted by the thought of pancakes with syrup, but once the idea of pancakes with jelly enters my head, even the mostly closely held diet goes down the drain. 

From my brother I learned not to ever pull anyone’s finger. Ever. Plus, he taught me not to look down when he pointed under my chin and asked, “What’s that?” And helped me learn there’s a danger in not checking the phone’s earpiece for Vaseline before putting it to my ear.

I wish my brother had never taught me it was important to be absolutely certain I wasn’t within reach of the monster under my bed, and he said I could only do this by never venturing closer to the edge than 16 stripes in. I now suspect this to be the origin of my insomnia, especially since I no longer have striped sheets to use as a guide.

And I really wish my brother hadn’t taught me how true the word “permanent” is when paired with the word “marker.” This lesson he taught by drawing a Pierre mustache on my upper lip while I was taking a nap.

These days, I have a larger cast of characters teaching me lessons I’d rather not learn. 

For instance, I wish I hadn’t learned from our dogs that it’s no longer fun to run barefoot through the grass in our yard.

I wish I hadn’t learned that flames can reach eyebrow level if you’re dumb enough to refill the lawnmower’s gas tank before it has sufficiently cooled.

And I wish God hadn’t taught me how dangerous it is to say, “It can’t possibly get any worse.”

I wish I hadn’t learned the rule about not wearing white to a wedding by wearing white to a wedding. Or learned how unflattering that dress was on me until seeing a picture of that dress on me. 

I wish my husband hadn’t taught me where Celeste hides her chocolate. Or Celeste adding to the lesson by revealing Geoff’s Pringles stash. 

But perhaps most of all I wish my husband and daughter hadn’t learned that I have fainting goat tendencies if someone pops out and scares me.

And I expect they both wish they hadn’t learned what would happen if they popped out when I was carrying a plate of pancakes with jelly. 

“I was reading today’s paper and the back page of section D has pictures of the animals up for adoption,” wrote Debra Cantley of Charleston in her letter to me. “One picture is of a sweet little dog that is 10 years old. The ad says the dog is there because the family is moving, but how can someone do that? My dog is 12 years old. I’d move into a cardboard box before I’d even consider doing something like that. It hurts to think what this little dog is going through, how his heart is breaking. He’s been thrown away and doesn’t know why.

“I hope this little dog finds a good, loving home. I wish I could take him. It just breaks my heart.”

I’ve been haunted by dogs like the one that touched Cantley–those grey-muzzled, rheumy-eyed animals who seem to be struggling to maintain their dignity after finding themselves dumped in a shelter, usually after their former owner has claimed they can’t take Fido or Fluffy with them when they move.

Like Cantley, I can’t fathom how an owner could reward years of loyal loving in such a dismissive fashion, although I’ve recently learned how difficult it can be to find a home for an animal that is no longer frisky.

When Gypsy, a timid cat, came to live with us, she spent the first month in hiding. It took some time to get her to trust us, but she gradually became one of the gang. And then somehow, she became the gang’s target. Even though all our animals have been neutered and are gentle with each other, there’s something about the quiet, meek Gypsy that causes them to bully, chase, and pick on her so ruthlessly that, to give her some peace, we began to lock her away in one room.

But the one room restriction hasn’t been well-received, and after months of Gypsy having to choose between being pummeled or being locked up alone, we decided it might be kinder to try and find her a new home.

Considering that Gypsy is highly decorative, we didn’t expect it would be too hard to place her. She’s healthy, declawed, litter trained, quiet. She doesn’t weave around feet or do the feline speedbump thing like our other cats do, and since she loves nothing more than to sit on a lap and watch television, we thought she’d be great company for an older person who lives alone.

Except every time we thought we’d found a potential new home, they’d decline when we told Gypsy’s age. She was mature when we got her, so we don’t know for certain, but the vet estimates her to be 8 or 9, which is middle age for an indoor cat.

So if it’s this difficult to find a home for a cat that isn’t even a senior, how hard must it be to place one that is truly old? 

Since we’re fortunate enough that there’s no rush to rehome her, we’re simply continuing what we’ve been doing for months, until we find her a new home. Some might expect this experience might’ve made me slightly more sympathetic toward those who take their older animals to the shelter, but it hasn’t. Not a bit.

Owning a pet is a commitment, an until-death-us-do-part kind of deal. They’re living, feeling creatures with so much to offer.

In Animal Lessons in Love, author Mary Lou Randour explains how animals can teach us how to live more responsibly and joyously. 

“The lessons animals teach us about trust are not abstract or symbolic, but concrete and dramatic.

“We directly experience the love of the animals with whom we share our lives - love without reservation, judgment, or expectation. The animals by our side don’t care what we look like, how successful we are, whether we are fat or thin, rich or poor. They simply love us. We benefit from their attention and enjoy their unconditional love, a love that never doubts our motives, neither wavering nor withdrawing.

“Adult humans, on the other hand, complicate love. We tend to love ambivalently. Our love comes mixed with other emotions: lack of trust, fear of loss of control, hesitancy to expose our vulnerability, doubt, and a resistance to relinquishing our own self-interest. Animals can teach us about love, about becoming vulnerable, and about leaving doubt behind.”

You could’ve knocked me over with a feather. In spite of having spent the past year or two being thoroughly turned off by the “go green” movement, I recently took a survey and discovered that much to my surprise, I’m an environmentalist.

Who knew? I thought I was just cheap.

The survey started by asking me to rate my enthusiasm for “greenness” on a scale of 1 to 10, with 1 being the most passionate and 10 being thoroughly uninterested. While I’ll readily admit I’m quite fond of our planet, I’m also fond of air conditioning, showering daily and individually wrapped cheese slices, all of which I assumed would disqualify me from being green. I gave myself an 8.

As I progressed through the questions, however, I learned I’m far more environmentally conscientious than I realized. I shop at yard sales, have my own garden, use energy-saving light bulbs, drive a fuel-efficient car. I’m clearly just a step or two away from freebasing granola.

Still, the survey confused me. Made me wonder what it was about the green movement that always rankles me so.

I got my answer this past weekend, after watching a number of home-improvement shows that featured one dramatic kitchen or bathroom renovation after another - all of which they claimed to be “green” since they used products made from recycled material.

Except they glossed over the fact that the cabinets they tore out and destroyed were completely functional. Most of what they trashed looked far better than any I’ve ever owned.

So while I’m all for trying to leave the daintiest of carbon footprints, it seems like it would be more green to be content with what we have rather than throwing it away because we simply don’t like how it looks.

Somewhere along the line, the green product manufacturers recognized they could charge more and people would happily pay it. Having something that identified you as being green became a status symbol, so consumers lustily embraced the green giant.

I’m sure many consumers are truly environmentally conscious, but I bet far more bend that way simply because it makes them look good.

If I were going to put a color on hypocrisy, it would be green.

The way I see it, if you truly care about the environment, you find ways to make do with less and to make what you already have work better instead of being so quick to replace it.

I realize now that the reason the results of that quiz left me feeling stunned was because, like all the other sheep who were drawn to the green, my idea of what it takes to be environmentally minded had been influenced and tainted by all these new green products I’d been hearing about. Since I can’t (or don’t) buy them, I felt that meant that I didn’t care.

When in reality, what I don’t care for is having the wrong reason to follow a trend.