Twenty three years ago yesterday, a 23yr old woman and a 24 year old man made an oath before God that they would remain together as husband and wife, for richer for poorer, sickness and health; various eventualities until death parted them.
There’s been a number of adventures since that day and it’s been all sorts of things, but never boring.
Iona wrote us a lovely poem that sums up the life of a poor man married (for soooo long) to a home educating woman.
23 year, that’s not too bad,
And think of all the fun you’ve had.
The car that wallows in the road;
The trailer that we’ve often towed.
The house-running that you’ve perfected,
And twice the children you expected!
So, by this time I think we can tell,
The two of you get on quite well.
But there is one thing, one little gripe,
The small and inconsequential type.
What really makes our mother shout,
Is when dad throws the boxes out.
This conflict, I feel, will never end,
It really drives her round the bend
“It could be useful for crafting fun.
What kind of house do you think I run?
We do not need to throw away,
A resource we might use some day!”
“But why, when you’ve got twenty-six
Do you need another box of Wheetabix?
What could you do? What could you make?
Tell me now, for goodness sake!”
“Why a house, a car, a Christmas tree!
A scaled down map of Scicilly!
The list goes on. You must agree,
This box could be of use to me.”
“But we have a house!” he says with great aversion,
“Why do we need a cardboard version?”
It’s far too cluttered, you must concede.
And furthermore, you do not need,
Another of those quite obscene,
Empty tubs for margarine.”
“How dar you! NO! Not in the bin!
What else am I to put things in?”
“These boxes, if you had your way,
Would increase in number every day,
Until we couldn’t move, for all
the Crafting projects in the hall.
So, no, I say you cannot keep,
The muesli boxes every week.
This packaging you want to hoard.
We have not the space to have it stored.
There comes a time when even I, myself,
Cannot put up another shelf.
So please disist! I cannot take,
All these cardboard things you make.”
But eve after all’s been said,
After this poem has been read;
Things will still be taken from within,
The cupboard the recycling’s in.