A Love Story

This is a love story. To be specific, this is my love story. I want to share it with you. But what I talk about here is my view on the world. It is my perspective. My version of what love is. So, this is a love story based on what I consider love to be. But who am I to tell you what this is? Decide for yourself. Tell me what you think. Now, then, let me collect my thoughts. 

The story begins 50 years ago—at least if I remember correctly. You may forgive me if I confuse the dates. I was never good with this kind of detail. 

Where was I? Yes, 50 years ago, I was a young man. Full of life and lust for adventure. It was a good time. We were the children of the relieving peace that followed the war: Everything was blooming. Life wasn’t full of luxury, but every year we had something more. There were a lot of children in my generation. I myself have four siblings, and there were many children in the house I grew up in. I was the oldest, and by the time this story starts, I was ready to flee the nest. 

I wanted to see more than the town I grew up in. But it wasn’t like today; you didn’t just jump into a plane and off you go to see the world. Well, what I did was this: I took bicycle trips around Germany. To the northern coast, to the islands of eastern Germany, to the midland mountains and the great mountains of the south. We drove to the Netherlands, Denmark, and even France. I had some nice summers back then. A flirt here and there. A nice girl with a lovely smile at the camping place in France, a lovely young woman I met on the coast of Denmark. But I am getting distracted; that’s not what I want to tell you, though there were some lovely flirtations in my youth. A bit of fun. The ever-same exciting game between the two sexes. 

Yeah, I know you young people don’t believe in the construct of gender anymore. But from what I experienced in my life, I do think there is the species of woman and the species of man. You don’t have to share my opinion, but that is what I believe in. Respect that. So, where was I? 

Yes. Some flirts here and there. A stolen kiss, sometimes a bit more. It was fun. We were young, free-spirited. The world belonged to us. But of course, we knew it wouldn’t stay like that. Logically, at least. There was school, there was the work that would come after that, and then there was a life to be lived. We all knew that. There was a family waiting to be built. A woman waiting to be held in my arms. A child who would call me father. It wasn’t my wish I would say. Not even a real choice. It was just the way of life. The path I knew I would follow. You must know I wasn’t the first of my siblings to follow the path of marriage. 

My younger brother married his wife at the age of 20. That was normal. You would find a woman, she might not be the most exciting person ever, you might not feel fireworks or butterflies or whatever your idea of the big romance is today. You would just know: That is the woman who will carry the future together with me. That is the person I will share a life with. The person with whom I will plant roots. Probably not the big romance you young folk are looking for, I know. It wasn’t falling head over heels into something. You were the right age, in the right economic situation, and then you would meet someone. Someone who is not perfect for you. But someone who decides for you, and you decide for them. And from there on it is work. It's loving someone no matter what. Standing up for each other. Making compromises. Building a partnership. Sharing a life. And that’s not easy, but it works if you want it to work. 

You might think I am not a romantic person. You might think this is all too rational, too planned. But I’ve been married for over 50 years, and I love my wife. She is the love of my life, and the life we lived together is something I wouldn’t change for anything in this world. 

Where was I? I apologize for my lack of straight thoughts. The world has become so irritating. 

Right, so, it was summer. I was on the coast of Germany. Small village in the west, I don’t think you would know it. We had rented some bungalows there. My parents, my siblings, my younger brother with his wife and his first child, the grandparents, my aunt, and my cousin, some family friends. I am not sure if I have to explain this to you. I know holidays today are different. More individualistic, way more far away. But back then, that was normal. A family, and not just the inner circle of it, would go to some place reachable by car—I mean, after all, it was the beginning of the age of cars. Thinking of it makes me a bit nostalgic, I must admit. I know all old people have the tendency to tell you young folks that the good old times were so much better. I don’t know why; maybe because we ourselves were young back then. Maybe it’s just that it is a memory, and we humans tend to forget bad memories and cherish just the best of them. But you know it doesn’t matter in the end. It’s the feeling that counts for me here. Looking back makes me nostalgic. 

I apologize, I went off track again. 

It was summer. I’ve been out of school for five years. I had finished my training, and for the past two years I was working for my father in his small company. Back then, I never questioned that. I know today it’s normal to search for the right path. You young people go abroad, study, work here, and then there. You are all living an adventurous life. I know that is the norm now. At least that's my impression. 

But of course, when it comes to everything I say, all my opinions and views on the world, you have to consider the background I come from. I can't quite speak for a whole generation. In the end, I am a working-class man. And back in my youth, and with my background, it wasn’t like that. There wasn't an adventurous life lying in front of young people, as I think is the case today. There was a path laid out in front of you. Of course, some people went abroad, some studied. But it wasn’t the norm. At least not where I am coming from. But nevertheless, I was 22 years old. I had a steady job. I was about to meet my soon-to-be wife. It wasn’t planned, I didn’t look for her, it just happened. It was just the normal route of life. 

She was a lovely young woman back then. It is still such a vivid memory: I was getting the keys for the bungalows of my family at the reception, and there she was standing. Endearing, pinned-up brown hair with some loose strands falling around her neck. She turned the moment I entered the room, and I saw her friendly, round face with two bright blue eyes. She was wearing a white dress with black dots all over it. Her arms and legs from the knees down were exposed and showed milky skin with hundreds of freckles. She looked beautiful. With the keys to her bungalow in hand, she passed me and gave me a shy smile. I got the keys for my folks, went out to the cars, and sat down in my brother’s car. I  told him I had just met my future wife. He laughed. 

What do you want me to tell you? It’s not a dramatic love story. There was no grand misunderstanding or great gestures of passion. I met her later on the beach. Everybody went out there in the evening to barbecue and watch the sunset. She was there with a group of friends. I went over and talked to her. Was I nervous? Sure. But I knew I would marry her, so I had to talk to her. We went on a walk. We talked. The next two weeks went by, and we spent our time together between my family and her friends’ group. She got on well with my parents and my siblings; I liked her friends. In between, we would steal moments just for ourselves. 

Illustration by Jaro Mettinisson

We were really lucky. We were three hundred kilometers away from our homes, but fortunately, we came from the same city. Not even two neighborhoods were between our houses. So, after the summer holidays came to an end, we went home and saw each other regularly. We went out for picnics, we went on walks. There were dinners, theater, and one or two museum visits. I met her parents and her sister. It all just came together. 

I don’t think we ever talked about dating or something like “exclusiveness,” if I remember that term correctly. It was clear from the beginning that we were a couple. There was no doubt about being in a monogamous relationship. I don’t know what to tell you. I heard about all the different ways of dating that are out there today. Polygamous relationships, friendship plus, open dating. I don’t know what to think about this. If that is what you young folks want, who am I to tell you that it is not the right way? Every man is the architect of his own fortune. But just let me tell you, and that is not a criticism of your way of life… Who am I kidding? It is one. Life is not about jumping from adventure to adventure. It is not about hunting thrills and excitement. Living a stable life is not a misfortune. Life itself is an adventure. Embrace it and do it right! And sometimes it is not about making the right decision, but making a decision and then making it the right one by being loyal to it and giving it your all. 

You don’t have to listen to me. I am just an old man, what do I know about how to live a happy life in this modern world? And looking at my life, you might find it boring, sheltered, and small. But while you judge me, think about this story as a lesson. You might take it the way you want. The only thing I am asking of you is to consider that what I am telling you was the way of life just two generations ago. It might sound antic and refurbished to you, but it was the norm. And I for myself can say that I lived a happy life. 

You may excuse me for going off track again. How can I convince you that this is a love story when my thoughts always go in different directions? I just feel the need to explain myself. That might be wrong. You might understand me even without that, but I just have the impression that your understanding of love is different from mine. But nevertheless, let me go on. My wonderful wife-to-be and I “dated” for six months. On a lovely Wednesday afternoon, on a bench on our favorite walking route, I asked her to become my wife. She said yes without hesitating, never having doubted that I would one day ask. We walked in the sunshine, and I took her to a jewelry store to choose a ring. We went for dinner and that was it. Just like that, without hesitation or drama, we were engaged. Ready to build a life. 

It took another six months until we got married. That was purely because of practical reasons. We searched for a flat to live in and started to buy furniture and everything we needed for our own household. You must know, it was very common at that time to live at home until you moved out to marry. We got our appointment at the registry office, and the date was set. We found a small flat close to my workplace and in a nice, child-friendly area. My brother helped me renovate in the evenings after work. We went to flea markets and second-hand stores to find good yet affordable furniture. She knew what she wanted, and she was brilliant at finding hidden treasures. Everything came together. We moved in the new furniture. She sewed curtains fitting the tablecloth and put up little decorations here and there. She called it “nesting.” She said that it was important to make your living place feel homely. 

Step after step, we built a home. Our wedding date came, and our families dressed nicely and followed us on a Tuesday morning to the registry office in our neighborhood. The ceremony was short; her sister and my brother signed the marriage certificate as witnesses to the marriage, and we said yes. We were married. 

My lovely young bride and I left the office, and our friends and family greeted us with congratulations and threw rice. My parents had organized a lunch for all the guests, and so, the whole lot went to my parents’ garden. We ate in the sun. Danced and laughed. And when the evening settled in and the sun waved her goodbye, my wife and I went to our new home and spent our first night there. 

I would call this the start of our love story. It went on way longer than that. What came next was building a life together, a routine. We woke up and had breakfast. We went to work, came back, and had dinner. We continued to go on walks. And on the weekend, we would be seeing friends and family. Three months went by like that, and then my wife told me that we were expecting a child. I was 23 years old and soon to be a father. 

I know that isn’t the same today. People take more time. They have children way later. And I do not judge them. Taking the role of a parent changes everything. It makes you grow up. I would say, in some sense, it is the thing that makes you an adult, and I do not mean that as a criticism, but the experience of having the responsibility for a young, innocent, and helpless child makes you mature like nothing else can do. Of course, I must say that we were in the economic position to be able to support a child, and that with only me contributing income. I know that is no longer necessarily the economic reality for young people.

I can’t really tell you if I had the wish for a child, if it was my dream to be a father. It was just the next thing that was about to happen. But don’t mistake that as something negative. To hear that I would have a child made me incredibly happy. Of course, I was scared to death, but seeing my wife getting rounder and rounder while our child grew every day was one of the most profound things I have ever experienced in my life. 

Our first child was born a year after our wedding, and after another year, our second. We were very happy with our small family life. I must admit that due to my being the only source of income after my wife got pregnant with our first, we had to refrain from the idea of a third child. My wife would have loved to have a third one, but in our economic situation, we couldn’t afford another child without her going back to work, and she decided to stay at home as a housewife. And so, we remained a household of four. 

Life goes by incredibly fast when you think about it. I worked my whole life. I saw my children grow up. I played with them and later with their children, and then I saw them become adults, too. And through all that time, my wife was by my side. She loved me. She nourished me. She laughed with me. She fought with me. She was happy with me. She was angry, mad, and annoyed with me. There were times we talked and talked without an end, and there were times of sitting together in silence. For me, that is love. And for me, the greatest part of my life is a love story. She was there. In all aspects. She is my witness, and I am hers. I saw her struggles, her happiness, her anxiety, her kindness, her boredom, her excitement. I saw it all, and she saw mine. And through all that, through a whole life, I loved her. And she loved me. We spent a life together. We saw each other get older. We saw each other's whole life. We were each other’s life. 

We are old now. It feels like we outlived the life that was given to us. But you never know. I might even see some great-grandchildren. And as long as I am still here, I hope she will stay by my side. I am not ready to let her go yet. My love story isn’t over. As long as I can hold her warm body at night, her hand on our walks, and see her smile, I want to continue living in this world. 

So, tell me, is this a love story? Do you young people see the beauty in the love I lived? Can you imagine the life behind this story? Can you believe that this is the reality of just two generations ago? Tell me, are you able to understand what I mean by love? And if so, don’t you think that this is a love story worthy of being re-lived?

Written by India Wittmershaus.

Illustration by Jaro Mettinisson.