Look at Us

Some songs are just songs. And some songs know exactly where to find you.

I Didn't Know It Was Goodbye

In the summer of 2020, Jan and I drove up to visit Bob and Virginia.

We had seen them earlier that winter when they came down to visit us in Florida. Bob was 90. Virginia was 89. They had been married for more than 70 years.

I didn't know it would be the last time I'd sit with Bob.

Of course, I didn't know that then.

That's the way these things work. The important moments rarely look important while you're standing in them. Most of the time, they just look like another day.

That winter in Florida, Bob had discovered sunshine.

He liked sunshine.

Not just sunshine. Florida sunshine.

Bob had one of those wheeled walkers with a little fold-down seat. He would park himself wherever the sun was coming through the windows.

If the sunshine moved, Bob moved.

Eventually, he followed it outside.

I don't think he was chasing it. He was just making sure he stayed in it.

Bob, Virginia, and Jan enjoying a little Florida sunshine in January 2020. Bob and his infamous walker were never far apart.

He also liked our one-floor living.

No stairs.

No going upstairs to the bedroom. No going downstairs to do laundry.

Apparently, Bob had been thinking about this.

When they got home, he told Jan's sisters they were moving.

Into an apartment.

One of them wasn't particularly happy about it.

“What the hell did they do to you guys down there in Florida?”

She apparently thought Jan and I had talked them into selling their condo.

We hadn't.

That was Bob.

Their condo had two floors and a basement. The bedrooms were upstairs and the laundry was downstairs.

At 90, Bob had apparently decided he'd had enough of that.

Within a month, the condo was sold and Bob and Virginia were in their new apartment.

Looking back, it was probably one of the best decisions he ever made.

Bob died less than a year later.

Bob, Virginia, and Jan in their new apartment in September 2020. Bob got his one-floor living after all.

Bob, me, and my trusty Oster Classic 76 hair clippers in January 2020. I’m pretty sure Bob lost a bet. I don’t remember what the bet was, but apparently the punishment was letting me cut his hair. Looking at that picture, I’m guessing he lost badly.

Look at Us

That summer, while we were visiting, I decided to play a song for them.

Vince Gill's “Look at Us.”

I'd always liked the song.

But sitting there with Bob and Virginia, it suddenly seemed like somebody had written it for them.

They had been married for more than 70 years.

Think about that.

Seventy years is a long time to share a life with somebody.

There are the big things, of course.

The weddings.

The houses.

The vacations.

The children.

The illnesses.

The funerals.

But most of a marriage isn't any of those things.

Most of it is Tuesday.

You get up.

You go to work.

You make dinner.

You pay the bills.

Somebody can't find their keys.

Somebody else knows where they are.

Then you do it again tomorrow.

Eventually all those ordinary days add up to a life.

By then, Bob and Virginia weren't quite the people they had once been.

They were slower.

Smaller.

A little more fragile.

But they were still there.

Still together.

So I played the song.

I don't remember what was on television.

I don't remember where everybody was sitting.

I remember Bob.

He started crying.

Then I noticed Virginia was crying too.

Nobody said anything.

They just listened.

And I sat there thinking, Well, this went somewhere I didn't expect.

I'd only meant to play them a song.

But sitting there were two people who had spent more than 70 years together, listening to a song about people who had spent a long time together.

I got a lump in my throat.

Because it wasn't really a song anymore.

It was them.

Seventy Years

When you're young, seventy years sounds almost ridiculous.

You can't imagine being with somebody that long.

You hear a song about growing old together and think about the romantic part.

Growing old together.

Holding hands.

Watching sunsets.

Nobody puts the electric bill in the love song.

Or the broken water heater.

Or the arguments.

Or the years when somebody gets sick.

Or the house that needs something fixed every Saturday.

And eventually, the stairs.

That's marriage too.

Maybe that's the part that matters most.

You don't get to seventy years by having seventy perfect years.

You get there by having a whole bunch of ordinary years and somehow staying together through them.

Bob and Virginia had done that.

Their world had gotten smaller by then.

They couldn't do everything they once did.

Bob needed his walker.

The stairs had become a problem.

Things that used to be easy weren't always easy anymore.

But they were still sitting beside each other.

After seventy years, I suppose you become part of each other's history.

You remember things the other person has forgotten.

You know stories nobody else knows.

You've seen each other at your best.

And you've seen each other when neither of you was particularly impressive.

And you're still there.

That's a pretty good deal.

What I Remember

I wish I'd known that summer that it would be the last time I'd sit with Bob.

If I'd known, I probably would have stayed longer.

I would have taken another picture.

I would have asked him more questions.

But I didn't know.

None of us ever really do.

If somebody tells you, This is the last time you're going to see this person, you pay attention.

But nobody tells you.

The last time just happens.

What I remember is Bob sitting there crying.

Virginia sitting beside him, crying too.

I don't know what they were thinking.

Maybe they were remembering when they were young.

Maybe they were thinking about all those years.

Maybe they were thinking about nothing at all.

Maybe they were just listening to the song.

I never asked.

Sometimes you don't need to.

Look at Us

I've thought about that afternoon a lot since then.

Jan and I have been married a long time ourselves.

Not 70 years.

We're going to have to get busy if we're going to catch up with Bob and Virginia.

But we've been together long enough that I understand something now that I probably didn't understand when I played that song.

When you've been with somebody long enough, they're more than your husband or wife.

They've seen every version of you.

The young you.

The working you.

The broke you.

The healthy you.

The foolish you.

The tired you.

The older you.

They've seen you change.

They've seen you get things right.

They've seen you screw things up.

And they're still sitting there.

That's what I hear when Vince Gill sings “Look at Us.”

I don't really hear Vince Gill anymore.

I hear Bob.

I see Virginia sitting beside him.

I see Bob following the sunshine around the house in that walker.

I see two old people who had somehow made it through more than 70 years together.

Most of those years probably didn't feel particularly important while they were happening.

They were just Tuesdays.

One after another.

Until there were 70 years of them.

Then I look over at Jan.

And I think...

I hope we get that lucky.