“But they must be home. It’s only been a few minutes since they sent me to the store for ice cream.”

November 1950

“I don’t know about you people, but I have a busy day ahead of me tomorrow.”

November 1959

“I really had a wonderful time, and I know Marge did, too.”

November/December 1997

“Man! It’s getting colder than a …”

October 1982

“I suppose you want to come in.”

November 1950

“I call this Beethoven’s unfinished fifth!”

April 1959

“Uncle Henry! This is a surprise!”

October 1954

Cartoons: Company Coming The Saturday Evening Post

Not only did Nicole’s father show up for her winter wonderland wedding in Vermont on December 29, 2012, he walked her down the aisle alongside her stepfather, Dan. Afterward, Nicole and her father danced to the perfect song for the occasion—John Lennon’s “Imagine.”

Nicole Stefanowicz was only 6 when her parents divorced in 1993. It was a real shocker because she never saw them fight, and her father was a doting dad. “My mom worked on Sundays, so that was our special day together,” recalls Nicole fondly. “He was a terrible cook, so we had boiled hot dogs and ravioli, but I loved it because we were together.”

That all changed after the divorce.

Though Nicole’s mother recovered quickly—marrying a family friend who became a loving stepfather—her father Glenn spiraled into depression, anger, and alcoholism. “He really went downhill after that,” Nicole says. “It was hard to see him like that.”

Unable to accept his wife’s new relationship, in a drunken stupor, one day he vandalized the family car, forcing Nicole’s mother to file a restraining order. That was the end of Nicole’s contact with him. She didn’t see her dad for most of the next decade, only hearing occasional updates of how he had moved away to Vermont, was scraping by, was in and out of jail, and eventually wound up living on the streets.

Although Nicole knew she could do nothing to help her father, it planted the seeds of a caring heart in her—one she first noticed when a friend in high school had a drinking problem.

“I could see my dad in him,” Nicole says. “I wanted to fix people and make them better. I think secretly I wished I could fix my dad.”

Nicole became a community service devotee helping the less fortunate however she could. And a few years later, all those good works earned her a scholarship to St. Michael’s College in Vermont. When she arrived, one of the first things she did was look for her father. “Vermont is a small state,” Nicole says. “I figured maybe I could find him. But I couldn’t.”

She majored in journalism and threw herself into the volunteer work that was now part of her makeup. One thing led to another and soon she was working with the Committee on Temporary Shelter (COTS) at St. John’s Hall, a permanent housing location for displaced individuals. From the moment she arrived, Nicole was thinking about her father. But she was totally unprepared for what was to come. As she walked past the mailroom one day, she noticed a mailbox with her dad’s first name on it. “I got really nervous,” Nicole remembers. “I sat down and started playing a game to take my mind off of things. But I couldn’t stop from thinking and hoping that maybe it could be him.”

Then, as the residents were called in for dinner, Nicole’s wish came true. “My dad came in carrying his bike, and was totally nonchalant when he saw me,” Nicole recalls. “He just said, ‘Hey, there. Let me put my bike away, and I will come down and say hello.’”

Her fellow volunteers and the staff at the shelter looked on in shock and confusion as Nicole proudly informed them that the homeless man they knew as Glenn was her dad. “I was so happy to see him,” Nicole recalls. “I didn’t even think about how crazy it was. I was just glad we were together again.”

The two made small talk after dinner and left promising they would see each other soon. But Nicole wasn’t about to leave it to chance. She began volunteering regularly at the center, just so she would be sure to see him. “We would take long walks together and talk, sometimes go to the mall,” Nicole recalls. “I just enjoyed being with him.”

She also enjoyed the work. Seeing how the center helped Glenn made her think of all the residents differently. They were no longer faceless social victims, but rather they were people’s fathers, mothers, sisters, and brothers. In her sophomore year, after a weeklong field trip working with Hope House Ministries—a group that caters to some of the most desperate of disadvantaged souls—she knew helping the less fortunate was her life’s calling. She switched her major to sociology, and began working a lot more with COTS. “That’s when I really began to think maybe my dad and I could have an ongoing relationship,” she says. But that notion would soon be tested in a big way.

As part of her continued commitment to charity work, Nicole went abroad the following semester. During her stay, she received word Glenn had gone back on the streets and was involved in a serious accident while riding his bike. The news terrified her. “I first thought he might be dead,” recalls Nicole. “I never really thought about that being possible before, and it really affected me. That’s when it really hit me how much I cared for him.”

When she returned to the U.S., she was happy to see he was safely back in the shelter. She realized she would never be able to fix all his problems, but she also saw that having him in her life was a gift.

When Nicole graduated from college the next year, her father surprised her. He showed up in a suit, nicely groomed, and perfectly sober to cheer on the graduate. “He was so proud of me,” Nicole recalls. “It really filled my heart to have him there with the rest of the family.”

Today, their relationship endures and grows, even though Glenn struggles to stay sober and faces mental and emotional battles. One night last year, he wound up in the hospital with a breakdown. He called Nicole crying and apologizing. When Nicole showed up, she found him cold, wet, and starving.

But, some time later, when Nicole recently told him she was getting married, he beamed with pride and promised her he would be sober for the wedding. “It’s beautiful that he wants to be there for me, but I love him whether or not he shows up,” Nicole admitted at the time.

On the big day, December 29, 2012, her father not only showed up for the wedding but also walked her down the aisle, then shared a dance with his daughter at the reception.

For Nicole, the most important thing is having a relationship with her father—even if it’s an imperfect one. And grasping that lesson has brought her peace, both in her personal life and in her career.

“For all those years I didn’t have him when I was younger, I felt like I was missing something, and now I don’t,” Nicole says. “I feel like I have a rich and full life that he adds to. As long as he can continue to do that, then whatever we can have together is better than what we would have apart.”

Photo by Todd Stoilov/courtesy Nicole Stefanowicz.

Inspiration: Father of the Bride The Saturday Evening Post

“I love you just the way you are … and as soon as you give up smoking, drinking and those morons you call friends, I’ll love you even more.”

November/December 1990

“Zip.”

March 1952

“The plot’s thickening!”

March 1952

“I’ll be quiet as a mouse.”

March 1952

“Now, I really enjoyed that—pity Mary Jane isn’t at home to enjoy it too!”

May 1952

“REFRESHMENTS!”

December 1952

Cartoons: Young Lovers The Saturday Evening Post

Devra and Jim Fishman on their wedding day.

“Sweetheart, what would you like for lunch today?” I asked as I stood in the kitchen clenching the handle of the open refrigerator.

I wondered if my husband Jim could hear the resentment biting into my voice, like a termite chewing through a piece of good wood. This would be the 81st meal I would have prepared for us since he retired four weeks earlier.

Jim and I had just come back from the gym and were still wearing our slightly sweaty workout clothes. He sat at our glass-top kitchen table with his chair angled, holding up the Washington Post in front of him. The sun flickered off of the silver wedding band he always wore, the same design as my gold one, which was upstairs on our bureau. I left it at home because I didn’t like to feel my fingers pinch between my ring and the free weights I lifted.

“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” Jim replied, without looking up. Then he pulled back one side of the paper and added, “I love spending time with you.”

“And I love spending time with you, too,” I responded, then thought, I just wish it wasn’t quite as much time, though.

Two years ago, with Jim’s encouragement, I quit my marketing job to write and take care of time-consuming housekeeping tasks so that we could enjoy carefree evenings and weekends together. I wrote every day, met friends for lunch, took a regular yoga class, and became a weekly hospice volunteer. My new routine was so personally fulfilling that it left me wondering when I ever had time to work.

When Jim retired last month, I rejoiced for his newfound freedom but didn’t expect it to eat into mine. Once Jim was home he wanted us to have every meal together. When I announced I was going to the grocery store, he would ask me to wait until he was finished reading the paper so he could come with me. If I said that I wanted to go for a walk, he would go get his shoes. My writing slipped and my friendships started to fray as I tried to adapt to his new schedule. For the first time since we met, I wanted less time with Jim, not more.

I adore my husband. Our lives fit together easily like a child’s first jigsaw puzzle. I love Jim’s quick wit, personal integrity, and ability to have thoughtful, emotional, and even difficult, honest conversations. From the moment we started dating, years after each of our first marriages ended in divorce, our priority was to be together as much as possible, as though we were trying to make up for all of the time we spent apart.

So how could I be losing my appetite for the man I adore, the man who makes me laugh at least three times a day? And, how would I tell the love of my life that I no longer shared his vision of togetherness? I longed to move anonymously through a Whole Foods Market once again. I missed the days when I would be at my desk, realize I was hungry, silently go to the refrigerator, take out food, eat it, and get back to my writing. I was beginning to feel like I was disappearing into a morphed image of the two of us, and I was frightened that neither Jim nor I would like the new half-person I would inevitably become.

My husband reminded me every day that I was the reason he was happier than he had ever been and that being together was what he wanted and enjoyed more than anything else. We hadn’t discussed what we wanted our lives to look like once he retired, and now I was wondering if I would fail as a wife and partner simply because I wanted—no, needed—for us to be separate individuals in our marriage. I had heard of this happening to long-married couples, but we were still giddy newlyweds who celebrate our ‘anniversary’ every Friday, the day that we eloped at a local lawyer’s office more than 200 weeks ago.

I knew the only way to tell him was with direct, loving honesty, the same way we discussed everything else, except my stomach started to tighten as I considered how this might affect our relationship. Jim might need togetherness as much as I needed space. Couples split up over that kind of incompatibility and I couldn’t bear the thought of that happening to us.

“We’re having a big salad,” I said, as I slowly opened a drawer in the fridge, pulled out romaine, celery, onion, and tomatoes and placed them on the counter near the sink, all the while gathering my thoughts and composing my opening sentence. I opened a can of tuna then rinsed and methodically chopped the vegetables into bite-size pieces, tapping out a message that lunch would be ready soon. Taking my cue, Jim folded his newspaper, stood up and set the table.

“Sweetheart,” I said, as I brought the salad bowl over and sat down. “I can’t do this anymore.”

“Do what?” he asked as he sat down.

I intended to speak slowly and evenly, but the words rushed out, like a pot boiling over. “Preparing and sharing all these meals. It’s too much for me. I miss all of the things I was doing before you retired. I miss who I was before you retired.”

“But I thought this is what we wanted, the very reason I retired—so that we could be together all of the time,” Jim said, shrinking back into his chair and locking onto my eyes with his. He looked like a little boy who just found out the truth about Santa Claus.

I tried to explain. “Sweetheart, I feel like I’m losing my balance with all of this togetherness. Don’t you want to pursue your own activities—separate to mine?”

I saw his eyebrows push together as he leaned forward and started to speak. “I have no interest in jumping up and finding stuff to do right now. I just retired from having to be somewhere, reporting to someone, five days a week. Right now I am perfectly happy spending my time with you.”

“Of course I understand that. I’m sorry,” I said, trying to deflect the growing tension. “I enjoy being with you, too, but I’m afraid you won’t love the person I might become if I don’t stay nourished with my writing, my friends, and my exercise classes. I’m also afraid I won’t like the person I might become.”

“I can’t imagine not loving you, but I have noticed that you haven’t been your usual, lighthearted self lately,” he said. “And, I love your usual, lighthearted self.” He started to blink, which I took as a good sign. “But I’m not sure what to do here.”

For better or worse, but not for lunch.

“I love you, too, sweetheart,” I said, reaching for his hand before I continued. “I have been thinking about this and have a proposal for us to try. How about we eat breakfast together, taking turns preparing, spend mornings—and lunch—on our own, then meet back up for dinner, which we can also take turns planning?”

“So we’re married for better or worse, but not for lunch?” he joked, a sure sign we would survive this hurdle.

“Yes, I guess you could say that,” I said, leaning over for a quick kiss. “I think it’s worth a try, don’t you?”

“OK, yes,” he said, slowly nodding his head, still smiling. “Now please will you pass the salad dressing? I’m starving.”

Suddenly, I was too.

For Better Or Worse The Saturday Evening Post

The late Don Asher and Dr. Lois Goodwill, his partner of more than two decades, discovered their answer and share the tale in the memoir Entangled: A Chronicle of Late Love.

Don Asher was an 80-year-old pianist in San Francisco, and Lois, who goes by Sarah in the book, was a 69-year-old semi-retired clinical psychologist with a penchant for travel and art. They seemed happy together, but after twenty-two years with Don, Lois met a former Jesuit priest and formed a startling romantic connection with him, triggering an excitement in her that she hadn’t felt since she was young.

The results of her departure and subsequent love affair obviously shook both Don and Lois and Entangled offers both sides of the couple’s story. (Don’s perspective is written after the events while Lois’ diary is written during them.)

It’s not easy to read about Don’s depression and anxiety, but the memoir paints a vivid picture of the fractured relationship, and the story of how each of them picked up the pieces and moved forward is both intense and startlingly beautiful.

Surprisingly, I was most drawn to Lois’ diary entries, written while she was embarking on a new course and starting a new relationship. Her thoughts, worries, and pleasures make her seem open and alive, still enjoying life at nearly 70 years of age.

Don Asher previously wrote for the Saturday Evening Post, and his half of the book is equally intense as he lets us into his life, revealing his fears about returning prostate cancer and his sadness about losing his love.

Entangled is truly a story of new life and new love, showing us that love and affection never truly die, even as we get older.

Entangled: A Chronicle of Late Love is available from Heyday at a list price of $14.95.

Book Review: Entangled The Saturday Evening Post

"I'm not boring you with all this talk about myself, am I?"
From May/Jun 1995

From Nov/Dec 2000

"Are you trying to tell me that you want to postpone the wedding?"
From Jan/Feb 1999

"Hi, this is Martha from OnStar, and Doug, you are an insensitive pig!"
From Jan/Feb 2001

"You know, this evening would be a lot more romantic if you'd quit screaming, 'We're going to die! We're going to die!'"
From Jan/Feb 1995

"Oh sure, I cook at home all the time—want more ketchup packets?"
From Jan/Feb 1995

"Judy, the 'Saturday Evening Pest' is here."
From Jan/Feb 1995

Cartoons: Not-So-Great Dates The Saturday Evening Post

“Breakfast is more enjoyable since we agreed not to wear glasses at the table.”

From Mar/Apr 1999

Smart deal. I knew there was an advantage to being nearsighted. Now, if we can only do something about morning breath.

“Let’s make a deal—if you don’t join the cigar trend, I won’t join the thong-bikini trend!”

From Jul/Aug 1998

This wife knows how to negotiate. This is from 1998 by one of our favorite cartoonists, Randy Glasbergen.

“It’s wearing me out: dirty clothes, fussy eating, constant whining … and then with our first baby on the way…”

From Mar/Apr 2003

I swear I see a multitude of female heads nodding.

“Listen to this—The anonymous winner of Saturday’s jackpot has not told her husband…”

From Jan/Feb 2007

Dear? Are you there? This 2007 Nick Hobart cartoon is one of my favorites.

“I’d go home to Mother, but I don’t know where the RV jamboree is being held this week.”

From Jan/Feb 1998

Don’t parents realize how inconvenient it is when they get lives of their own?

“How could you, Ermela, after I’ve given you the best halftimes of my life?”

From Jan/Feb 2002

I’m willing to bet he sees absolutely nothing wrong with that sentence.

“Give me the bad news, Doc. Am I going to live?”

From May/Jun 2000

Of course, it isn’t just men behaving badly. If the patient’s question doesn’t make sense, just look at the Mrs.

Cartoons: The Funny Thing About Marriage … The Saturday Evening Post

Medical students David and John Gallacher from Cardiff University in Wales, UK, say that women in committed relationships have better mental health, while men in healthy relationships have better physical health, concluding that “on balance it probably is worth making the effort.”

Men’s physical health probably improves because of their partner’s positive influence on their lifestyle and “the mental bonus for women may be due to a greater emphasis on the importance of the relationship”, they write in the student BMJ, the international medical journal for students.

But not all relationships are good for you, they point out, referring to evidence that single people have better mental health than those in strained relationships.

The bottom line is no surprise: Don’t shy away from romantic relationships. Just try to avoid the bad ones.

Strong Relationships, Healthier People The Saturday Evening Post

Read “The Geometry of Love” by John Cheever [PDF]

The Geometry of Love, by John Cheever The Saturday Evening Post

Love and Marriage: A Cartoon Gallery The Saturday Evening Post

Wife to husband: “One of those trout you were fishing for last weekend called and left her phone number.”

Karen S. Chilos

Hook, Line, and Stinker The Saturday Evening Post

Gary DaSilva

Special Delivery The Saturday Evening Post

Now the 11th  generation of Americans has been born; now it is starting through the fundamental phases of life. Each phase prepares for the next: The love the infant learns in his mother’s arms helps him become a loving child; puppy love introduces the adolescent to a deeper kind. So natural is the process that we assume it, yet often the transitions are difficult. Many of us falter, even fail. But just as every failure spreads to affect other lives, so does every success, and there is in fact much love in this land. On these pages are seven glimpses of today’s Americans as, in their own manner, they obey the ancient urges to share the prime intimacies of life and to send posterity into the future they will never see.

View the 1966 photo gallery.

The Seven Ages of Love The Saturday Evening Post

I’d like to be a better listener and focus less on trying to “fix” things.

The Greek philosopher Epictetus reportedly said: “Nature gave us one tongue and two ears so we could hear twice as much as we speak.”

That’s good advice. Here’s some more:

The less you talk, the more you’re listened to. – Abigail Van Buren

Let others confide in you. It may not help you, but it surely will help them. – Roger G. Imhoff

A good listener is not only popular everywhere, but after a while he knows something. – Wilson Mizner

It is all right to hold a conversation, but you should let go of it now and then. – Richard Armour

So, dear readers, I’d like to let go of this one-sided conversation and listen to you! Post your comments, questions, and ideas about making (and keeping) good friends below.

Listen Up! The Saturday Evening Post

Delayed Resemblance The Saturday Evening Post