Mary Patricia and I

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Mary Patricia and I Become Lifetime Sojourners
Although more than fifty years have gone by, the magic moment when Mary Patricia came into my life is as fresh as the morning dew, as clear as spring water, and yet just as warm as a mild fever.
In my freshman year at Columbia College, with the pressures of final exams upon me, as I looked for a secluded spot to study I found myself in Avery Hall, where the music practice rooms were located. Mozart’s magical music flowed from one of the rooms; it was the adagio of Piano Sonata No. 12.
Of course I learned that bit of information much later, since in those years –at age 17—I had no idea who Mozart was. Noticing that the pianist was replaying the adagio over and over I sat on the floor right outside the door and listened to it. Two hours later, the budding and determined concert pianist stepped around me, for I was glued to the spot, and gave me a quizzical look.

―I didn’t want to disturb you, I said. ―What is the name of that song you played for two hours?
―It’s not a song—it’s a sonata, and you’ve been here two hours?

Oh, heavenly bliss! Her voice was even sweeter than the music I had just heard. My musical ignorance and yet love of it, my heavy Spanish accent, and my less than imposing looks must have gained her trust, for from that magic moment on Mary Patricia and I became inseparable lifetime sojourners.

When we were in between classes Mary Patricia and I would meet either at the sun dial or by the sycamore tree in front of Lewisohn Hall. During that year not a single day went by without us.

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meeting and sharing moments of love. Since our financial resources were meager, one good day we discussed the possibility of pooling our assets and in that way make ends meet better. And since in those years, "living together or moving in with someone" had not been invented yet, I decided that the solution would be for us to get married.

Without any experience in amorous proposals (being not quite 18), and afraid that my nervousness would botch up what could be the most fateful event of my life, one afternoon sitting under the old tree I scribbled a few notes on an index card. Then as if under the spell of a divine guiding force, as we stood under the sycamore tree, this is what I read to her:

―Since we met, you’ve made me a better student, a better person: kinder and nobler. And I now have a burning desire to succeed in life; not because of me, not because of my family, but because I want you to think of me as a worthy person; worthy of you. If I always feel compelled to hold your hand and to put my arms around you, it is because I want to make sure you are human, that you aren’t a vision, an angel, a goddess, or a divinity. I cannot imagine the rest of my life without you by my side, for you and your music are everything to me now: when I’m awake I think of you, when I sleep I dream of you, and in my dreams you are my hypnosis, my delirium, and my peace.

Having read my scribbling, and as I got down on one knee, I asked Mary Patricia:

―Will you marry me—will you marry this poor boy from the Andes who was born to love you forever?

Today as we enjoy our golden years, three children on their own, and two grandchildren to lavish love and gifts on, I feel that—free will notwithstanding—the touch of an angel nudges us humans in different directions. When Mary Patricia and I discuss the statistics that more than half of the people who get married end up divorcing, we are seized with infinite sadness.

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I cannot imagine for one instant life without my beloved partner.

This is a story narrated in first person voice, so I cannot tell you what other people’s feelings, thoughts, and attitudes toward life are. What follows are some of the acts and habits (bringing a token home, consulting your spouse, care for others, being a provider, and God) that have guided my life in my marriage.
Because Mary Patricia likes to eat fruit every day, I made it a point to always bring home an apple, bananas, grapes, or cantaloupes. Of course I knew she went to the market and picked her own fruit. My gesture, though, was more spiritual than nutritional—never come home empty handed.

Early in our marriage I learned that Mary Patricia wished to be consulted in all my decisions, no matter how petty or insignificant. So, I made the promise to myself that not only would I consult with her, but I would over consult.
Over consult I did. Except for that one time when I impulsively bought her a second piano. Not that she wasn’t appreciative, but she let me know that had she been consulted she would have told me that she was pregnant with our third child and that it was time to save rather than to spend.

―With three children to support and put through Barnard College, you need to earn more money, she said.
Having already two girls, she was looking forward to a third one.
―Barnard? Why not Columbia College? I asked, sounding like the ever macho-man from South America.

At that point in my career (30 years ago) I had been promoted to corporate controller and was earning a little under $100,000 a year. To my accountant’s mind, that was a pretty good darn amount. And I considered myself a good provider. Yet hubris overcame my good sense and for a couple of weeks I chewed on the cud of resentment at the implication that I wasn’t earning enough money.

Then one good day, Mary Patricia noticing my moodiness, said, ―Money making will come easily to you when you think of those about you—not yourself. Think about it. I say this because of what I know about your own father.
Indeed, when I was growing up my father had drilled into my head two of his favorite sayings: ―…when you go to a woman, think that you are touching the petal of a rose; never hurt her, never yell at her—or the bloom with fade. And next: ―A man is only half-man if he provides half for his family and half for himself. Think of others and you’ll receive in multiples of tens and hundreds—if not thousands.

That did it! I had been thinking of my own wonderful self and not of my loved ones. So I told Mary Patricia I would give up my job and I would become an investment banker.

Without hesitation she agreed. That same day she went to the Coliseum Bookstore (Columbus Circle, long gone by now) and purchased all the necessary textbooks for me to study and pass the registered representative exams.
That evening she handed me the books and I handed her a colorful dish of juicy, sweet, diced cantaloupe, honey dew, and water melon—all laced with Merlot. To cap the evening she played for me the Mozart’s adagio that had sent chills up my spine that fated day when I saw her for the first time. What did I see in her? Did I see the face of an angel, or the face of my mother whom I had left behind to come to this country? God only knows. If every man has an ideal image, the blueprint of a perfect woman, Mary Patricia for me was, is, and always will be the perfect woman.

Today Mary Patricia no longer plays the piano, for her arthritis has invaded her legs and arms. From her debut at Lincoln Center’s Alice Tully Hall to her final concert at Carnegie Hall, I never missed one of her concerts. And like a mail carrier nothing – Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night – stayed me. Fame and glory fade, but in my heart Mary Patricia’s accomplishments grow and glow stronger with the passing days. With what relish her final concert reverberates in my body, the echoes of the standing ovation and ―bravos filling my soul with joy. The following day, a critic from NY Times, called her reading of Brahms’ Piano Quintet ―a boon from God. How proud I was of my lovely wife whom I saw not as the boon from God for one day, but for a lifetime!

God smiled on Mary Patricia, and that smile spilled over to me, for the good Lord made me an even bigger provider, for my career blossomed and I retired a successful investment banker. We’ve sent our children to Ivy schools, have college funds for the grandchildren, and we live in a grand neighborhood with fine neighbors. Mary Patricia –a child of an old patrician wasp family from Boston—reassures me that she chose well when she married me – ―a poor immigrant boy from the Andes.

Last Sunday after church we went to the street fair on Madison Avenue, not far from where we live on Park Avenue. To tell the truth, I can’t think of a better way to spend a gorgeous glorious afternoon in New York City than at a street fair.
And I pushed Mary Patricia’s wheel chair—an old fashion chair, for she can’t operate a motorized one—the whole length of the fair—all twenty blocks.

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