A couple's lament

We're the odd couple, Vetta and I.

We have been since we came together, 54 years ago. Over half a century with each other, can you believe that?

We met once soggy April day in 1967, out here at the homestead, and it was kismet, as romantics would say.

She was youthful, sexy and the envy of all back then; I, Harvey, was a sturdy, dependable young man ready to take the world on my shoulders, but could also easily blend into the crowd. She was always the life of the party -- fun, vibrant, cheery -- and I was the stolid sort, the one when work needed to be done, I was the one doing it.

So our pairing certainly made us the odd couple, and we've remained that way ever since. It's kind of like a yin-yang thing, you know? We've definitely balanced each other out, though, and we've remained loyal to each other ever since that April day in '67.

Even when the newness and shine wore off of us -- as it does with age regarding everything and everyone -- and the kids moved away and no longer had any real interest in us, and we retired from work and we found ourselves alone with only each other and nothing else to distract us, we stuck it out.

Don't get me wrong, we had our rough moments. We've weathered some storms and leaky roofs together. But you learn it takes a lot of patience -- a lot of patience -- along with understanding, loyalty and love, to get through those times.

Those qualities seem few and far between these days in the world. Especially loyalty. There's definitely no loyalty in the world anymore.

New vehicle comes out that you want? Trade in the five-year-old vehicle you used to move the family into a new home, and still runs just fine, only because the new ride has a bell or whistle the old one didn't. Young 25-year-old caught your eye? Divorce the 55-year-old because they aren't as fun or nubile anymore.

That's how it goes nowadays. I suppose that's how it's always gone, but it cuts deeper when it's you it happens to, right? That's the story of Vetta and Harvey now. We've remained loyal to each other, but those most dear to us haven't. They've taken off, moving on to -- in their minds -- bigger, better and newer things.

They've forgotten the times when Vetta chauffeured them around on their first date, or when I hauled all their bedroom furniture for them to their new college dorm. They've tossed aside the memories of the vacation trips, lifts to the ballgame, driver's exams and even the manic runs to the hospital we did for them.

We're just old and decrepit to them now. We sit here, with only each other as company, wasting our days away as our bones and innards get older, creakier and leakier.

We've got liver spots the color of rust dotting our skin. We've got feet so flat we can feel the earth in our bones. We've got joints which ache at the hint of a stiff wind or cold rain. Vetta's been able to keep a semblance of her youthful shape, but I'm the complete opposite -- I'm sagging all over the place.

Yeah, we're getting to be a mess physically, Vetta and I. And you'd think we'd have a visitor or two on occasion, to check in on us and see how we're doing; make sure we're alive and kicking. But nope, it's been at four years since we've had visitors. That was only because it was our golden anniversary, which I'm surprised they even remembered, and it was only two of the kids at that.

I guess that's another thing that happens as you get older; folks only seem to come around and visit for big anniversaries and funerals. When you're younger, they come around for everything -- births, birthdays, graduations or just to spend some time with you. But I guess once you hit a certain age, it's similar to canned food -- there's an expiration date, and you get tossed out.

Speak of the devil, though, I hear some crunching on the gravel driveway. Most of the time, it's some stranger who's lost and just turning around. It's probably the same thing this time.

Nope, hold on. Whoever it is stopped. I hear doors opening and shutting.

"Right over here's where they're at." Well, I'll be. It's John. I haven't seen him since our anniversary. Bless his heart, he was one of the two who came to visit Vetta and me. I wonder who he's brought with him.

"I can't wait to see 'em." I don't recognize that guy's voice. He sounds excited though.

Well, look there. John's just making himself right at home. He didn't even knock, just threw open the door of the old red barn like it still had two good hinges.

"Here they are. A 1967 Corvette Stingray, roughly 75,000 miles on it. And a 1967 International Harvester 1100 pickup," John's telling the stranger. "That old thing's got about 175,00o it, but it'd haul just about anything in its day. We named him 'Harvey.'"

Well, heck, John. You're going to bring a tear to my eye.

"How much you wanting for both of them?" the stranger asks John.

Wait a minute. What the heck is going on here, John? You selling us out? You let us sit here, neglected, for years and now you're selling us out when it's convenient for you? I haven't hit my expiration date yet, John boy.

"Given her condition, I'd go $50K on the Corvette. The NADA guide has high retail at $88K," John's telling the stranger. "For old boy there, I'd say $10K, especially if you're going to part it out."

Part it out? You're going to scrap me? What about Vetta? What's happening to her? John, you can't do this to us. Remember the good times, John. Please.

"I'm good with that," the stranger tells John. "I'll write up the check, then back the trailer on up to the barn and we'll get 'em loaded up."

Stranger's going back outside. Good. Keep going. I don't want to see your face again.

John's strolling up to Vetta and me. He pats her on her cheek. "You still are a beauty," he tells her. "Hope you can bring some joy to someone else who can get you back out and about."

Now he's looking at me. "Old boy, you had a full life. Always there for us when we needed you.

"But there's no need for you here, anymore," he finishes.