My parents have been married for FORTY YEARS.

I know. Forty.

They’ve only had me around for about 33 of those years, so at least they got to enjoy some of their time together.

I’m going to go ahead and say it right here right now- I love the hell out of my parents simply because they are the two finest people alive. The more people I meet who come from divorced families or have crappy relationships with their parents, the luckier I know I am.

To celebrate this occasion, my sister had the idea to throw a party for them. Not just a “get a few friends together and have cake” party, but a “sweet baby Jesus on an unstable fault line is that my college roommate from 1963 whom I haven’t seen in ten years?” party. Everyone was invited to this one. If you weren’t on the list, we hate you. At least now you know.

It was probably the single biggest piece of teamwork ever exhibited by the three Scott siblings. By “teamwork”, I mean “my brother and sister doing pretty much everything and then telling me where to pick up the food and beer and when to be there.” To make up for how little I did logistically, I bought way too much alcohol, most of which remained unimbibed and is now in my refrigerator. Party at my house this weekend. Hope you like white wine, because I have cases of the stuff stacked five deep. Don’t touch the imported beer, and feel free to drink all of the Budweiser you can handle.

Despite being older than God, my dad is still pretty sharp so he sort of figured out that something was going on a few days ahead of the event. He asked me if we were planning something, and if so how he could help.

I cannot lie to my parents. Oh, I can try, but they know. So in a moment of uncharacteristic mental acuity, I downplayed it.

“Dusterooski (shut up it’s what he calls me), I know that you kids are probably planning something for our anniversary, so if you need anything, let me know.”

“What? Oh yeah, that’s this weekend, isn’t it? *looking concerned as if I had been doing something other than planning for this party over the past two months* Oh…well, we’re going to take you guys to dinner or something, maybe have a few of your friends over…no big production.”

Let me tell you something if you ever think you might plan something like this for your parents- Get off your spotted ass and do it.

Seeing them walk into a room full of just about everyone they know and watching their reaction was one of the top three moments of my life.

It’s sort of my job to be able to figure out how to put this stuff in words, but I am at a loss. I still can’t even explain it to my friends without getting a little squeaky. We are so incredibly lucky to have been able to do something like this for them, and I wouldn’t trade that memory for anything. Not even that shiny new convertible 350z I’ve been eyeballing.

My sister made a scrapbook that should have its own congressman. Huge. Inside were pictures I didn’t even know existed and all kinds of relics of their past. My mother’s stewardess license (or whatever they give flight attendants to prove their stewardesness) from Eastern Airlines, pictures from their wedding, cave paintings my dad did when he was a kid, family pictures ranging from me in a green denim leisure suit at age 7 all the way to that stupid picture of me with a mullet yes I had a mullet and I don’t want to hear another word about it or I’ll pull this blog over and beat you all. I don’t know if mom has looked at the scrapbook yet, but she couldn’t even open it at the party without water coming out of her eyes. It is truly a work of art

I’ve always said that I’m not married because I have a hell of an example to live up to, and I’m just not sure I’m ready to be the man I need to be. “Ready to get married, but not ready to be a husband” is my mantra. My dad has told me before that anyone who stays married to someone for 20 years or more deserves a medal. So here’s what he did for my mom (keep in mind that my girlfriend was there and has now seen a whole new echelon of awesomeness. File it under “who can compete with that?”)

He asked me to get up and make an announcement to everyone because he had something for my mom.

“Sure thing, pop. What am I supposed to say?”
“I don’t know. Warm up the crowd. Dance or whatever you do that makes people laugh. Just get their attention. I have something I want to give your mother.”

Then he produces a small green box, sort of like the kind you see in those stupid commercials about diamonds, except different. He opens it up and I am reminded once again that I will never ever be as cool as he is.

He was a pilot in the Navy when they got married. While in Vietnam he received thousands of ribbons, medals, and awards for valor and bravery above and beyond the call of extreme heroism. At least that’s how he tells it. When I was a kid I asked him about the one shaped like a urinal with “Sparkling bathroom service, USS Ticonderoga” engraved on the back. He assured me that it was awarded for his having cleared 722 invading gooks off of the flight deck in the middle of the night using nothing but a toilet brush.

My eyes grew with wonder, of course.

He had taken one such medal (one he got for flying, not the urinal one), and removed the medal part. To the ribbon was attached what looked like a small purple heart. He had a jeweler make a heart out of forty small rubies (which are the stone for the 40th anniversary) and a few diamonds around the top (because he knows what’s good for him).

Holy cow I know he raised his sons to be thoughtful gift givers, but seriously how in the hell does a guy ever live up to that? I bought my girlfriend a pink ipod (thinking it was heroic of me just to ask for the pink one in front of people) a few weeks ago, and now I feel like I should have it gilded and encrusted with precious stones from other planets or something.

So I tapped a plastic fork on a beer bottle to get everyone’s attention (surprisingly much funnier to the crowd than I thought it would be), stammered and squeaked through an improvised speech about how great my parents and siblings were, and got all teary-eyed as he pinned the medal on my mom’s lapel after 40 years of meritorious service. It was all sappy and we were a collective wreck.

My mom deserves nothing less than a purple heart for what she’s done for us over the years. She doesn’t get the spotlight very often, but we all think of her as the oil in our engine. She got up every single morning for at least 33 years and made breakfast for us, and while this may have caused me to harbor an unhealthy fear of all things creamy and wheaty, I see now and fully appreciate what it took for her to keep going every day. She could have just as easily killed us in our sleep but she didn’t. There isn’t enough internet for me to explain all of the ways she helped us along. If you have a mom or are one yourself, you know what I’m saying. She taught me how to be funny (it’s a work in progress, shut up), taught my sister what it is to be a great mother, and eventually hopes to teach my brother to tie his shoes and use the big boy potty.

So to mom and dad, happy anniversary. We’ll do another party at your 80th.

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