As I just told my parents in the email I sent, it is still yesterday in the town in which I was born. So I think it’s fair if I retrodate this so it shows up an hour ago, back on the date when it should have appeared if I’d been a little more on top of things…

Today marks the 33rd anniversary of the day my folks wed. They got married under autumn trees on a hill in my grandparents’ yard, very near the spot where Josh and I would play on our swingset later on. Mum and Gramma made her dress. Great-Gramma crocheted the decorations onto it, hemmed the veil, and frosted the cake. Uncle David played his guitar. Dad’s brothers stood up with him. Mum’s high school friends preceded her down the aisle.

A lot of people of my generation have parents who aren’t together anymore or who can’t fully understand why their parents married in the first place. I’ve always been very lucky — my parents love each other and clearly are still in love with each other. They’ve never feared showing each other affection — much to Josh’s and my mortification during our teen years.

And while other couples seem to find being together in a whole house too confining, my parents managed to spend 14 years in a tiny efficiency and an even smaller car for 6 of every 7 days a week.

They rejoice in each other’s successes and seem to know instinctively when to nudge the other into action and when just to let them be.

Dad knows how Mum likes her coffee. Mum knows how Dad likes his eggs. He picks up books for her at the library. She picks up Oreos for him at the store. They hold hands when they walk down the driveway to get the paper.

I know that if Rudi and are even half as happy together another quarter century from now as my parents seem to be today, I will count myself lucky and blessed.

Happy anniversary, Mum and Dad! Congratulations on so many wonderful years together — and may even better ones lie ahead.