On July 2nd, 1960 Irene Kristoff and Larry McCoy were married. For all 59 years since, Irene has been a rock. For many of those years, Larry has also been a four-letter word, but it ain’t “rock.”
Irene has been a very supportive wife, highlighted by never complaining about the hours I worked—nights, overnights, early morning, weekends, holidays—and by putting up with my non-stop rants about everyone I worked with, with two or three exceptions, being a moron and proving it every day.
She made many sacrifices to keep me in check, to raise two caring children and to move back and forth, back and forth across the Atlantic. Her days are brightened now by visits or phone calls (or even text messages) from four wonderful grandchildren, one of whom is inexplicably 30 years old with the youngest about to be 12.
She's a good writer and editor and is about to have a memoir published, "Only Gypsies Move on Sunday."
Before this gets any mushier, let me offer some suggestions to those in long-term relationships, when asked, “How was your anniversary?”
-“Fine. It had been a long time since we took turns tying each other up.”
-“Couldn’t have been better. We’ve made a game out of reading the Mueller Report to each other before we go to sleep. Whichever one of us comes to a completely redacted page gets to tickle the other one. It’s more fun than you might think at our age.”
-"What? Speak up, I can’t hear you.”