My literary hero, Mordecai Richler, was totally in love with his wife of forty years, Florence. I am learning all about their amazing marriage and friendship in his recently released biography.
The famed author, known to be cranky and difficult, was a pussycat when it came to Florence, his second wife, who he met on the eve of his first wedding, by the way. He worshiped her.
My father (also a writer) treated my mother with kid gloves, doting on her constantly. It was sweet. She was a nurse and would leave for work at 6 am. Every morning in the winter he would be up, warming up her car, shoveling the driveway, so she could make an easy getaway. He often fussed over her, trying to ensure her tea was ready the moment she walked in the door. Acts of chivalry everyday.
In fact, my father was similar in many regards to Mordecai: he was also ornery, opinionated, foul tempered, and steadfast in his beliefs. No shrinking violets, these men. But this made their tender sides seem all the more tender, for their contrasts.
I was often the recipient of my father's sweet side: he made me valentine's and wrote me poems, insisted on introducing me as his baby well into young adulthood, bragged about any minor accomplishment of mine to anyone who would listen, his car would often appear on rainy days as I walked home from school. He was a prince.
It is comforting to know, when I read about these amazing love stories and gallant men, I didn't miss out entirely.
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