Sometimes the bloom seems off the rose, the glitter wears thin, and the once-in-a-lifetime is obscured by the everyday.

I usually avoid adultery movies. I’m just not interested in the rationalizations or romanticizations of being unfaithful. I don’t care how tragic or star-crossed or understandable it is that someone would cheat. If it could happen to them, it might happen to me, and I don’t like to think about that.

Then Dick and I moved to Seagull Fountain and entered a technology-drought like it was 1984. No internet, no TV, no internet. So we watched Spanglish, a movie we’d borrowed from my parents a year ago.

Dick loved it. Thought it was the best Adam Sandler movie ever (not a hard thing to be), and I thought it was the saddest movie ever. Until I watched The Bridges of Madison County for the first time, and decided that was the saddest movie ever.

Sad because I totally get why Francesca would cheat. Her husband, the farmer, slams the screen door. Every. Day. He’s silent during dinner. Her kids are normal teenagers (enough said).

That slamming door is so symbolic, I tell Dick. It means the farmer also leaves the lid up, the cap off, the blender out, the foreplay forgotten.

Oh, Francesca! Where do I find an itinerant National Geographic photographer of my own, eager to peel carrots and bring me drinks and ever-so-gently ease the door shut?

That silent screen door is so symbolic, I tell Dick. It means the photographer sees her. He sees her flaws and loves her anyway. He sees her dreams and rejoices in them. HE SEES HER.

At the end of the movie, when Francesca is devastated over the photographer leaving and her staying, the farmer notices that she is undone, and asks what is wrong. More tears. He asks again. She says she just needs a minute.

He reaches over to the radio and — Here it is, I think, here is where he turns the dial to Francesca’s favorite Italian opera music, proving that he, too, SEES her, and it is a SIGN FROM THE HEAVENS ABOVE that she has made the right decision (the staying, not the straying).

But no. He turns it to the Farm Report. Francesca cries. The photographer drives out of Iowa.

And then, as the stupid tears course down my cheeks, I remember a few things:

The farmer falls in love with Francesca in Italy and gives her all he has.

The farmer tells her that he cannot sleep without her beside him.

The farmer TAKES THE KIDS FOR FOUR DAYS so she can have some alone time.

The farmer asks her what’s wrong. Twice.

I don’t know about you, but if my husband takes the kids to the state fair for four days, I’m not thinking of cheating on him, I’m polishing my shrine to his saintly-wonderful self.

And not only does he notice when she’s upset, he asks her what’s wrong. Twice.

The farmer doesn’t see Francesca because she does not show herself to him.

My sister worries that our youngest sister will have a harder time taking the leap of faith into marriage, after seeing what happened to her could-have-been-perfect marriage. I think it is a darn good thing that Dick and I leapt when we were both just babies, too dreamy to guess how many things could go wrong.

After ten years of a marriage that I would like to continue forever, I have a few pieces of advice for both of my sisters and whomever they end up with:

For the men: Don’t slam the screen door.

For the women: Show yourself to your husband. (Every day). (Even when he forgets to ask).

For both: Don’t forget the . . . friendship.

Jane

That’s what works-for us. What works for your marriage? Got any advice for the single or the newly re-single?

That afternoon I picked Dick up from work and drove to the boys’ apartment. I suggested he call to make sure the boys were ready to go, but Dick will sometimes do anything to avoid talking to people on the phone. After we’d waited a few more minutes and I nagged a bit more, he went in search of the boys (because that’s easier than actually making a phone call).

The boys weren’t ready. They weren’t packed, they hadn’t sewn on their patches. And they hadn’t made their tinfoil dinners yet. Dick was pretty ticked. Can you believe those boys hadn’t SEWN ON THEIR PATCHES or MADE THEIR TINFOIL DINNERS? I wondered if their mom was able to help, and Dick said their mom doesn’t know how to sew, and anyway, the boys SHOULD TAKE RESPONSIBILITY FOR THEMSELVES.

So I reminded Dick that I had:

A) procured his shirt,

B) shopped for and assembled his tinfoil dinner,

C) bought the boys’ shirts and patches that were not sewn,

D) reminded Dick to get his sleeping bag and tent from my parents’ house,

E) reminded the boys the previous day that they should make tinfoil dinners and sewn on patches,

F) picked Dick up from work, and

G) washed and folded his clothes that he wanted to take.

You’re so right, Dick. Boys should learn to do things for themselves.

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