The Day That Changed My Life Forever
This week is my 38th wedding anniversary week. The following is a reprint column.
Frank and Francis Gist
On July 9, 1988, at 33 years old, I did something that changed my life forever. On that day, I married Frances “Jill” Merriweather. We first met in the third grade at P.S. 53. I like to tell people she fell in love with me at first sight. Whether she agrees with that version of the story is another matter.
We didn’t see each other again until we were both 31 years old. Fate brought us together in the drive-thru of the McDonald’s at East Delavan and Grider. After placing my order, I was asked to pull into a parking space and wait for my food. As I pulled in, I looked over and saw a face I hadn’t seen since grammar school. It was Frances. And she was still beautiful.
We started talking about our days at P.S. 53 while her parents sat in the car watching me with what I can only describe as suspicion. They were waiting to pick up a fish dinner from a restaurant across the street, and when Frances got out of the car, I knew I had to make the most of the opportunity. I had wondered for years what had happened to her, and suddenly there she was.
Two years later, we were married. I’m not the most religious person in the world, but I firmly believe my wife was sent into my life for a reason. She has been one of God’s greatest blessings. I remember the exact moment I decided to get married. I was driving home from the firehouse when a thought came to me out of nowhere: “It’s time.”
What was I waiting for? I had a steady career as a firefighter, and I knew Frances was the best woman I would ever meet—probably too good for me. I wanted a family, children to call me Daddy, and a life built on something more meaningful than bachelor hood. It was time to grow up. I never wanted a fancy wedding. Spending thousands of dollars on a one-day event never made sense to me. So that summer we were married in the yard of my grand mother’s big red brick house on Genesee Street near Jefferson Avenue.
I had wanted to get married there ever since I was six years old and attended a wedding my grandmother hosted. Looking back, our ceremony may have been one of the cheesiest weddings in history, but it was ours. Best of all, I don’t think we spent more than $1,000 on the whole thing. The only problem was the weather. It was nearly 90 degrees, and the summer of 1988 was one of the hottest Buffalo had ever seen.
Like many couples, our dreams of starting a family did not happen as easily as we hoped. We endured two miscarriages and a stillbirth within three years. Those losses tested us in ways we never imagined. But blessings eventually came. We were blessed with two wonderful children, Jarrett and Audra, who have now grown into adults and given us the joy of becoming grandparents.
People often ask me about the secret to a long marriage. The truth is that my wife and I rarely argue. In all our years together, we’ve never had what I would call a serious fight. Part of that is because I learned early on the wisdom of the phrase, “Happy wife, happy life.” I’ve also learned that she’s usually right—even when she isn’t.
Every morning she wakes up cheerful, energetic, and ready to talk. And talk. And talk some more. In fact, the quickest way for her to let me know she’s upset is to stop talking. That’s when I know I’m in trouble. She is kind, patient, loving, and remarkably forgiving. Most importantly, she has somehow managed to put up with me for nearly four decades.
Happy Anniversary, Honey. Thank you for saying yes, all those years ago and for making my life richer, happier, and more meaningful than I ever imagined possible.