Toward Commitment Read online

  Imagine, now, two people who have come together because of mutual attraction, similar interests, shared ideals, and what they each termed “love.” But we had such extraordinarily different outlooks on solitude, and neither of us talked openly about it—what it meant to us, why it was important, or what the experience felt like. John viewed his solitude as “a draft of water.” I associated solitude with punishment. How was it that two people married to each other wouldn't have discussed that idea, that need, before marriage, rather than after? And why has it taken nearly forty years for us to adjust to, accept, and even relish our differences?

  Dialogue on Solitude

  JOHN: Solitude is an issue on which you and I have actually drawn closer, namely, whether we are or aren't comfortable with being alone, derive pleasure from being alone, and do significant things while being alone.

  DIANE: I think when we were first married it was very hard for me to be alone, and I needed to spend as much time with you as possible. Certainly, before David was born, we did spend a lot of time together, taking long walks and having long talks over dinner, and I thought that was going to continue. I never thought that our marriage would include long stretches of isolation, or aloneness. And yet the very marriage proposal came only after three weeks of your aloneness, after I had walked out, after we had broken up, after you had proposed and then said you had “forgotten” that you had proposed. I was so outraged I went down to Virginia to stay with a friend. We didn't talk for weeks.

  JOHN: I think I was trying to confront, perhaps not in a very effective way, the whole notion of living with someone else for many, many years. That was so contrary to my upbringing, to a model that I had conceived in my mind, namely, of an individual who spends most of his time alone, in what I regard as a productive solitude. But marriage entailed a constant cohabitation, and that was very hard for me to accept. Suddenly I was confronted with a serious loss of freedom, loss of independence.

  DIANE: How different do you think you are, even acknowledging your background, even acknowledging what some would call your extreme feelings about solitude? How different do you think you are from other men of your own generation, or young men today?

  JOHN: In terms of solitude, I think I'm distinctly different. In terms of a reluctance to make a commitment, which I think is a different issue, there I think I probably stand with the majority of men. But I think most men, when they're not in the company of wives or girlfriends, like to be with each other, at a local bar, or hunting, or watching a ball game. With the exception of watching ball games with our son, that has never interested me, and never will. The idea of sitting in a bar talking over a beer is alien to me. So in terms of my “thirst” for solitude, I think I'm somewhat extreme.

  DIANE: So that living in that household with a wife and a first child, it became harder and harder for you, except when you were in the privacy of your own office, to find the kind of solitude you were looking for.

  JOHN: Yes, and the problem was enhanced by the fact that during the day I was constantly with my colleagues and other professionals. I enjoyed working with them immensely, but that created an even greater need for me to be apart and by myself. Which meant taking time away from being with you and the children and participating in family life. The tension became even stronger, ironically, the harder I worked.

  DIANE: It sounds to me as though you were very much focused on your own needs.

  JOHN: Unquestionably. Growing up as a single child, doted upon by mother and father, I could do no wrong. That created a certain selfishness in me: that is, my desires and needs came first. For me to enter into a family life, for which I had no model in terms of my own parents, presented a lot of problems for me.

  DIANE: Is this, in fact, a warning to young people who may be considering having only one child, that the child may grow up too much by him- or herself, that the child is given more attention than a child in a larger family, and spends too much time alone?

  JOHN: I don't think that being a single child, by itself, creates this model I'm talking about. I can think of single children who are very socially inclined, and happy to be with people. In my case, the parental model, plus my circumstances, drove me into solitude, and for some reason or other, I was able to take advantage of solitude. For others, it might have been a hardship. For me, it offered an area where I could be myself, be true to myself, and, like Robinson Crusoe, be thrown back upon myself.

  DIANE: We started out this conversation by saying we've grown closer to each other in this respect. So much so, in fact, that now on Saturday mornings when you leave the house to go grocery shopping, I find myself tempted to run through the house naked, hollering, “Yippee, yippee, yippee!” I cannot imagine a more dramatic change than that feeling of being utterly joyous at having time by myself. Also, I've sometimes believed that had you not been as you were—and still are, to a certain extent—I wouldn't have been thrust back on myself to create my own life, my own interests, such as playing the piano, sewing, cooking, all very solitary experiences. I literally threw myself into them.

  JOHN: So you're saying that my behavior, paradoxically, encouraged your cultivation of solitude, even though it was something you hated as a child.

  DIANE: And beyond that, if you had been the all-doting husband, if you had been that protector, that comforter, that allpresent male who was going to save me, who was going to make my life absolutely wonderful—if you had been that, perhaps I would never have pursued my own career. I would never have looked for my own interests outside the home.

  JOHN: To get back to the notion that we've come closer on this issue of solitude—solitude versus social behavior—I still dread small talk. I feel awkward engaging in small talk….

  DIANE: And yet you're so good at it.

  JOHN: Deep down, though, it's still difficult for me. But I think you've taught me that at times one can construe small talk as a sign of affection and respect. So that it's not so much what the small talk is about, but that it's a vehicle whereby people, somewhat obliquely, perhaps, do express fondness, affection, and the like. I've been able to see that a little more clearly, as we go out to dinner or to a movie with friends. So I don't cling to the specific subject of the small talk, because, by and large, that's going to bore or irritate me. But I'd like to find more people who get excited, the way I do, about Chinese portraiture of the Ch'ing dynasty, for example, or a single piece of Hindu sculpture.

  DIANE: Even I can't get as excited as you do, because I'm not as informed as you are on that kind of topic. Maybe you're expecting too much and might have to change your own approach to being a social human being….

  JOHN: [laughter] Well, I don't think I'll change my approach very much. But I'm not talking about an intellectual level of interest—I don't really look for that. I just look for an expression of enthusiasm.

  DIANE: And interest.

  JOHN: And you've given me that. You've done tours with me when I've been practicing my presentations, for example, and you've evinced such enthusiasm! That's what I look for.

  DIANE: The other thing I've found with regard to small talk and being able to close the gap not only between strangers but between friends is to ask questions. You've been able to do that more, and found yourself somewhat surprised at the kind of information you elicit. And that, in turn, stimulates conversation between you and someone you wouldn't have expected to be of interest to you.

  JOHN: I accept that. Another way to put it is that one can find in small talk things of value: comments, perceptions, and the like. But it's still hard. Given the fact that we came to this issue of solitude in our marriage from two such different points of view, what could we have done to ease the problem? How could we have begun to close the gap so that I would feel that I had a right to a certain degree of solitude, and yet, within bounds, you could accept it and not become frustrated or angry?

  DIANE: Once again, if you and I had been able to sit down and talk about this, either before we were married or during the
early months of marriage! If you had been able to say to me: “I know that you need a lot of socializing, and you enjoy the company of others, and I need a certain amount of solitude. How can we work this out?” Your needs could have been satisfied, and mine, too. Instead, what we seemed to have done was to go to war over the issue. I interpreted your need for solitude not as a need for yourself but as a need to reject me. That was the difference.

  JOHN: You've raised the fundamental question, which runs through so many of our conversations, which is: Why do couples go to war instead of negotiating peace? What can be done to promote peace, as opposed to waging war? That's what it often comes down to. Each person is stubborn, believes he or she is right, and is unwilling to yield. But I think this kind of behavior comes out of—one of my favorite themes— our ignorance of ourselves. I think you and I see ourselves more clearly now. Before you can negotiate peace, you've got to have some understanding of who you are. You may be trying to work toward peace but not know how to do it. Somehow, to fall back on confrontation and war seems easier and more satisfying.

  DIANE: I agree. If we could only learn to be more open in our feelings—they don't have to be fully thought through or fully articulated—and to express them. I'm feeling lonely. You're feeling the need for solitude.

  JOHN: But that demands a maturity that I would hazard to say most couples don't have in the early years of their marriage.

  DIANE: Unless, as our children both did, they marry later in life, or, as some other couples do, live together and don't marry. They may be more open to the expression of feelings. You have a hard time with that.

  JOHN: I have a distinctly hard time with that. I was emotionally immature when we married. You mentioned the need to be open, to hear the other. You know, it takes a lot of selfconfidence as well as maturity, a comfortable feeling about oneself, to be able to open up and share feelings. That doesn't come easily. It takes time. And so we're leaving our poor young couple, newly married, struggling to find each other and themselves. It's a tough path.

  DIANE: One area of assistance that's open to many couples who do marry within the Episcopal church and many other denominations today is a period of premarital counseling. That's now a requirement of many priests and bishops. Six to eight sessions of premarital counseling, on a once- or twice-a-week basis, whether within a religious setting or otherwise, might have saved us a lot of grief. We might have uncovered some of those up-to-then relatively hidden characteristics each of us had, and been able to see them as part of the person each of us was about to wed. I wish we had found a way to undergo that kind of open exploration, with the guidance of a counselor who had the maturity to understand and point out the problems we were heading into.

  Money

  John

  For the most part, I don't recall my parents arguing over how money should be spent in managing the household. During the depression years, my father managed to remain employed in a series of low-paying jobs. Moreover, we obtained some monetary assistance on my mother's side. But from what I overheard, I gleaned that there was little to argue about

  My father's attitude toward money was quite simple. If you have it, spend it; if you don't, manage as best you can without it.

  My mother's approach was the contrary. Spend as little as possible now in order to ensure that you will have some later. A collision of views was averted by the fact that my mother held the purse strings. How that came about I do not know, but my father seemed content with that arrangement.

  They both shared an antimaterialism. Neither longed for goods such as clothes, furniture, cars, or jewelry. They both enjoyed dressing well on special occasions, but drew upon a modest wardrobe. Through their eyes, I regarded poverty as a sign of social superiority. It promoted the kind of simplification that Thoreau extolled in Walden. Moreover, poverty placed us in the grand intellectual tradition of disdaining material wealth.

  As a result, I don't recall many serious disputes over money, with one recurrent exception. Even during the lean years, my father saw to it that we ate well. This meant porterhouse steaks, roasts of pork and lamb, and such seafood as clams, oysters, and lobsters. My mother regarded such foods as unnecessary luxuries, and would have settled for more modest meals featuring fresh fruits and vegetables. In this arena, however, my father had his way, despite my mother's grumblings.

  In handling money, I adopted both my parents' antimaterialism and my mother's frugality. In particular, I distilled four injunctions from their experience. Deem things of little value. Live within your means. Save regularly. And avoid debt, if at all possible. As a result, I have been drawn to few possessions, except for books, recordings, and a few paintings. The vast majority of belongings should be primarily utilitarian, with style being a secondary consideration. I still resist the notion of acquiring an item—like a piece of furniture—primarily for aesthetic reasons.

  Before marriage, I was comfortable with my four-point creed. It suited my lifestyle and encouraged me to spend money wisely. I was able, for example, to pay off my law school loan within a year or so after graduation. I paid cash for the first car I purchased. And I had the resources to finance the drilling of a badly needed well on my father's farm.

  Diane, however, brought to our marriage a distinctly different attitude toward money. Diane has never been a spendthrift, and in the early years of our marriage we had just enough money to cover basic expenses, so there was little room for dispute. Then, as our discretionary income increased, our true colors showed. For example, Diane insisted the time had come to refurbish the interior of our home, including painting, plastering, redoing floors, and purchasing new furniture. To accomplish this would require taking out a second mortgage on our home. The fear of additional debt overwhelmed me. I resisted for a number of years but finally relented. The issue became the subject of many long and frustrating arguments between us, however, until she convinced me that the work on the interior was just as important as keeping the exterior of the house in good condition. These differences continue to surface from time to time, but we've learned to negotiate and to work earnestly to understand the other's position.

  In the early years of our marriage, the issue of who would control the money arose between us. In my family, it was my mother who wrote the checks, paid the bills, and saved what she could. My father did not seem to object. His very passivity may have strengthened my resolve to be in charge of the money, both before and after our marriage. Even though Diane and I had a joint checking account, I wrote all the checks until one day Diane demanded that she write the checks covering her own needs. I can still recall how shaken and enraged I was by her demand. I can remember attempting to punish her by withdrawing from her for some time. Her presumptuousness seemed to undermine my preeminence as head of the household, including breadwinner and controller. It took me some time to relent and grudgingly accept Diane in this new role.

  Diane

  Dimes and quarters. Nickels and pennies. That was usually the extent of my dealings with money as a child. A dollar bill rarely crossed my palm. I knew our family was not rich, but neither did I feel poor. There was always good food in the house (thanks to my father's grocery store), and my mother always seemed to have money for the “extras” she needed, though she cautioned me not to tell my father about the purchase of items like Elizabeth Arden powder, perfume, or face cream. I think she would save her money carefully for those purchases, then give me the money and send me downtown to Hecht's department store to purchase them for her.

  My father suffered a heart attack when I was twelve, and our circumstances changed. For the first time in her life, my mother had to go to work. Her extraordinary skill with needle and thread led her to take a job at the Hecht Company in their monogram department, where she worked five days a week. I recall the sadness I began to feel when she was no longer at home when I returned from school. It meant, for the first time, a darkened house, without the smells or sounds of her presence. It was also then that I became aware of c
onversations about money, and a sense that we had become weakened as a family because my father could no longer work. His stock market holdings had lost substantial ground, and my mother now had to leave the house each day for a job. It was an uncomfortable situation, and one that became the undercurrent of our family life from that time on.

  I began to earn a weekly allowance for doing daily chores assigned to me. These included emptying trash cans, dusting, mopping, ironing, and starting dinner. At sixteen, I was told to find a job to supplement the family's income, as well as to provide for my own clothing purchases. I went to work as a file clerk at the Hecht Company, working after school each Wednesday afternoon and all day Saturday.

  As a result, I learned the meaning and power of money at an early age. I knew I wanted to be secure in the sense of having “enough” money, whatever that meant. In my first marriage, I didn't experience that luxury. My husband and I lived from week to week and paycheck to paycheck, concentrating on paying for food, clothing, and just the basics of living. There was no thought of setting aside money for buying a home, for example. We lived in a pleasant apartment, but the rent plus food and other necessities took every penny of our combined income. I hated the feeling of being limited by a lack of money, perhaps because I had internalized too much of my mother's feelings of frustration.

  When John and I first married, those limitations were, again, very much in play. His salary was small by today's standards, about thirteen thousand dollars a year as an attorney for the State Department. Yet he believed strongly in the need to purchase a home as quickly as possible, a dream I'd long held, and we managed to do it, with the help of his mother and my former boss and his wife, George and Lee Dolgin. From that time on, money was extremely tight. To make sure that we could meet the monthly mortgage and car payments, each week we would draw up a list of necessities, decide how much we could afford to spend, then shorten the list by half. But at least it felt as though we were moving forward. Indeed, at a cost of ten dollars per month, we bought a sewing machine, so that I could begin to make my own clothes as well as clothing for David and, later, Jennie.