I Fell In Love With A Man More Than Twice My Age. I Wasn’t Prepared For What Marrying Him Would Mean.

I was 24, working for the Ohio State Historic Preservation Office. He was 56, running a small chain of hardware stores. I met him when I showed a film to the Retail Merchants Association and the Chamber of Commerce. When he called and invited me to lunch the next day, I thought he might be offering me a job.

“I’m looking for a preservationist,” he said, chuckling.

“Sure,” I said. I was happy to talk with anyone about rehabilitating old structures.

I met Vern in his cramped 1950s-style office at the back of Fairley Hardware. He sat in the middle of a cloud of smoke, pinching the stub of a smoldering Pall Mall. In his khaki pants, blue wool cardigan and plaid Brooks Brothers shirt, he looked like the picture of 1950s middle-class America, complete with oak desk, leather briefcase and wool hat. I liked him immediately.

It sounds corny, but something about Vern was magnetic. His eyes sparkled and I found myself feeling lighter, happier, and more confident in his presence. By the time we finished lunch, I felt like skipping home. Six months later, the day Vern kissed me, I felt electricity down the back of my neck, all the way to my toes. I flipped head over heels.

By then he was telling people, “She’s a preservationist and I need preserving.” Divorced with two grown daughters, he said he saw me as an opportunity to recover some of his youthful energy and spirit. We got married a year after that first kiss.

A friend’s parents warned me that Vern was about to ruin my life. Members of my own family were outraged. Not only were my parents shocked by my plans to marry Vern, but they made bad jokes about us. My father thought it was hilarious to say things like “I think your mother has the hots for Vern.” Then he’d jab her in the waist with his elbow and my mother would giggle.

My sister wanted to know if we planned to have children. I nodded, then told her we’d talked about it.

“I like Vern and everything, but seriously? You’re going to have kids? What if he dies?” She sounded genuinely concerned for my future.

I didn’t hesitate. “If we have five great years, it’s better than none.”

“I guess so,” she said, shrugging.

But I didn’t worry then about time, age, or the impact of Vern’s decades of chain-smoking. Or about the imbalance of power that sometimes erupted between us due to our ages. I liked that Vern was in charge; I’d been conditioned from the time I was a young girl to do what I was told, and was comfortable with the wise old master dynamic.