I gave a speech which was essentially the following:
I welcomed everyone, and then told the story of my fall in the Rockies, and her subsequent fall in the garage, our nursing each other, etc
.
I told of how I was learning to cook and wash ("About Time!" everyone shouted) and I told about
learning that there were 175 different kinds of plastic food storage containers, and 175 lids, none of which fit; I told about my new acquaintance with "Shout" a product specifically designed to remove the "tracks" from men's underwear; I had learned you could cook over 100 meals in a row without using bacon; that there was at least 12 kinds of moisturizers for the feet alone; etc.
I told of how we met, at Curtis Institute of Music in Philadelphia where she arrived as a librarian, and easily 50 years younger than the next oldest staff member; That our first date was to a recital by Rudolf Serkin (Beethoven's "Waldstein" Sonata) and that we went out to the Pub Tiki afterwards, and that many years later she confessed to me that she had been too shy to tell me that my fly was open the entire time. I told about our first attempt at nudity together at Ravencliff Falls in Brevard, where I finally convinced her to take off some clothes and go skinny-dipping, only to discover that the water was full of leeches, pretty much putting an end to my moves. (I had on my list to tell everyone of the move Susan made, to come to my apartment in Philly, with eggs sneaked out of her mother's refrigerator, and making breakfast for me while I was still in bed. This pretty much settled for me that she was the one.)
I then proceeded to introduce absolutely everybody there (it was my birthday party, I could do what I wanted), and then I gave the following toasts to Susan:
Toast No. 1: For the 50 years of book-keeping, laundry, electrical work, mechanical engineering, floor-scrubbing, darning, fresh laundry always in the drawers (I thought it was magic!), decorating, micro-managing, I thank you.
Toast No. 2: For the 50 year of supporting me in all my artistic and performing endeavors, including bringing me the forgotten trombone, the forgotten mouthpiece, the forgotten music, I thank you.
Toast No. 3 For the 50 years of accepting, more or less, my absentmindedness, my really ugly toes, my steady loss of hair, the love handles which have nothing what so ever to do with love, my inability to remember the names of my closest friends, or my grandchildren, I thank you.
Toast No. 4: For allowing me the occasional 100 dollar bottle of wine, my movie nights with Scott, my golf outing with friends, the violently busy and overly stimulating family get-togethers, and the hours at the computer writing music, I thank you.
Toast No. 5: But perhaps most important, for the romance, the spooning, the dinners with just the two of us (the Jules Verne in the Eiffel Tower, the Ennotica Pinchiera in Florence, the Serge Briuyere in Quebec City), the flirting as we get out of the car, the quick kisses in elevators, and finally, and this is a fact, that still (and I admit that at this point I had to stop and get my emotions under control), that after 50 year of romance, when she walks into the room, I still feel a catch in my breath, my heart speeds up, and "Some Enchanted Evening" earworm it's way into my brain. For all this, I thank you.
And then I grabbed my trombone and played "Some one to watch over me"
I asked for everyone to let me group photograph them and here is the result, and the cake!
We had only the small clubhouse room, and so we were limited to 50 guests, and there were
so many more I wish I could have included. My 75 years have seen so many good friends come and go, and Susan and I have outlived so many wonderful people that were perhaps there in spirit.
I close with a wonderful quote from Mark Twain:
"There isn't time, so brief is life,
for bickerings, apologies, heatburnings, callings to account.
There is only time for loving,
and but an instant, so to speak, for that
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