NEWTON'S LAW: HELL TO GET ALONG WITH, OR SOMETIMES YOU JUST GET LUCKY

In his younger days, before he became an elder statesman of American literature, Kurt Vonnegut hacked out a living like all upstart writers. One of his short stories, he admitted with a grimace later, found its way into Ladies' Home Journal.

The story was based on an afternoon he spent with his bride-to-be. "Shame, shame, to have lived scenes from a woman's magazine," Vonnegut conceded.

The title Ladies' Home Journal gave the story was "The Long Walk to Forever." Vonnegut had given it the title "Hell to Get Along With."

As titles go, I prefer the latter. As marriages go, Vonnegut's description seems periodically apt.

For whatever displeasure we must take from this fact, marriages have less in common with Barbara Cartland novels than they do with the writings of Stephen King. Anyone who doubts that should try putting up wallpaper with their spouse.

Prior to getting married, I attended a program in which married couples of long standing expounded on the secrets of their success. I remember not a word from the session, thinking even at a tender age that what worked well in an individual marriage sure couldn't be explained to a crowd ... and even if it were, it could not be duplicated by others.

The fact is that there is no way to stare into a person's eyes and find an essential appeal that will endure for years, then decades. There are no guarantees. You can use your best instincts but sometimes you just get lucky.

I find it not a bit cold-blooded to say that any marital union shifts to some extent from its original passion into an orderly business relationship. We go about our tasks, consult our calendars, pay our bills and hope some energy remains to enjoy life. Psychologists and "love doctors" will tell you those priorities are misplaced; reality is another matter.

No formula is absolute. What works in one marriage would be doomed in another. In a personal case, my wife indulges me a hectic occupation and I do her ironing. I do her typing and she handles the yard work. I teach the children sports trivia and she tutors them in the fine art of small talk.

It's not Ozzie and Harriet, but neither is it Homer and Marge.

Our relationship is not without emotion, though the "wonder-of-me" component has notably dissipated. In the early days, we talked about nothing unimportant and what we said meant a lot. Our conversations tend these days toward wood finishes, tuition payments and the meaning of basil to a particular entree.

We should feel graced to make it to this stage of conjugal preoccupation. Many folks don't.

At any wedding, there are cynical souls along the back benches making book on chances of the marriage's survival. On the day Connie and I wed, even money was the best bet you could get. We are pleased the oddsmakers suffered.

Words of romance tend to be accepted with dewy eyes early in a relationship and rolling eyes later on. Heart-felt sentiments are still appreciated but personal history provides the exercise a bit of healthy skepticism; in other words, if things get too mushy, she might think I'm up to something.

The unusual sense of humor that permeates our household, from oldest to youngster residents, prevents us from taking too much at face value. The love is understood ... you just have to let down your guard for a moment to let it soak in.

I say then to my bride, on the anniversary of our marriage, that you are a nice woman, a good mother, a loving wife and a fine friend.

Sometimes you just get lucky.