The Villages Daily Sun

Tomorrow is our 34th wedding anniversary. Gasp.

Nothing special is planned, just a trip to Mount Dora to browse and each choose a commemorative gift within our means. I already called ahead to reserve mine.

It is a movie poster that was going for $40 last year. The price this year is $20. You know how old things (like Jerry), depreciate in value. Or is it appreciate? I never can keep things straight when it comes to money.

I will be toting my second wedding ring along. (I am on my third one now.) It is a duplicate of the original, purchased in 1975.

The first ring, crafted by C.B. Stark of Martha’s Vineyard, cost $5 and was part of a set of five made for a wedding party which got cold fingers at the last moment, so I was able to purchase the next largest ring.

The first one, a bit big, flew off my finger while I was swimming. A little kid in flippers and goggles offered to dive for it, but he was going to charge me $5. I declined.

This year, in a symbolic gesture over dinner, I may ask Jerry to marry me again and have him slip that silver keepsake on my pinky. It is too tight for my ring finger.

I have washed my “Who’s Your Papi” T-shirt. I will begin sharing it with Jerry. Big Papi, as some of you know, is the D.H. for the Boston Red Sox and his number is 34. We can strut our stuff in it, or we can retire it to symbolize our 34 years together.

Along with the celebration of our marriage, we also celebrate the lives of Jerry’s children. His daughter Debbie is 48. (Sorry for revealing your age, Deb!) It seems like yesterday that she was borrowing my earrings, clothes and Neil Diamond albums. Deb has cats. Lots of cats.

Debbie and her friends in Warren, Pa., recently held a fundraising drive so they can remodel the kitchen of the town’s community center. I thought the most innovative way they raised money was by bagging groceries for tips at a supermarket. They earned $800.

Then there is Jerry’s son Ron. When I married Jerry, Ronnie was a shy 6-year-old. Along with Debbie, he came to live with us in Edgartown, Mass.

His teacher was concerned when our first-grader wouldn’t speak or interact with the other kids. He was painfully shy, small and thin. A little like Owen Meany, but taller.

After we moved to Poughkeepsie, N.Y., Ron’s grades were not so hot. Jerry decided to put him in a small Christian school in Clinton Corners. We moved there to cut down on the time I spent delivering Ron to classes while I worked on my nursing degree. Ron flourished!

At Upton Lake Christian School, I was the school’s nurse, physical education instructor, classroom aide and sex education teacher. The school enrolled children in grades K-12. I was paid $3 a day, and I was able to keep an eye on Ron who was, by then, a teenager. Our family helped maintain the school and its grounds.

At that time, Jerry, an electronics engineer and airplane pilot, worked for Standard Gage in Poughkeepsie. Later, Clinton Electronics was formed as a branch of the parent company, and Jerry worked closer to home. He piloted the Standard Gage company plane for his boss, John Aldeborgh.

After developing an electronic measuring device used by the likes of General Motors, General Electric and NASA, Jerry went on to form his own company, COMAT, which later became Probe Products. (A European company complained because their name was COMAT, and I guess the world was not big enough for both of them.)

Ron inherited Jerry’s love for electronics and mechanics, and he and his dad were always taking something apart or putting it together. And forgetting to call to tell me they would be late coming home, and nearly cutting their fingers off and expecting me to bandage up large, gaping wounds.

There is nothing like father-son bonding when it comes to spilling shared blood. Except maybe professional hockey.

In 1987, Ron joined the Air Force. There he became known as “Bill,” because his full name is William Ronald Copeland. He served in Desert Storm, then was stationed in Germany. We saw him once in six years. Two decades later, I still cannot call him Bill with anything resembling regularity, but I am trying.

Now “Ron-Bill,” as Jerry calls him, lives in North Carolina with his significant other, Denise. Together they are fostering a little boy named Anthony, who has been in their lives since he was an infant. Anthony turned terrific 2 in November, and you should see that kid rock in his first Red Sox T-shirt.

I cannot legally spoil him yet, and have not seen him in person. His Mickey Mouse bowl is in the kitchen cabinet, awaiting the day when he actually toddles through the front door.

If the adoption goes through, Anthony Copeland will have a shot at a great life. Maybe he will be a doctor, a chef, an astronaut, or ... a baseball player. If he chose the latter, there might one day be another Tony C. in right field at Fenway Park. Wouldn’t that be a hoot?

All we want for Christmas is Anthony. And world peace and an end to hunger. And families to be reunited, churches and schools to be full, and our troops to come home for the holidays.

And slippers. I lost mine somewhere. And laughs. Lots and lots of laughs!

Fran Copeland is a Villages resident and freelance columnist. She can be reached at francopelandrn@aol.com.