My in-laws, my friends

The idea that my in-laws might also be my friends may seem foreign to folks who share jokes about how terrible their in-laws are. For me, the case is inverted: I love my in-laws; it's my ex who's out of my life.

Suffice it to say that ours wasn't exactly a marriage made in heaven, whatever that is; where the divorce decree said "irreconcilable differences," it largely meant differences that I had recognized from the beginning, but it didn't cover a lot of similarities that I had really believed would give us enough wiggle room to make the differences work. Not so much.

The divorce wasn't nearly as messy as some I've heard of, but it wasn't exactly congenial either; I complained about his shortcomings, he complained about mine, and ultimately we agreed that we disagreed—too much to make it work. We've hardly endured even casual encounters since then.

Enter the in-laws. Full disclosure dictates that I have to admit that I said some things about their son around the time of the divorce that not only could have but probably should have locked their door to me for eternity, but somehow they both managed to nod and accept it without killing me, and the last time I left their home before the paperwork was signed, I got the feeling that of all the members of both sides of the family, those two incredible people were my strongest allies.

But the hard feelings between me and the rest of the family (mine liked him best, too), combined with the challenges I faced in trying to keep my life together as the single mom of three teenagers, meant that I steered clear of their apartment for the next several years. I never felt as if I would be unwelcome there; I was more embarrassed by the unkind things I'd said about their son and unwilling to remind them of that.

And then one of their daughters invited me to Christmas lunch one day. The kids had all made a practice of having Christmas on Christmas Eve with their dad and his family and on Christmas morning with me. My life had fragmented to the point that I almost never cooked, and the idea of a big Christmas feast for me, two carnivore sons, and a vegetarian daughter didn't enchant me. The in-laws loved to cook and so did their two daughters, and having the grandkids troop back for Christmas lunch suited all of us pretty well. They were happy to eat together, I was happy for the piece of quiet I got, and the leftovers were always delicious.

After the ex remarried, his Christmas dinners moved more and more toward his wife's family, and the in-laws had an extra seat at their table. So the sister who always got along with me best asked if I would be welcome. The in-laws and the kids were all delighted, and I was pleased to join them.

Then the accident happened. Father-in-law lost control of his car for long enough to bang it up enough to have to replace it. The ex and his wife called the sisters in Texas City to tell them about the accident, but the information they gave was too spotty to be helpful to the medical professional. Recognizing that their communications with their brother were typically irregular, the sisters determined to find a better source of information about their parents' situation.

For reasons I'll never know, they picked me. They called and invited me to go out for a drink on their next visit to town and outlined their request: Would I be willing to check in on their parents from time to time to see how they were getting along?

They seemed to think their request might be an imposition; later, my own sisters were shocked by their presumption that I might be willing to comply. I saw it as a welcoming open door; after all, these people had been kind and generous to the kids and me through plenty of opportunity not to be, and they are my kids' grandparents. I was happy to agree.

My first visit to them was on a Sunday afternoon. I typically shop at a store near their apartment, so I just dropped by on my way home from shopping to see how this would go. I had armed myself with updates on the kids' latest adventures and some other pretense for dropping by, and they greeted me as graciously as I had expected them to.

After my excuses for being there began to run thin, my father-in-law stopped me dead when he asked, "Okay, so why are you really here? Did the girls put you up to this?" Busted! I wasn't in to this to deceive them, so I admitted the ruse. He assured me they loved having me over, but more than 60 years of marriage had taught them plenty about how to take care of each other. He knew the wreck must have been part of the reason their daughters had called on me, but he was curious as to whether that really were the whole story.

Well, no, not exactly. As a matter of fact, one of the sisters' biggest concerns was their eating habits: The sisters had heard the parents occasionally resorted to eating at, of all places, Taco Bell!

Now, when the sisters had reported this, I had had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing or admitting how frequently I also swung through the Taco B drive-through on my way home for work to pick up a quick meal before an evening of grading papers or consulting or other business. I know that's not the healthiest way to eat, but offset by lots of meals of fruits and vegetables and yogurt, it seemed not to be wreaking havoc on my health, and hey—I enjoy TexMex. So I certainly didn't share their concern about the in-laws eating at Taco Bell.

But once the truth was out, I admitted to my father-in-law: The girls are concerned because they've heard you're eating at Taco Bell. I thought my mother-in-law was going to pull her whole 4 ft 10 up on her lounge chair as they both chimed in unison, "It's good!" This time I didn't have to bite my tongue; I just laughed and told them I agreed. I also understand their lack of interest in cooking for two in their 80s, and I understand the frustration of buying healthy food and watching it turn green in the refrigerator because you just don't cook enough to use it up. From my perspective, an occasional jaunt to Taco Bell is a convenient and healthy-enough solution, especially for a couple who have survived into their 80s and want an occasional change of pace.

Once the ice was broken, I started making a point of dropping by as often as I could; my Sunday routine has generally included a stop by their apartment every couple of weeks to check on how they're doing and to update them on the latest goings on with me and the kids. They are dependably attentive when I talk about myself, and they are intent on hearing the latest with the kids; I sometimes feel as if I'm their old-fashioned radio serial, bringing them the latest installment in the story of 20-somethings trying to carve out a life in this crazy world.

And I think they appreciate the company. Father-in-law joked today that everybody who knows him is getting tired of hearing the same old stories over and over again, but at "four score and seven," he delights in revisiting the times of his life that brought him to where he is today.

The kids have always been amused to see that he has so often been an early adopter of technology, even if neither they nor he has known what that meant. I saw my first microwave oven at his house, my first hand-held calculator, my first VCR, my first audio cassette, and my first DVD recorder. I had a computer several years before he did, but 30 years past retirement he checks his email daily, knows how to use instant messengers, and today I set him up with a blog. He's not too sure he'll be much of one to use it, but it's there, and I'll be surprised if he doesn't try.

In fact, when I set it up, I suggested that he capture some of those familiar stories—the dogs that used to nip at him when he delivered newspapers, the pet he had to shoot, the adventures of his military life. I reminded him that I don't have those stories from my dad, who died far too young; the efforts I made to capture them from my mom were much too little, too late. I hope he'll use his blog to capture the stories for his grandkids—and, if ever, their kids, too—to treasure long after he is gone.

And I want to see my mother-in-law there, too. When I started a list of possible blog topics, I included a couple that would focus on her life, too. In fact, when I suggested that they write about why she likes scrapbooking, they both carried that to her interest in lots of crafts over the years, and she was bursting to tell me about her childhood, when her mother and aunts used to get together and work on their hemming or their quilting or whatever handwork was in progress as they visited—an image of her life that reminds me of an awfully lot of mine.

I'm really hoping they'll do it. Octogenarians are too rare in our world today, and these two just happen to be particularly lovely people. I want to help their stories live on forever, just as their humor twinkles in my children's eyes.

I love those fine old birds!