Part 1 of “No Ordinary Marriage” ended in 1965 with my father telling me that he and my mother could no longer live together.

In the summer of 1965, my mother moved to upstate New York where she lived alone until her death in 2001. During all those years my dad sent her a monthly check; he sometimes asked her if she needed more. If she did, she said she did. If she didn’t, she said she didn’t. She never abused that trust. No lawyer ever got involved.

During that time my mother never “dated” anyone to my knowledge. One widowed relative wanted to marry her but she told me that, “I could never kiss him.” She did have lots of close women friends and some good men friends, including Huston Smith, a professor at Syracuse University who was a noted scholar of religious studies.

As for her career, she spent most of those years working, first at the Syracuse University Audio Visual Center (not a good fit) and later at Laubach Literacy, helping adults learn to read (a fine fit).

She spent much of her life finding the “right” religion: Unitarian, Protestant, Buddhist, Quaker and, ultimately, Catholic because she liked the majesty of the formal mass.

Whatever her religious preference at the time, she always championed the underdog and downtrodden. She was always taking care of this elderly lady or that handicapped young person. At one point, she adopted a Hmong family that had been taken in by her church.

She and I had a good relationship over those years, mainly revolving around her author recommendations (Ivan Doig, Wallace Stegner and Jane Smiley). At one point she would send a Xerox copy of the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle every week, and we would each do it and compare notes.

My dad lived a very different life, to say the least. He played in bridge tournaments around the country and amassed over 25,000 master points in the process, putting him in the top 20 players in the country. He was named to the Bridge Hall of Fame and we three kids attended the induction event in Chicago.

His favorite bridge partner Evelyn died in 1995. He called me in tears and asked if I would go down to Delaware to be with him. I did.

He also became an ace blackjack player, thanks to his superb card-counting ability. He went to Atlantic City from Wilmington, Delaware, twice a week, well into his 90s. He came out ahead every year. On Christmas Eve, 1986, shortly after my divorce, he took me to Atlantic City. I sat beside him at the blackjack table and he signaled me how to bet by nudging my knee with his knee. I won over $150.

He visited my young family every Christmas wherever we lived. He called me faithfully once a week, always to share a joke or two, sometimes to get caught up on family doings. He always supported my career and seemed to admire my writing.

One time he was playing in a national bridge tournament in Los Angeles. At one point, they were playing at a table against Bill Gates and Warren Buffet. My dad told Bill Gates that his grandson (my son David Treadwell III) worked for Microsoft. Gates said he knew David well, and that he was a fine young man. That made my dad’s day. (And mine.)

At one point during the long 35-year separation, I asked my dad why he and my mother didn’t get divorced. “I don’t see any need to,” he replied. I asked my mother the same question, and she said, “Because he’s my husband.” By the way, not once did either of them say an unkind word about the other. Not once.

My mother died in November 2001. I kept her ashes, intending to distribute them in the Casco Bay the next summer. Our beloved Black Lab Chowder died in April 2002. My dad and sister came here in the summer of 2002 to celebrate my 60th birthday. On the appointed day, my sister and I asked my dad if he wanted to go out in the boat to put our mother’s ashes in the Bay, fully expecting that he would decline. But he wanted to go with us. So we all (my dad, my sister Martha, my wife Tina, my stepson Andy and I) took the boat out to Seal Rock. Andy read an ode he had composed about

Chowder. I said a few words about my mother. My dad looked on silently. I know that my mother would be delighted to have known that she would be spending eternity in the Bay along with the seals. And that her husband was there to bid her a silent farewell.

(Save the Date: The annual St. Paul’s Episcopal Church Attic Treasure Sale will be held on Saturday, September 19 from 9 a.m. to 2 p.m. at St. Paul’s at 27 Pleasant Street in Brunswick. All proceeds will benefit local area nonprofits. My article next week will expand on this significant local event.)

David Treadwell, a Brunswick writer, welcomes commentary and suggestions for future “Just a Little Old” columns. dtreadw575@aol.com.

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