At 80 years old, Margaret Whitaker was the talk of the town. The small, sharp-tongued woman with snow-white locks and a wardrobe full of vividly colored outfits had just announced her fourth marriage. Not unexpectedly, the local daily took notice of the news. A curious (and rather nosy) journalist paid a visit to her quaint little home on Maple Lane to inquire about the topic that had been circulating:
You’ve had quite the life, Margaret. However, your selection of husbands is a little… eclectic. Would you mind telling me what they all had in common?
Margaret chuckled, her eyes twinkling with mischief as she sipped her tea and motioned for the reporter to sit down.
She leaned back and started, saying, “Oh, honey,” patting the arm of the floral couch next to her, “you better settle in. It’s a bit of a story.” “My first husband was a banker,” she said, with a smile on her lips, “and he was steady, smart, and boy, did he know how to make money multiply. We were young, ambitious, and thought we had forever. We bought a house, took long vacations, and lived the kind of life people wrote Christmas newsletters about. But he passed away suddenly—heart attack at 45. Gone in an instant. Left me well taken care of, though, bless him.” She paused, her eyes briefly drifting before brightening once more.
My second husband? Oh, he was a whole different person now. A ringmaster for a circus. Big presence, big voice. He donned crimson coats with gold buttons and had a mustache that rivaled that of a broom. He literally swept me off my feet! He lured me into his act one night during a gig in Ohio, and I never really left. It was all mayhem and glitter, trapeze and tigers. I had adventure because of him. Laughter. mild motion sickness. But while it lasted, boy, was it enjoyable.
The reporter blinked, obviously taken aback. Margaret winked.
I took a slightly more conventional approach the third time. My spouse is a pastor. Gentle, serene, and wise. He offered me perspective and serenity. I needed to ground myself after the hectic circus life. We volunteered in the community, planned food drives, and took long walks in the evenings. He had the patience of a saint and a voice like sweet honey. He went softly one morning after breakfast, just sat in his chair and faded away.”
After a respectful pause, the reporter inquired, “And now, you’re marrying… a funeral director?”
Margaret grinned. “Yes, I am. Harold. Tall, kind, and always has a subtle wood polish and eucalyptus scent. He is trustworthy and sensible, and to be honest, at my age, it’s just smart planning.
The reporter laughed uneasily. “Well, that’s quite the development. Is there a reason why their professions differ from one another?
Margaret leaned closer at this point, her eyes shining as if she were going to reveal the town’s best-kept secret.
“Well, darling,” she said, “I married one for the money, two for the show, three to get ready, and four to go.”
There was a beat of silence before the room erupted in laughter.
Margaret sat back with a smug expression. “You should be bold and a little cheeky because life is too short to be anything else.” Security, excitement, wisdom, and now the reassurance that someone will handle things when the curtain finally drops were all gifts from each of them.
The journalist was still laughing as they packed away their belongings, and they couldn’t help but be amazed by Margaret’s spirit—her capacity to find joy even in the darkest moments, to laugh at life, and to make every chapter into a tale worth telling.
Margaret yelled, “Tell your readers: I’m not collecting husbands—I’m just trying out different flavors of love,” before they departed. And the journey has been delicious thus far.
She then lifted her teacup in a toast to a