Staying Power

By MEGAN RUTHERFORD

If there was something you could do to increase your happiness, enhance your health and extend your life expectancy, you'd do it, right? Well, there is. The magic potion? An enduring marriage. The benefits of a prolonged state of union are well documented. To cite just one of many studies: researchers Linda J. Waite and Lee Lillard found that for men, staying married boosts the chances of surviving to age 65 from 2 out of 3 to almost 9 out of 10. Yet since only about half of U.S. marriages endure, young couples often have trouble finding good role models. But many marriages do last for decades. As the high season for weddings and anniversaries approaches, TIME offers a miscellany of matrimonial bliss--each with its own tips for success.

EMBRACE YOUR DIFFERENCES

Aside from both being academics, Dolores and Jefferson Fish are opposites--and that's what they love about each other. Dolores is African American; Jeff is white. She's a loner; he's a mixer. She's nurturing; he's competitive. She's rational; he's emotional. As a cultural anthropologist she studies objects; as a psychologist he studies people. "We have zero overlap," says Jeff proudly. "Even after 30 years together, I am perpetually fascinated by Dolores." The feeling is mutual. "Jeff and I have many more interesting worlds to share with each other because we have those differences," says Dolores.

One world Dolores shares with Jeff is that of the Krikati Indians of Brazil, the focus of her dissertation. When Dolores returned to Brazil for two years early in their marriage to continue her research, Jeff accompanied her--and developed a lifelong interest in cross-cultural psychology. Because of their different training, they emerged with different impressions of Brazil--making their experience all the richer. "We serve as intellectual expansion devices for each other," says Dolores.

In fact, it is the rare similarities that have created the crises in the Fishes' marriage. Though Jeff and Dolores adore their daughter Krekamey, the first few years after her birth were stressful as they struggled to care for her and pursue demanding careers as professors. Both felt the strain, but Dolores undertook the majority of parenting tasks and allowed her career to suffer the consequences. How did she deal with the frustrations? "I took it day by day," she says, acknowledging, "I find more personal rewards in household things than Jeff does."

If difference is good for grownups, it's even better for kids, Jeff believes. As a result of her double racial and cultural heritage, Krekamey is endowed with "binocular vision, which allows her to see to a depth you can't with one eye." Heightened powers of observation are especially valuable to Krekamey, who is a medical resident in pediatrics serving an ethnically diverse population in New York City.

After 30 years of marriage, Jeff and Dolores still look forward to seeing each other every night to share their day. Asked the secret of their marital success, Dolores says, "Don't be afraid of the differences. Differences are fabulous."

BE THERE FOR EACH OTHER

When comedian Bob Newhart and his fiance, Virginia Quinn, asked a priest to marry them, the clergyman balked. Show-biz marriages never last, he told them. The priest was wrong. Thirty-seven years later, Bob and Ginnie are still together.

The early years were tough, though not for the reasons the priest might have predicted. Bob thought a husband's role was to provide a nice home--and play golf. Ginnie was crushed when he lingered on the links and missed dinners she had painstakingly prepared. Such problems were resolved with time, therapy and, ironically, Catholicism. Says Bob: "For Catholics, it's a major thing to get divorced."

To combat the divisiveness of Bob's career, the Newharts eschewed the fast-paced Hollywood lifestyle and focused on family life. When Bob was at home doing his weekly television series The Bob Newhart Show and Newhart, he drove the kids to school and attended their plays and recitals. "We never missed any important events in the kids' lives," he boasts. And when he was doing stand-up gigs in Las Vegas or Lake Tahoe, Ginnie would bring their four kids to visit on weekends. Being on the road is a lonely life, says Bob. "Everyone's laughing and having a good time, but you're working. And when the show's over, you go back to that empty hotel room." Having his family around made all the difference.

Ginnie and Bob share a passion for crossword puzzles and spectator sports, and they have a deep mutual empathy. Says Ginnie: "We feel almost as one. If he hurts, I hurt. If I hurt, he hurts." Fortunately, they share the highs as well--and now that Bob has learned to keep an eye on his watch, those highs are in ample supply. --Reported by Rachele Kanigel/Bel Air

DON'T GO TO SLEEP ANGRY

Though statistics vary, two demographic groups are generally found to have particularly high divorce rates: African Americans and teenagers. So Chicago Cubs Hall of Famer Billy Williams and wife Shirley had two strikes against them when they got married in 1960. He was 21; she was 19. And when Billy took off for spring training with the Triple-A Houston Buffaloes two days after the wedding, leaving Shirley in Mobile, Ala., for several months, it could have been Strike 3. Billy's manager saved the game by sending Shirley a plane ticket to visit.

The following year, Billy made it to the majors, and the Williamses and their new baby moved to Chicago. But Billy was on the road a lot, and Shirley was alone in a strange city with four young children. An older woman who befriended Shirley helped her cope. Phone calls and letters also helped. But then there were the groupies. "You don't get a lot of respect as the spouse of a professional athlete," she says. "The fans didn't just ignore me, they'd push me over to get to him." Billy tried to reassure her that he took his marriage vows seriously and arranged for her and his daughters--with tutors--to stay with him during spring training; as the girls got older, Shirley began to join him during the season too. "If you put your family first, everything else gets easier," says Billy, "because you and everyone around you know your priorities."

Through all their ups and downs, the Williamses have adhered to a simple rule: Don't go to bed angry. "We never go to sleep if it's not resolved," says Billy. That has meant some long sleepless nights, but the final score has been worth it. "We have a partnership built on commitment, love and respect," says Shirley. "We are an example for our grandkids and their grandkids." --Reported by Maggie Sieger/Chicago

GIVE EACH OTHER GROWING ROOM

Sandra and Don Duckworth will celebrate their 45th wedding anniversary together in June--after spending most of the past nine years apart. He's the director and CEO of the Bishop Museum, Hawaii's popular cultural and natural-history institution. She's a political consultant based in Alexandria, Va.

For the first 36 years of marriage, the Duckworths lived together. In the early days, Sandra often accompanied Don, then an entomologist for the Smithsonian, as he traveled the world collecting insects--at least six new moths were named after her. And when he got the Bishop Museum job in 1984, just after Sandra had been re-elected as Fairfax County supervisor, she and their three children moved with him to Honolulu. Both say that was the most difficult time of their marriage.

Thus Don was supportive when Sandra decided to move back to Virginia seven years later, after the children finished high school. "I was always traveling anyway, and we were used to separations," he says.

They e-mail or phone each other every day and take turns visiting in person five or six times a year. "We store up our need for hugs," says Don. Says Sandra: "There have been many phases in our lives. What matters to us is that we have always managed to work through problems." Both say they are too busy--and too eager to be together--to become mired in petty spats.

Sandra says she will eventually retire and will probably settle in Hawaii with Don then. That would suit Don, who mulls an eventual return to hands-on insect study. Who knows? There may still be a nameless moth somewhere that will one day join the list of those bearing Sandra's name. --Reported by Anne Moffett/Alexandria

STAND UNITED IN ADVERSITY

Phyllis Raffall and Irving Tepper hoped their 1967 marriage would bring an end to the pain each had suffered: Phyllis' first husband had died at age 36 of a heart attack, and Irving's first wife had left him for another man. It didn't turn out quite that way.

Though they seemed to be a match made in heaven, their wedding was a prelude to two years of hell. Irving's younger son cut the honeymoon short by running away from his mother's home and moving in with them; Irving's father died after a long illness; Irving was repeatedly hospitalized for mysterious blackouts. The couple lost one pregnancy to miscarriage; a second pregnancy ended in stillbirth the same week Phyllis' mother died of esophageal cancer; Phyllis was forced to commit her father to a mental hospital.

The next few years were no picnic either. Irving's son did poorly in school and hung out with delinquents. Irving worked three jobs to pay for his son's therapy sessions, and Phyllis quit her teaching job so she could be home with her stepson.

The Teppers swallowed their pain. "Phyllis and I never fought about what we were doing," says Irving. The Teppers do discuss disagreements, however--but never when they're angry. "I'm uncomfortable with confrontations and mean things being said. You can't take them back," says Phyllis.

These days--knock on wood--their troubles seem to be behind them. Irving's son has graduated from college and settled down. And the biggest issue they've confronted recently is putting plants on the balcony of their Florida condo. Phyllis wanted to hang them, but Irving resisted putting hooks into the wood beams. Their solution: plant stands. "If you really care about someone," says Phyllis, "you don't make a big deal of these things." --Reported by Dee Gill/St. Petersburg

JOIN FORCES IN A COMMON CAUSE

Divorce statistics are disheartening, but breakup rates among unmarried couples are really depressing. Gays and lesbians don't even have the option of a state-sanctioned marriage. Nonetheless, many forge enduring unions.

Writers Phyllis Lyon and Del Martin are one such couple. They met in 1949, moved in together a few years later and haven't been apart since. Though they could not get married, they celebrated their intention to stay together another way: "The first thing I did was drag Phyllis down to the bank and open a joint checking account," says Del. "After that, as far as I was concerned, we were committed."

The first year was stormy. Typically, when a disagreement erupted, Del would stomp out, infuriating Phyllis, until she taught Del to fight back. Then the squabbling began in earnest. What turned the tide was a gift of a Siamese cat. Like a baby, it renewed their determination to stick it out. "We didn't know how we could divide the cat if we split up," says Phyllis. "I said, 'We'll stay together if it kills us.'"

Feeling isolated, in 1955 the two joined a "secret social club," which evolved into Daughters of Bilitis, the first lesbian-rights organization. Their activism further united them. "We were just born rebels," says Del. After their 1972 book on female homosexuality, Lesbian/Woman, became an underground classic, they started lecturing on the college circuit. So identified have they become with each other that they often handle speaking engagements together. Does all the togetherness become, well, suffocating? Not for this pair. Having a shared enemy--bigotry--may have helped deflect the inevitable irritations of domestic life. "Our whole life revolves around the movement," says Phyllis.

So it was more a political statement than a romantic gesture when Phyllis and Del formally tied the knot last year by taking part in San Francisco's annual ceremony giving same-sex couples recognition under the city's domestic-partners law. "Afterward," Phyllis acknowledged, "we felt very different for a day." But then everyday life settled in once again: Del, 78, is cataloging movement ephemera for the Gay Lesbian Historical Society of Northern California, and both she and Phyllis, 75, remain politically active, working with groups like Old Lesbians Organizing for Change. Their goal for the future? To be around in 2003 for their 50th anniversary. --Reported by Susan Kuchinskas/San Francisco

With reporting by Rachele Kanigel/Bel Air; Maggie Sieger/Chicago; Anne Moffett/Alexandria; Dee Gill/St. Petersburg; Susan Kuchinskas/San Francisco