In the 1960s and '70s, you often heard terms like "free love" followed by words like "co-habitation," "shacking up," "living in sin," and others. People started saying a marriage license was "just a piece of paper."

In other words, the legalities and the "formalities" were not necessary for two people in love to create a fruitful, lifelong partnership, a home.

Technically, that's correct. Half of marriages end in divorce, so certainly a license offers no guarantees, but I came across one recently that is a tangible symbol of something much larger.

It was in an envelope along with my baptismal certificate, my mother's baptismal certificate, and the marriage license issued to her and my father in May 1939. It was her handwriting on the envelope.

My mother suffered a stroke on Memorial Day 2007. She hasn't returned home since. She is in a nursing facility in our hometown of Marlin where she and my father moved the same year they married.

My father has sat with her almost daily except when he's been ill himself. In April, surgery following a broken hip sent him to the same facility to recover. Once again, they share a room.

Managed by our older sister, my two younger sisters and I have taken on the task of sorting through hundreds of photos and other memorabilia our parents have collected, along with tons of newspaper clippings. It's been an ongoing process in these two years, resumed when two or more of us happen to be in town.

The process has brought laughter, some tears and many, many recollections.

As a result I have boxes of photos to sort and organize. The marriage license was among them.

Issued in Robertson County, it was signed on May 13 by the Rev. I. J. Szymanski, the priest at the Catholic church in Bremond, who also baptized my mother. I had the document copied and framed one of the copies, saving others for my siblings.

A week ago Saturday, it was among photos displayed at a reception held in honor of the 70th anniversary of our parents' marriage.

It was a day of mixed emotions. There sat my father, almost 95, in a wheelchair visiting with family and friends in the reception area. My mother was just a few feet down the hall in the room where she recognizes few, if any, of the faces that come to visit.

I wasn't the only child, grandchild or great-grandchild to wear a path between the two rooms.

My parents don't seem complete, one without the other. It's ironic because people who know their story know its beginnings were less than ideal. Today, their marriage wouldn't be given much of a chance. He was a widower with two little girls; she was a month away from turning 15. He was a day laborer and she had completed only the second grade.

The odds were stacked, but they were smart people and they worked hard. He eventually bought out the businessman who hired him away from building fences and together they educated their children and pushed them to achieve. They helped build and establish a church and gave many hours of service to it and to the wider community. They built a home and hosted countless holiday dinners, birthday parties, jam sessions and even wakes. When our high school newspaper staff ran late on production night, my mother cooked for us as we worked to finish in the living room.

Amid those memories, I might concede it could have all been done without that piece of paper, but I know better.

A piece of paper is a record. In this case, it is a record of intent to fulfill a promise "till death do us part" regardless of the richer, poorer, sickness, health, better or worse, life brings; a promise backed by action.

When my mother became incapacitated and we knew she would never return home, her wedding ring was removed. My father placed it on his left hand where it remains, on the same finger as his.

Ana Pecina Walker is editor of the Longview News-Journal.