100 Year olds give secret to long marriage

Joe and Ann met in 1964Joe was a young soldier on leave, and Ann was a nurse at the local hospital, working tirelessly to tend to the men who came home battered and bruised. One afternoon, they happened to sit next to each other on a rickety bench in a small park by the hospital. Joe, looking down at his boots, noticed a young woman with kind eyes and a quiet smile reading a book beside him. They struck up a conversation about the book, and Joe felt like he’d been swept away to another world, far from the war and all its chaos.

The very next day, Joe had to leave for deployment again, but before he did, they arranged to meet on that same bench, no matter where life took them. Miraculously, they both survived the war, and when Joe returned, he found Ann waiting for him on that bench, a familiar sparkle in her eyes. They shared a lifetime together, raising a family, building a home, and creating a love that would endure the tests of time.

When they retired at age 55, they made it their tradition to return to that very park every single day, to sit together on their bench. Rain or shine, they’d be there, side by side, sharing stories, laughing, or just holding hands in comfortable silence. As the years went on, people in the town started calling it “Joe and Ann’s Bench.” Young couples would stop and smile at the sight of them, seeing the kind of love they hoped to grow into one day.

Their lives were filled with seasons of change—new grandkids, old friends passing, aches and pains that came with age—but that bench stayed the same. To them, it was more than a spot in the park; it was a witness to their love story, to all the memories they’d shared there.

Now, at 100 years old, they still meet at that bench every day. Joe helps Ann with her coat, and Ann straightens Joe’s hat before they sit. They often laugh about how old they’ve gotten, and every once in a while, Ann will lean her head on Joe’s shoulder like she did in the early days. Sometimes they’re silent for long stretches, but in that silence, they feel the weight of the love they’ve built together, rich with a thousand unspoken words.

When people ask them the secret to staying in love for so long, Joe always winks and says, “Just find someone you want to sit with, forever.” Ann always smiles at him when he says this, knowing he still means it with his whole heart.

Entitled Customer Threw Fresh Juice at Me – I’m Not a Doormat, So I Taught Her a Lesson She Won’t Forget…

When an entitled customer threw her drink in my face, humiliating me in front of everyone, she assumed I’d just take it quietly. Little did she know, she was in for a surprise—and a lesson she wouldn’t forget.

That morning, I stepped into the health food store, the familiar scent of fresh produce and herbal teas greeting me. It was the start of another day at work, where I’d been earning a living for the past year. As I tied my apron, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was different today.

“Hey, Grace! Ready for another thrilling day of juice-making?” my coworker Ally joked from behind the counter.

I laughed, shaking my head. “Yep, gotta keep those entitled customers happy, right?”

But the knot in my stomach told me otherwise. There was one customer who made our jobs miserable every time she came in.

We had dubbed her “Miss Pompous,” and it was a fitting name. She walked in like she owned the place, treating us like we were beneath her.

As I began my shift, I tried to put her out of my mind. I needed this job. It wasn’t just about me—it was about my family. My mom’s medical bills were piling up, and my younger sister was counting on me to help with college expenses. Quitting wasn’t an option.

A few minutes later, Ally leaned in close. “Heads up,” she whispered. “Miss Pompous just pulled into the parking lot.”

My stomach dropped. “Great,” I muttered. “Just what I needed to start my day.”

The bell above the door chimed, and in she walked, her designer heels clicking like a countdown to disaster. Without even acknowledging me, she strutted up to the counter and barked her order.

“Carrot juice. Now.”

I forced a smile. “Of course, ma’am. Coming right up.”

As I worked, I could feel her eyes on me, scrutinizing my every move. My hands began to shake under the pressure. Finally, I handed her the juice.

She took one sip and her face twisted in disgust. “What is this watered-down garbage?” she screeched. Before I could react, she hurled the entire drink at my face.

The cold juice splashed across my cheeks, dripping down my chin. I stood there, stunned, as she continued to rant. “Are you trying to poison me?” she demanded.

I blinked, wiping juice from my eyes. “It’s the same recipe we always use,” I stammered.

“Make it again,” she snapped. “And this time, use your brain.”

My face burned with humiliation as everyone in the store turned to watch. Tears threatened to spill, but I refused to let her see me cry.

Just then, my manager, Mr. Weatherbee, appeared. “Is there a problem here?” he asked, though his concern seemed more for the loss of a customer than for me.

Miss Pompous turned on him. “Your employee can’t even make a simple juice! I demand a refund and a replacement.”

To my disbelief, Mr. Weatherbee began apologizing profusely. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. We’ll remake your juice immediately, free of charge.” Then he turned to me. “Grace, be more careful next time.”

I stood there, dumbfounded. My jaw dropped. “But sir, I—”

“Just get the carrots, Grace,” he interrupted, “and remake the juice.”

Miss Pompous smirked at me, clearly enjoying my humiliation. I felt a surge of anger. For a split second, I wanted to throw my apron down and walk out. But then I thought of my mom and sister—I couldn’t afford to lose this job.

So, I took a deep breath and made a decision. I wasn’t going to let her win.

I met Miss Pompous’s gaze, refusing to be intimidated. She thought she could buy respect with her money, that she could trample over people without consequences. Well, not this time.

As Mr. Weatherbee walked away, I reached into the fridge, bypassing the usual carrots. Instead, I grabbed the biggest, gnarliest one I could find. It was tough and unwieldy, perfect for what I had in mind.

“Just a moment,” I said, sweetly, as I fed the oversized carrot into the juicer. The machine groaned in protest before spraying juice everywhere—across the counter, the floor, and best of all, onto Miss Pompous’s designer handbag.

She shrieked, snatching her bag and frantically trying to wipe off the bright orange juice. “My bag!” she cried. “You stupid girl! Look what you’ve done!”

“Oh no, I’m so sorry, ma’am,” I said, struggling to keep a straight face. “It was an accident, I swear.”

Her face turned beet red. “You ruined my three-thousand-dollar purse! I want your manager!”

Trying not to laugh, I gestured vaguely toward the store. “I think he’s helping a customer over there.”

As she stomped off in search of Mr. Weatherbee, I ducked into the stockroom to hide my smile. From my hiding spot, I watched as she stormed out, still clutching her dripping bag, leaving a trail of carrot juice in her wake.

I thought it was over, but I knew Miss Pompous wasn’t the type to let things go.

Sure enough, the next morning, she burst into the store, demanding to see the owner. When Mr. Larson, the kind, older man who owned the store, came out, she launched into a tirade, insisting I be fired and demanding compensation for her ruined purse.

Calmly, Mr. Larson replied, “Let’s check the security footage.”

My heart skipped a beat. I had completely forgotten about the cameras.

We gathered around the monitor as the footage played, showing Miss Pompous throwing juice in my face and the “accident” with her purse. The room fell silent.

Mr. Larson turned to her. “I’m afraid I can’t offer you any compensation. What I see here is an assault on my employee. If anyone should be considering legal action, it’s us.”

Miss Pompous sputtered in disbelief. “But… my purse!”

“I suggest you leave,” Mr. Larson said firmly. “And don’t come back.”

With one final glare, Miss Pompous stormed out.

Once she was gone, Mr. Larson turned to me, his eyes twinkling. “That was just an accident, right, Grace?”

“Of course, sir,” I said with a grin. “Why would I intentionally ruin a customer’s belongings?”

He chuckled and walked away. Ally gave me a high five. “You stood up to her, Grace! You showed her who’s boss.”

That night, as I shared the story with my mom and sister, I realized something important: standing up for myself hadn’t just put Miss Pompous in her place—it reminded me of my own worth.

Have you ever had to deal with someone like Miss Pompous? Share your stories in the comments. Together, we can take on the “Karens” of the world!

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