40+ years of
Valentine's Days

40+ years of
            Valentine's Days

They all said it
would never last between these two silly boys—what
with all the breaking up and getting back together.
Like clockwork, between every Halloween and New
Year’s Day, with party season in full swing,
Marvin Burrows and his boyfriend, Bill Swenor, would
invariably find themselves at odds over something.

“We were
so young, I guess we had to spread our wings to see how far
we could fly,” says Burrows, who started dating
Swenor when the two were just 17 and 15, respectively.
“But it never had any effect on our love. We
knew it was special even at that age.” The men, who
lived in Hayward, Calif, a suburb of San Francisco,
spent more than 50 years partnered before Bill died in
spring 2005.

Their love story
began in Flint, Mich., around Christmastime 1953, with
two teenagers who were admittedly “in lust,” a
status that quickly changed to something much deeper
and more costly.

Burrows was
kicked out of his home when his father found out about the
relationship, so he eventually moved in with Swenor and his
mother, and the two men remained together until
Bill’s death.

Through the years
they lied to landlords to rent apartments and to
bankers to open joint savings accounts, and for years they
were quiet about their relationship around coworkers.
Only in recent decades did they begin to enjoy the
freedom of living as an out couple. The two were
married in San Francisco in 2004, more than a half century
after their love affair began.

Burrows and
Swenor make up just one of many longtime gay and lesbian
couples who have seen so much change in their lives. They
were gay long before gay rights had a name. For many,
hiding their relationship was a way of life, and for
some, it still is, and marriage seemed only a faraway

“We have
to realize how much the world has changed,” says
Samiya Bashir, spokeswoman for the New
York–based Freedom to Marry, an organization
working for equal marriage rights. “Forty years ago,
none of our national GLBT organizations existed.
The Advocate didn’t exist. This was 20
years before ‘We’re here, we’re queer,
get used to it.’ ”

Today, such
long-term couples stand as pillars in the fight for
equality, often showing more stamina, more passion
than those who have lived their entire lives outside
the confines of the closet. They offer young people a
model of what happy committed gay relationships look
like—relationships often forged against all

The Advocate, celebrating 39 years of publication
this year, found couples with at least as much
longevity to talk about their relationships, their
triumphs, their struggles, and their secrets for
success. And what we heard was funny, insightful, poignant,
beautiful, and sometimes heartbreaking.

“Mr. G” and “Mr. B”


They met at a
Chicago theater and happened to strike up a conversation.
“What we saw, we liked,” Everett Baird says of
his 1955 encounter with George W. Gebhardt.

It took a while
longer before they got together for good, but once they
did, they stuck. They cite October 5, 1955, as the date
their relationship began, and this past fall they
celebrated 50 years as “cohabitants”
with a buffet and a custom-made cake.

Their advice to
young couples: Remember it’s a give-and-take.
Don’t sweat the small stuff. Be good to each
other. Don’t disappoint each other.
“We’re family. We never thought of it any
other way,” Baird says.

Through the years
the men never hid, operating their own typesetting and
graphic arts business together in Chicago for more than 20
years before retiring to Oregon, where Baird’s
brother lives with his own partner of 26 years.
“How’d we stay together so long?” Baird
asks. “Nobody else would have us.”

Kaz and Connie

Macon, Mo.

Kazia Macey and
Constance Vermillion consider this article a coming out
of sorts after 39 years as lovers, best friends, and
lifelong partners. Heretofore, few people have known
them as anything more than two close friends who live

“I am a
little afraid of the article appearing because of the secret
life we have lived for so long,” says
Vermillion, 57. “I know many people have
speculated but have never had proof. Missouri is such a
conservative state. I guess the chips will fall where
they may.”

couple—who recently returned from a trip to Burbank,
Calif., where they attended the official Xena:
Warrior Princess
they have something others can use, even if they
haven’t always let the world see it up close. They
gush of their happiness and devotion to one another
and say they only grow fonder of each other as time

The two met in
August 1966 and became a couple two months later. They
have been together ever since, navigating everything from
negotiating domestic roles to seeing each other
through menopause—and surviving to tell about
it all.

Macey, 60, the
self-described butch who has always been comfortable
changing motor oil, now cooks meals for the couple
occasionally, while Vermillion, a more
“feminine” type, learned to enjoy letting
someone take over the kitchen from time to time.

They credit their
relationship’s success to their mutual understanding
of true partnership.

“We’ve learned how to be flexible over the
years and ‘know’ when to take the lead
or relinquish it to the other. It takes a while to learn
this, but that’s how it works out if you put
your minds to it,” Macey says. “I
believe it’s imperative that people know there really
are same-sex partnerships that last a

Mary Beth Brindley and Evelyn Hall

Portland, Ore.

It’s all
about compromise when it comes right down to it.

After such a long
partnership (March 1 marks 47 years), that’s what
Evelyn Hall, 67, and Mary Beth Brindley, 66, have figured
out. That, and that people really don’t change
all that much, no matter how hard you try to wrangle,
wrestle, and rope them into it.

“That’s a life lesson that once I learned it,
things got a lot easier,” Brindley says.
“Once you give up any control of the other person,
the relationship will be smoother, but as long as you
are doing that, it will have ups and downs.
It’s all about compromise. But if you think people
are going to change, they really aren’t. You think
maybe they won’t snore or maybe they’ll
stay up later with you, they won’t. It took me 15 or
20 years to figure this out.”

The two got
together soon after they met through a bowling league in
1958 in Memphis, Tenn., at a time when the L word was
whispered if spoken at all and Southern ideals for
girls were to get married and have babies. They moved
to Fort Worth, Texas, in 1959 to flee the pressure of
disapproving family members, only to find themselves in a
city that felt less than affirming. They spent 37
years in the closet there.

advice to younger couples: “Go ahead and come out. Go
for it. Take advantage of the social groups and
support groups that are out there and just go for it.”

During the latter part of their 50 years
together in California, Bill Swenor and Marvin Burrows
were often asked why they’d never had a
commitment ceremony. Swenor would cite the number of years
they had been a couple and muse over whether that
hadn’t been commitment enough.

But when gay
couples started getting married in San Francisco, Bill
proposed to his high school sweetheart, and the two were
among those married in that memorable February of

impact of saying those words out loud brought tears to our
eyes,” Burrows said. “It did change the
dynamics of our relationship. It seemed to give us a
measure of acceptance in the community and made us proud.
Bill really felt great about being able to do something so
personal yet political in one action.”

Swenor passed
away from an apparent heart attack in his sleep in March
2005, his marriage to Burrows already having been voided by
the courts. Burrows has since been denied access to
Swenor’s pension benefits. Burrows celebrated
New Year’s Eve with a few male friends before going
home a bit early—alone. He knows his grieving process
will take time.

Long devoted to
numerous gay rights and civil rights organizations,
including the local group Lavender Seniors of the East Bay,
Burrows vows to continue to do all he can to fight for
equal marriage rights.

“We always
felt we were just like anyone else,” Burrows says.
“Married, committed, and in love.”