Married at 15 in a Vegas chapel, she had given him 47 years, earning the title of, "Good Wife" from his rat pack brethren.

She learned to make home-style dinners and mildly brewed Joe, that often went untouched or reheated long after Carson came on.

Her clothes, modest and a little worn, were shredded into dust rags after she learned to sew.

Although she looked rather fetching then, he seldom noticed.

Like flowered wallpaper, she never complained.

There was never a mad-word spoken between them.

An occasional glimmer in his eyes, sent ribbons of warmth through her, relieving the uncertainty of his "too many nights" away from home.

After she gave him four sons and a daughter, he said that her body had become...well, uh...matronly.

Yet, he professed an intense desire that only "it" could satisfy.

Soon his thirst for hot, brewed coffee became a 24-7 need. For he had discovered that young coffee beans, roasted long and often, get stronger and darker...he became addicted.

For Good Wife, her only sin was man-fantasies of Sinatra, the Untouchables, and the Wayne Newton Show... 'cause he took her once.

When she finally learned he was getting his coffee-fix, dark with a splash of cream, a sigh came from within her, so mournfully low, that only angels heard.

To relieve her anguish, she switched on the bedside radio. The DJ was playing a new song, Gloria Gaynor's, "I Will Survive."

The next morning, Good Wife bought the 45 record, played it over and over as though it was her last song.

She feasted on the words, ravenously, the first bites of nourishment in 47 years.