Would it be horrible chauvinism to say that it’s hard to imagine anywhere in the world where May is nicer than right here in Minnesota? We pay for this weather, sure. Winter is a six-month spinal tap, and it gets hotter in the summer than it does in parts of Florida (I know because I’ve lived in both places).

But May. May has the long, cool, gentle fingers of a lovely woman. She caresses you with them. She strokes your hair, kisses your cheek and asks you if you want her to get you anything from the kitchen. She’s a good girl, May. I’d marry her if she’d have me, and if she’d just stay put.

Which brings up the subject of marriage. To your amazement, I’m not going to gripe about my own single blessedness, not tonight anyway. I want to talk about marriage in the abstract.

This month’s Smithsonian Magazine includes a section called “Destination America,” in which they showcase some interesting regions in the country they consider worth visiting. One of them is The Berkshires in Massachusetts.

The article includes a photograph that’s a real grabber. It was taken at The Norman Rockwell Museum in Stockbridge. In the background is one of Rockwell’s classic paintings, Marriage License. It’s a charming depiction of a young couple, he in a suit, she in a dress (it was painted in 1955), making out their license application. The desk in the little municipal office is high. The young woman is standing on tiptoe, carefully filling out the form. The young man, much taller, is stooping down over her shoulder, watching closely.

But in the foreground of the Smithsonian photo is a contemporary couple. They’re dressed in Goth clothing. They’re both generously pierced, and she has an extensive, serpentine tattoo on one bare arm. He’s hugging her from behind.

The photographer clearly meant to be provocative with this one. And he provoked me.

Is there anyone who really, in their heart of hearts, believes we’ve made progress in going from the couple in the painting to the couple in the photograph?

Oh, I know there’ll be the ideologues who’ll lecture us about how Rockwell depicted an oppressive, patriarchal social structure, and how it’s glorious that these young people now feel free to express themselves any way they choose, unfettered by the stuffy conventions of the Eisenhower age.

But do they really believe it? In their hearts of hearts, would they really prefer to have their children grow up to be like the Goth couple than like the Rockwell kids?

I can hear someone saying, “It’s academic. Rockwell’s world never existed. It was a fantasy Americans created to flatter themselves.”

Yeah, well, Quentin Tarantino’s world doesn’t exist either, but it doesn’t keep people from using his films as a cultural reference.

If Rockwell didn’t mirror something, in our hearts if not in our lives, his work wouldn’t be iconic.

Let me reduce my thesis to this statement: Killing beauty is never a good thing.