1969

The irony of the night of June 27, 1969, is that on this evening before my long dreamt of wedding day, I got absolutely no sleep. Earlier on that Friday, Bill and I had rehearsed the words that on Saturday we would pronounce in earnest. Dressed in the cut off version of the hot pink bridesmaid dress I had worn in my best friend's wedding the month before, I had carried a ribbon bouquet, grasped my father's arm, and marched deliberately to the music down the aisle to play-like I was marrying Bill. Starry-eyed, my stomach astir with the motion of thousands of fluttering butterflies, I floated toward the altar in Cinderella fashion, hoping Bill thought me as beautiful as I wanted to be for him.

Fantasy swallowed up reality as I moved through the rehearsal believing the affair to be washed in sepia light, soft-focused, all our motions slowed to exaggerate the import of the moment. When I rewind the memories of my wedding, the hours glide from scene to scene without much attention to detail, capturing instead the essence of the last chapter of my virginal, solitary life.

Clinking crystal tea glasses, the piquant aroma of catered chicken swimming in caper sauce, the flickering glow of tall white candles, and the happy blooms of brightly colored flowers smiling at us from their decorative vases greeted Bill and me as we strode into the Ridglea Country Club for dinner. Like the currents run warm and cool during a summer swim in the lake, the voices pitched high then low as conversations swelled, peaked, waned then swelled again, punctuated by a high laugh or the clanking of dishes or the tinkle of silverware as it bumped against a china plate. I could not get over the surreal experience of marriage. So many gifts, so many friends, so much attention and love. There around us were all the people in the world who were most important to us, and I kept thinking I was dreaming.

Wakeful in the night, with my best friends sleeping soundly on all available surfaces in my parents' home, I tried to imagine the rest of my life. Starting with the new idea of having sex for the first time, I prepared a hundred meals from grocery lists a mile long. I tried to think of every recipe I knew of that might delight my husband. My mind blissfully wandered through our little apartment with its formica table and four brown and green plastic floral chairs, our double bed and dresser that we had refinished together in Mother's and Daddy's driveway, all the orange towels waiting for us after our baths, the blue dishes we had to eat from, our little television, and the old sofa my parents gave us. Then there was the honeymoon. It almost seemed to be in the way of participating in the joys of marriage. We could not get down to living until we came back from Mexico City. I looked forward into my childbearing years and wondered what our kids would look like - whether they would be girls or boys. What would we name them? Who would they grow up to be?

My mind had gotten out and wandered so far in the night that when it was time for everyone to greet the dawn of my wedding day, I was tired from all the cooking, shopping, childbearing and rearing, and wondering about all the things in the future that I necessarily had to wait for the future to actually bring! This day, however, was the day when I could get started with the being a wife part of my life! Mrs.! A second ring on my finger. Another person in my bed. A hand to always hold; lips that were mine to kiss. Washing someone else's laundry. Caring as much about another's existence as I had cared about my own. I could not get to the church quickly enough.

At 2:22 p.m., I was a "Mrs." My left hand sparkled with the proof of it and my heart sang with the joy of it. With my bouquet in my hands, my Father gave me away to claim another name and another family. My mind a wondrous blur, I had stood beside my man promising to always love him and respect him. I had heard that part, but do not recall much else except turing to greet two hundred people as the new "Mr. and Mrs."

Congratulated at the following reception by all our smiling friends, aunts, uncles, cousins, and some anonymous friends of our parents, we shook hands and smiled until I felt my face stuck in a permanent grin. People were genuinely happy for us. When the last handshake was loosed from our grip, we headed to the cake and fed each other our first bit of married food. I remember the frosting was a little crunchy, and that really bothered Mother afterward. Of course, we did not care. I had not tripped gliding down the aisle, the ring bearer made it to the front, we all said the right things at the right time - the knot had been duly tied. I threw the bouquet, which my cousin caught, then headed to the bride's room to change into my shiny pink going-away suit.

The stalwarts who stayed until the end threw rice at us as we headed toward my new brother-in-law's maroon GTO to make our getaway. Once inside the car, Bill showed me an envelope Daddy had slipped into his jacket pocket as we headed to the car. He turned it quizzically in his hand. "Should we open it now?" he asked.

"Sure!" my response.

Inside was a note from my father and a twenty dollar bill. The money was for our dinner at House of Gong, Bill's favorite restaurant, before we boarded our flight to Mexico. The note:

I have learned to be satisfied with everything I have and whatever happens. I know how to live when I am poor and when I have plenty. I have learned the secret of being happy at any time in everything that happens. When I have enough to eat and when I go hungry, when I have more than I need and when I do not have enough. I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. Philippians 4:11-13.


The thoughtfulness of the note and the provision for our first dinner together was not lost on us. My husband has never forgotten the feeling of love and acceptance from his new father-in-law that the pregnant envelope stirred in his heart.