My Parents' Anniversary

Today is my parents' 58th wedding anniversary. I'm thinking about them today.

I've previously written about the fact that my mom got married twice to her first husband. We recently discovered that she'd also married my dad twice.

("What is it with Mom and having two weddings?" my sister said.)

We've always known the date and place of my parents' wedding. We teased them about taking the wedding to the guests instead of the guests to the wedding, since they were married in the church my uncle and aunt attended. "That's not how you're supposed to do it," we'd say. "Yes, well, that's how we did it," Mom would say.

I figured that choice was a combination of not wanting a big fuss, but wanting a formal ceremony. Mom was very practical, and I can imagine Dad wanting a ceremony that rivaled the one with her first husband. Neither of my parents were members of any congregation, so they didn't have their own church to consider. So, the 90 minute drive each way made sense. (It still does.)

After my mom passed away (Dad's been gone for years), I found the certificate from their wedding. It is an ornate piece of parchment, with flowers and filigree and the writing hand done in calligraphy. It's tied by silk tassels, in a leather folder. Very showy, very fancy; it looks regal. It had all the information I was used to - date, place, my aunt and uncle as witnesses.

The problem was, on either my FamilySearch account or on my Ancestry.com account, the two geneological programs that I use, I could not find an online record of it. Neither could my sister. Oh, well, I thought. We know that it happened. New documents are being scanned or info uploaded every day; sooner or later, it'll be online. I don't need another record of it so badly that I needed to drive across four counties to get a copy.

But then, we came across another record online, a record showing that they got married more than a month after the first wedding, by a Justice of the Peace in another, closer, neighboring county. What was that about? Lots of people, myself and my husband included, have a civil ceremony first, and later, a religious ceremony. But why do it the other way round? And why so close together?

My parents are gone. My uncle and aunt are gone. I'm willing to bet that the minister (and Justice) are gone, even if he remembered them. Some of my cousins are gone; my oldest brother is nearing 70, and all of my children are grown. We're reaching the age at which we are the older generation. There's no one with first hand knowledge around to ask.

There are, however, stories and records from years gone by to help us extrapolate. There's the fact that many religions are very strict about how they will, and won't, perform ceremonies.

As nearly as we can figure, the minister from my uncle's church found out that my mother was divorced after he'd already performed the ceremony, and he then refused to file the paperwork with the state, so the marriage wasn't considered legal. "My mother couldn't have told the church that she'd been divorced when she married my dad. Otherwise, they wouldn't have let them get married in the church," one of my cousins told me. It used to be uncommon to find a church that would perform ceremonies for divorced folks.

So, my parents drove to the next town over in order to make it legal; but, they continued to celebrate the day they actually chose to be married, the day they first said vows. That's very typical of my parents. "This is my anniversary."

That makes sense. We celebrate the day of our first wedding. By the time of our second wedding, the religious ceremony, we'd been married for years, and had two children. That's a different day than the day we chose to get married.

I am a religious person; I stand behind the idea of religions acting in accordance with their beliefs. And yet this story tickles me. It amuses me. I stand behind my parents and their choice to celebrate their non-legal wedding day. Call it like you see it, Mom and Dad. Don't back down.

I come by my stubbornness honestly.

Shine On, Diamond Ring

My anniversary is 6 weeks away, but I already have my first gift. It's a huge sparkler on my hand, a one carat diamond solitaire. I have never owned a diamond this large.

It's not from my husband, my kids or my mom. It's from a girlfriend of mine; interestingly, she also bought the wedding band I'm wearing. I've worn it for longer than I wore the one my husband bought.

We do not have a strange marriage that should end up on "reality" TV. My girlfriend just happens to value jewelry, and the more expensive it is, the better. She sees the need to give it to me precisely because I do not buy it for myself (a trait she finds to be very odd). I was reluctant to replace my wedding set; she was not.

When we picked out my wedding set more than a quarter century ago, I felt as if it was my one and only chance in life to own a diamond. I have always liked delicate jewelry (despite being told that large women need large jewelry to look "balanced," and the fact that society preaches that women should feel that bigger is always better, jewelwise). We went shopping together; my husband said, "I'm not picking out something you might hate." I chose an interlocking wedding set, vaguely filigreed, with three small diamonds on the engagement ring and one on the wedding band. One of the most romantic things my husband ever said was uttered there in front of the jewelry counter. As I stared at my left hand, he said, "So. Can you look at that every day for the rest of your life?" I could.

The first day I wore it, I sat through a green light just staring at my ring. I loved it. I truly wanted to wear it every day for the rest of my life. I was never one of those women who wanted to "trade up."

So, of course, I lost it.

Not all at once, mind you. First I started losing stones. The settings on my rings were the kind that held the diamonds in a raised setting with four prongs. I'm not up on jewelry terms; I don't know what it's called. I discovered quickly that if I wasn't careful, I'd put the ring straight through pantyhose while I pulled them up. I shredded several pair. It also tended to catch on things. After a while, the prongs would pull out or the gold would wear thin, and a stone would fall out.

The first time it happened, I was devastated. Even though it was a fairly inexpensive fix, it just didn't feel the same, having a replacement diamond. After the second and third times, the jeweler made the prongs bigger and sturdier. I still lost another stone, a different one.

I set the ring aside - in my jewelry box, I thought - until I could take it in to the jeweler again. We'd just moved, taken in two extra kids and were expecting a baby, so the repair had to wait. When we were ready, weeks later, to fix it, I couldn't find the ring. I looked everywhere. I cannot imagine, to this day, where it went. I know I put it somewhere I thought was safe, but safe does not equal nonexistent. I effectively hid it from myself.

I looked even in places that felt ridiculous. Its whereabouts remained a mystery. They still are.

I decided that I'd wear another ring, just until we found mine. I owned a couple of lovely cubic zirconia rings; they'd been free gifts when I agreed to "examine in your home, for 14 days without obligation," a full matching set containing the ring, a necklace, a bracelet and earrings. I also got an onyx bracelet that I loved and a couple of other pieces the same way. (I was sure that the company would stop offering, but they did it repeatedly, so I got some lovely things that way.)

No one ever noticed my wedding ring, but people frequently noticed my CZ ring. The stones were huge in comparison. I actually got quite irritated at the compliments after a while. I switched from one CZ ring to the other, but they were both large, so people still noticed. It annoyed me that nobody ever complimented, or even noticed, the ring that I loved, but they swooned over these placeholder rings.

So, I bought a thin gold band. Very thin, because as I said, I like delicate jewelry, and because it was inexpensive. After all, I'd put my real ring back on as soon as I found it.

I killed at least two, and probably three, bands before I gave up. They would bend, break, unroll and generally come apart. I don't think I'm that tough on my hands. It's not as if I have a manual labor intensive construction job or anything. From the look of the rings, you'd think I'd have bruises, cuts or missing fingers. My skin was always fine, but the rings were very much worse for wear. In fact, they became likely to hurt me themselves, with sharp bits sticking out.

I gave up and went without a ring.

It made my girlfriend Cheryl, mother of my older two daughters' best friends, slightly crazy. She knew my ring was lost, but could not fathom why I walked around bare handed.

After about three years of this, my daughter said, "Cheryl wants to know what kind of ring you like."

"Why?" I wanted to know.

"She wants to get you one."

"Tell her not to worry about it."

"She's getting you a ring, Mom. Just tell me what you want."

Well. "If I had it to do over, I'd get just a gold band." I still think my ring is gorgeous, but let's face it, it had also proven to be a hassle. Plus, I may never see it again. Nothing was going to fall out of a plain gold band. I'd have no reason to set it aside and lose it. I passed my ring size along to Cheryl.

She got me the biggest band I could imagine. It's thicker and wider than most men's rings. It felt as if it went halfway up to my knuckle and weighed five pounds. My hand felt so heavy! I sometimes wondered if I could still bend the finger.

Her instincts proved better than mine. It's been at least 8 years, maybe closer to 10, and I've never had a problem. It doesn't bend, break, lose things, chip - this ring is impervious to whatever killed its less sturdy predecessors. And since I never take it off, it can't get lost.

With our 25th anniversary coming up, Cheryl wanted to get something special to celebrate. Naturally, she thought of jewelry. She got me this huge solitaire, designed to ride above my gold band.

I was amazed that she remembered my size. She also, apparently, remembered the hassle with the diamonds falling out, because this setting is one I don't think I've ever seen. It's solid around the sides, and the top has a lip that rolls over the edge of the diamond. It's never going to fall out, and it's so smooth it won't snag on anything. I cannot quite believe that she got this for me. I'm sure she can't afford it, either, but that's another story.

Now, the set really does go halfway up to my knuckle. It's much larger than anything I would ever have picked out. It's gorgeous, and I love it for aesthetics sake, and also because I know the thought that went into it.

I have new worries, though. Am I more likely to get mugged? Should I leave it at home when I go on vacation? They always say not to take expensive jewelry on vacation. But if I'm leaving it at home, why would I own it?

I'll stop worrying. I'll enjoy it. Happy anniversary to us.

Compatibility, or Lack Thereof

On paper, my husband and I are not a good match. Oh, sure, our astrological signs, at least as far as the Chinese are concerned, are compatible, but most indicators say otherwise. We'd been married for only a few months when I took one of those magazine quizzes designed to tell you compatibility based on background comparison. It rated our compatibility as low and our chances of staying together as "grim." Honestly! We got a good chuckle out of that.

There are many ways to classify people. For instance, some people's sensory awareness is high, some people's is low, and most people fall in the middle. Of course, mine is high and his is low. I swear, I have the hearing of a dog - many supposedly ordinary sounds are absolutely painful. Sirens are misery. Loud, shrill or sudden sounds don't just startle me, they honestly hurt. I can't drive next to a motorcycle without plugging my ears. Things my husband can't smell drive me to distraction. My beloved, on the other hand, is just this side of oblivious. Tapping his arm to get his attention has to escalate to an almost bruising level before he finally notices and gives you a distracted, "Hmm?" I find large crowds, loud music and flashing lights to be absolutely exhausting; he finds them to be exhilarating and energizing. Just as I'm ready to collapse in a heap of fatigue, he's just getting revved up. The longer an unpleasant sound - say, an alarm - goes on, the more it shreds my nerves, while the more time it sounds, the more my husband relegates it to background, white noise and finally fails to even register it.

"Shut that thing up!" I'll yell, and he'll look at me, puzzled - "What thing?"

The problem with this is that he tends to think I'm overreacting to any given scenario, while I find him to have all the sensitivity of a rock. This also bodes badly for long term cohabitation.

He likes his beef practically still mooing; I like mine almost turned to leather. He would happily have bread or rolls with every meal; I tend to forget that bread exists unless I'm making a sandwich. He likes to sleep in a cold room; I prefer mine almost hot. He loves having a fan blowing on him; I hate the sensation of wind on my skin. I can't even sleep with my head on my arms, because my breathing blows the hair on my arms and makes me miserable.

Have you ever taken the "What Color Are You?" test, and read about your personality? Dan is a yellow who very much wants to be a red. I used to test at 60% blue, 40 % white, but as I get older I test more as 60% white, 40 % blue. I think I have 1 red and 1 yellow answer on my entire test.

Watching us make a joint decision is either comical or infuriating. The only reason I entertain any idea is to make and act on a decision. I want the time weighing options to be brief, and feel that it exists only as a stepping stone to taking action. Not Dan; for him, the entire point is weighing options. He can happily weigh options for literally years. Making an actual decision causes him stress, and acting on it causes even more stress, because, as he sees it, you've now "eliminated all your options." He cannot imagine why I spend all my time actively trying to eliminate options. I cannot imagine why he is willing to spend enormous amounts of time and energy thinking about anything unless he intends to do something about it.

The more important, and the more permanent, a decision is, the more it ties him in knots. He will happily spend x number of dollars on a restaurant meal, but balk at spending the exact same amount on clothing because if he buys something physical, he'll be "stuck with it," whereas if he has a lousy meal, well, he can rectify that in a matter of hours.

He is afraid that any decision he makes might be the wrong one. I find this to be fear of commitment of the most profound sort. I think that very few questions even have a wrong answer - who cares if you get the brown one or the green one, as long as you get one? If you're going on vacation, you absolutely must pick a destination, or you're going nowhere. Most of life is not "Sophie's Choice."

Whenever we've bought a house, I have been unable to imagine signing the papers unless I can imagine being 90 years old in the house. The very first time we bought a place, I had a one year old and one on the way, and I checked out what high school they'd be going to and where the bus stop was. We were still packing up the apartment when Dan started saying, "When we sell this house..." It exhausted me to even think about. "We don't even live there yet! How can you think about selling it?" He was baffled. "Do you want to be stuck there forever? Don't you want something nicer?"

Occasionally, someone will ask me how Dan ever got married or had children. Some of them aren't quite sure whether or not to believe my answer, which is that he was able to because he didn't think it would be permanent. Between the belief he grew up with that monogamy is unnatural to his belief that no one was ever actually going to like him enough to live with him long term, he figured it was pretty much a done deal that one day he'd come home to an empty house. That was OK by him - he took an "it'll be fun while it lasts" approach.

I, on the other hand, was crystal clear on the fact that marrying this man meant that some day I might be changing his adult diapers. I certainly didn't plan on having children with a weekend dad.

After a few years, adding kids and mortgages to the mix, it dawned on him that we were always there when he came home. Don't get me wrong, there are absolute deal breakers that would have me out so fast that I didn't even stop to pack, and he knows what they are, but in their absence I'm in it for the long haul. He had never bothered to make a long term decision, assuming that he wouldn't have to. Now, and from his point of view, very suddenly, he had to make a permanent, lasting, no do-overs decision. Was this the life he wanted, or wasn't it?

It freaked him out. He lost his mind a little. (Especially since he'd always thought, for reasons unclear even to him, that he'd be dead long before he reached middle age.)

After deciding that he really did want this life and this family, he was almost giddy. I have to admit, my reaction was more that he was coming late to the party. Nice of you to finally show up, hon, we've all been waiting for you.

I asked him, years later, what in the world he'd been thinking. "Nobody stayed married," he said, pointing out that he'd come of age in the late 70s. I have to admit, society's track record in this regard is not sterling, and the 70s didn't do much to help.

Fast forward: our next wedding anniversary will be our 25th. It's not actually that much different than the 24th or 26th or any other number, really, but I still think it's a big deal. In a few weeks, we will climb on a cruise ship with all of our children and our son in law, who'll be celebrating his first wedding anniversary with our daughter. We'll go to the Bahamas, snorkel, eat too much and get sunburned. It will be well deserved.

Happy anniversary, Dan, and many more to come.

(Yeah, we enjoyed that cruise.)