When I was in elementary school, kids got married on the playground during recess. These weren’t lasting marriages since the same kids might marry someone else the next day, but it was a fun game they played. “They” played since nobody proposed to me and I was forever the bridesmaid and never the bride. I’ll admit it, I felt left out and unloved, but I kept attending the weddings. Even then I noticed blondes got more husbands. Sigh.
When I was in high school, I expressed my lingering feelings of rejection to my pals before school one day. “I’ll marry you!” Mike said. So we had a wedding ceremony where Tom was best man and Mary Jane was bridesmaid and Leanne officiated. Or something like that. We didn’t have rings, so Mike gave me a cigarette lighter as a symbol of our lasting love. He was a very good husband and sent me anniversary cards. This was especially funny when I was in college and living with a different guy who didn’t understand why Mike’s anniversary card was prominently displayed on the mantle. I have to admit my first husband was my best, and handsome too.
(Here I am deleting some ranting about the husband I legally married and divorced…)
When Grandma was alive, there was one version of history – Grandma’s. It was an accurate history, but somewhat selective. I’d play with antique games and puzzles on the floor of the porch, sunlight streaming in through the fan-shaped windows, and listen to a running genealogical history of people I knew and didn’t know, but to whom I was somehow related to in clearly defined strands of matriarchal DNA. I loved listening to her rambling patter. Grandpa was a pleasant presence in his red Naugahyde wingback chair, sometimes assisting with puzzles or reading, but certainly not talking. Grandma did enough of that for both of them.
When Grandma died, I suddenly grasped that Grandpa actually had lots to say – and his versions of things weren’t as pristine as Grandma’s. I knew she had divorced her first husband, but in my mind Grandma and Grandpa’s courtship and wedding must’ve been a virginal union of higher beings in a period of time when well-bred people behaved in a proper manner at all times -- but Grandpa had a roguish glint in his eye when he talked about taking Grandma on a trip to Niagara Falls before they were married. I was afraid to ask what the sleeping arrangements were. They’d been dating a while when he announced he was going on his annual trip to Tennessee to visit family. Grandma said “I’m going with you”, and Grandpa said “No way! I’m not taking an unmarried divorcee to stay with my parents!” She said “Fine, we’ll get married on the way.” Grandpa didn’t stand a chance. They drove to Grandma’s mother’s house, woke up the minister, and got hitched before lunch and continued their very long drive to Tennessee.
It seemed like a good marriage to me. She fed him good things and made him fat, and he was a good provider even through the Great Depression. They were married in 1930 and stayed married until her death in 1985. Second time’s the charm, right Grandma? I don’t think I want to know if their marriage was less than perfect, but maybe if I understood more of their lives, I would understand more of what I should do with mine? We don’t really learn anything from the honeymoon. We learn from the marriage.
I didn’t get a honeymoon with Mike. We just eloped like Grandma and Grandpa. I got flowers and felt loved, but we lost touch after a while, which I admit was my fault. I couldn’t bear saying goodbye when our lives took different directions. I hope if he’s married, he found a woman who deserves him.
