©September 1998
Carol Jane Remsburg
IN FOR THE LONG HAUL
Human
nature makes few of us loners, yet even most of us who are loners find another
loner to share our life with. There is
some spark that erupts to bring two people together. If it’s true and strong, those two bond and eventually cohabitate
with or without the sanctity of religion or society’s rules. People bond, join, and enrich each
other. Often, though, that enrichment
and sharing is done through true platonic friendship, but this isn’t was this
writing is about. It’s about the real,
down and dirty deal of marriage.
You
might room with your best friend for a time just to share expenses. That friendship will be tested in strange
ways, but it’s livable because both parties know that it isn’t forever. You may share the apartment or the house,
but you still don’t sleep with them.
Once that happens—and once a commitment is made things get strange.
This
is a journey of remembrance so you’ll have to bear with me. It’s memory lane time. Through the sometimes rocky road we’ve
traveled, I’m still amazed that the thrill is still there and we are both still
breathing. Come with me in a time warp.
We
met in the usual way, via work. There
was one date, then another, only to be followed by a third which was indeed a
surprise, but a nice one. The first
date was just a movie, though marked on the calendar on March 16th,
1979, the real meeting of the minds was less than two weeks later. It was a brisk, rather frigid late March
night. We had no money to go anywhere,
but we liked to talk, debate, and exchange ideas. I had enough gas in the old bomb I was driving, so we drove to
the beach. It gave us time to talk, and
when we got there we wandered towards the water’s edge.
Actually
it was freezing, but at the last 50 yards or so, I held out my hand to my more
reserved companion and issued a challenge to run with me. To my surprise, he didn’t hesitate. He grabbed my hand and we ran, exhilarated
by the cold, the crashing waves, and the clear night sky. When we stopped, breathless, no words were
spoken. This gentle, shy man, held me
close for the first time and kissed me.
Remember this was our third date.
I had begun to wonder. I had no
need to wonder any longer. The man
whose depths I already knew went very deep gave me the 4th of July
in the barrens of a bone-chilling March night under the stars.
The
courtship progressed in the usual fashion, dull sometimes though spiked with
some fabulous disagreements from time to time.
Then, finally, came the non-proposal that I knew I’d never get from this
“non-marrying” type of fellow—even his mother thought that. That happened in February of 1981. Goodness, by May of 1979, I “knew” he was
the one. It had been a long wait, yet
with a twist. Due to a work conference,
I was out of town and he couldn’t reach me via phone. It worried and upset him.
By the time I arrived home, he had worried himself into such a state, he
proposed. I had only been gone two
days. For me, that interlude of coming
home and into his arms was idyllic. His
normally so stoic self was gone, his true feelings to the fore. There was no bended knee or romantic
soliloquies. It wasn’t necessary. He had run out and bought a small diamond
ring on credit. It wasn’t unique or much
different than the millions of others out there, but it was mine. He slowly opened the box, while we sat at
dining room table of my family’s home and slid it gently onto my finger without
words. His eyes said it all. Of course, being the weepy type, I
cried.
He
picked the date; I picked the place.
We’ve always been very democratic that way. Don pulled out the almanac, for what reason I still don’t
understand; yet I think he wanted to find a “good” date. He did, it was 9-18-81. It’s a very unique date. It’s 9 squared. Okay, so he’s a little strange, aren’t we all? Me, I picked the place, of course, my
hometown, St. Michaels, some 60 miles away.
The reception was to be at my parents' home in Salisbury. Talk about your road-trip fiascoes, it was
tremendous. His family lived on the
western shore, my family here. Everyone
was driving and there was my mom leading the way for the wedding guests who had
no idea where they were going. It was
longer and more debilitating that a huge funeral procession, only with more
grousing.
Of
course it rained. And, of course, my
only pair of panty hose ran, and I had to get Daddy to stop at a convenience
store to buy a pair. I had a total of
five minutes to put on my “best” face at my grandmother’s house before running
off to the church. We got to the
church, Daddy and I, with only Father Etherton there.
It
was only the three of us there as the rains pounded that grand old grey stone
church. I alighted to the balcony which
has the best view of everything. It was
where I played so often as a child, and where, normally the choir gets
attired. Dad left me, and my borrowed
wedding gown (hey money was tight—I fit into my sister’s, Melly’s, cast-off
gown, so who cares). Then I began to
ready myself—only I got stuck. I mean
really stuck. I was half-in and
half-out of the gown and couldn’t move.
So I called for the man I’d called for since birth. “Daddy!”
He’s never, ever let me down.
The
church, which has great acoustics by the way, echoed resoundingly. Daddy thumped up the stairs to my
rescue. Now tell me, how many brides
have their fathers dress them for their wedding? Not many, that I’ll tell you.
However, it was my best gift.
With his perpetual sad eyes, he deftly sorted me out and back into the
dress with gentle care. They certainly
don’t make them like they used to. He
was a gent of the old school.
The
second best gift was to watch Father Etherton light the “stately old”
candelabras that had been hidden away rather than the new ones. This chore he did himself. It was the “old” service that I’d
requested. I tried not to cry as both
my sisters, who’d arrived by then beseeched me not to ruin my makeup—in stereo. It was like a view on the top of the world.
I
stood there in the balcony to watch all the proceedings. All my grandmother’s friends came, for this
was “her” town. My maternal grandfather
made his rather shocking entrance, making my soon-to-be mother-in-law pale to
the gills and then blush profusely. I
only laughed for it was a memory worth cherishing. He was nearing 90, sickly, and had suffered several strokes. His, “What am I doin’ in this Goddamn
Church?” echoed throughout the hall. It
was pure Fritz and the community, at least, knew him well. Even Father Etherton smothered a smile. Oh, what a day—I howled with laughter. I do believe my pending in-laws began to
worry then. Everything had gone wrong,
so I knew all had to go right in the future.
I’d resigned myself to the promise that if I ended up “married” by the
day’s end then all would indeed be wonderful.
Nothing else mattered.
I’d
seen too many weddings dissolve into a mishmash of having to have things
perfect. I’d witnessed shaky, tearful
brides, green grooms, and families at each other's throats. This was my day and I was going to have a
great time. I didn’t care; everything
was going to be funny. That was until I
had to descend the stairs. I may have
been in a borrowed dress, but I had bought all I could afford in shoes, $35 for
a pair of white linen 4” spike pumps.
They were killing me in ways I’d still rather not think about. The congregation that knew me wasn't holding
their breath because I was such a beautiful bride either. I’m not called Calamity Jane for
nothing. There was a 6-2 spread on the
bet that I’d tumble down those stairs before even encroaching on the
aisle. Meanwhile, Dear Dad held me
tightly, for if he hadn’t all those folks wouldn’t have lost their bets. By the time I hit the aisle, the faces in
the pews became a fog. I knew it was
truly real. My focus was on my
groom. I leveled a laser beam on
him. We made eye contact and I think it
suddenly hit him then. If his dad
hadn’t have been his best man, I think he would have buckled right there.
It
was a very long aisle. This church is
no cathedral, but it’s old and makes its weight felt. These vows were not to be taken lightly. This was the church my mother and father
were married in and where she had been the organist in for 14 years long
ago. This was the same church my family
had attended since before it had been rebuilt from the great fire in the
1700’s, and naturally, my grandmother “owned” it. Not monetarily, but just by her sheer presence. I’d cheerfully fulfilled the promise I’d
given my grandmother when I was five years-old that I’d get married in this
church. It couldn’t be anywhere
else. It just couldn’t, for I wouldn’t
feel married.
The
words I remember most of the service were, “ I plight thee my troth.” I did.
I still do. The “in sickness and
in health” part were in there too, but it was all so surreal. I remembered during the ceremony that I
became sort of detached from it all.
Call it a religious experience or that I was simply too numb with
happiness. My coherent mind noted that
I’d never before had such an opportunity to notice how handsomely eloquent that
Father Etherton spoke. Now, I was only
a foot or so away from him. I must have
stared at him like some psychotic Moony.
When it was over, we escaped, back into the rain for the caravan ride
back to my parents’ home for the reception.
Once
there and inside, the rain stopped, the sun came out of hiding and shone with a
glory. The two families that should
have been joyfully united held separate camps.
The in-laws in the living room, the partiers in the den, and some
actually mingled in the backyard and became acquainted. Don briefly mentioned that I might want to
relieve myself of the gown for something less formal, but I wasn’t doing
anything close. I can live it up in
whalebone if I have to. The gown was
part of the scene; I kept it on for a few more hours.
We
did the normal toast, cake cutting, and mingling. Things began to thin out around 8ish. By 9 PM only the diehards were still there. We got kicked out at 10 PM. “No fair,” I said. This was my day and I wasn’t ready to “go home.” We got kicked out anyway. Parents can be such a drag. Besides, I think we were slowing their party
down.
We
arrived home. There wasn’t to be a
honeymoon because we hadn’t the funds or the time available. We had all of a day and a half before he had
to return to work, and two days for me.
I’d gotten everything made “just nice” two days before. Don, who’d been staying there during that
time had wrecked it in search of a lost tie.
Then, I come to find out my other sister, Betsy, had “cornflaked” my
bed. Okay, here it is, 10:30 PM on my
wedding night. My house is a
disaster. What do I do? I clean it.
Don plops down ever so casually to watch a movie that I’ll never
forget—THE CANNONBALL RUN. I spent the
next 1 ½ hours straightening, washing up the kitchen and bathroom, vacuuming,
and cleaning up the cornflake mess in the bedroom. When I finished and hit the showers, I wasn’t in a romantic mood. That did change later, much later. He’s not called Don Juan for nothing.
There
have been marriages before and marriages after our union. Come this Friday, the 18th, we’ll
have been married 17 years. It’s a
landmark that many of today’s couples don’t reach. For us, it was those vows we exchanged and where we did it. To abandon them without just cause would be
spitting in the face of God. Don’t mind
the religious bend, just take your choice, choose your vow, but don’t disavow
it. Bad, very bad karma will get you.
It’s
the sharing of secret hopes and dreams along with the toothpaste, towels, and
bedcovers. It isn’t always easy and it
isn’t always fun. It’s financial
disagreements, child rearing, and socks that don’t find the hamper. However, when you marry your very best
friend who can also make the sun burst for you—and make you laugh, well, that’s
the reason we’ll be married until “death do us part.”
