Lizzie
04-24-2002, 03:18 AM
There are no pictures of my parents on their wedding day. They got married in Las Vegas, which always sounded like something my impulsive father would have done, but nothing I could imagine my mom agreeing to. Even as a child I thought it had a hint of impropriety, of flightiness or impermanence. That was nothing like my mom. Raised on a farm in Iowa, educated as a nurse, she was stability personified. Still, when her wedding day arrived, back in 1959, she got married in Vegas without any family present. A couple of Dad's friends were there and that was it.
I could never quite understand the impromptu nature of their beginning until the morning after my father died. Mom and I had spent a long night, first easing him from this life, then taking care of the details that accompany a death. The hospital bed was still in the living room, so she and I went out to the patio to have some tea and feel the sunshine on our faces. My mother said, reflectively, "I've never really lived alone. I lived on the farm, then went to nursing school and lived in the dorm. Then I came out here and lived with my room-mates. Then forty years with your dad. The only time I was ever alone was that autumn when Rita up and entered the convent, and then Midge got married. I think I was alone in that apartment for about three weeks before your dad and I got married." And there it was, the key to my insight into that little Vegas wedding. Instead of being alone and far from home, she had accepted my dad's proposal, and made a home for herself right here in California with a man she loved for the rest of her life.
Although I don't know many details of their wedding, I do know that my dad never forgot their anniversary. Even on the last one they shared, two weeks before his death, he had me go out and buy her a dozen red roses. Theirs was a love and marriage like many others, one that endured loss and hardships and survived, that grew stronger and more tender with the passing years.
After my mother passed away, I found in her purse a letter my dad had written to the grandmother who raised him, in anticipation of bringing his bride to meet his family: "I know you will like her, and all I can say is that I am awfully lucky to have someone like her for my wife. I can now say I know what it means and feels like to be really married. I think you will know what I mean when I say that."
I might not have any pictures of their wedding, but that letter--my father's heartfelt words that became my mother's private treasure--paint a portrait of their marriage.
I could never quite understand the impromptu nature of their beginning until the morning after my father died. Mom and I had spent a long night, first easing him from this life, then taking care of the details that accompany a death. The hospital bed was still in the living room, so she and I went out to the patio to have some tea and feel the sunshine on our faces. My mother said, reflectively, "I've never really lived alone. I lived on the farm, then went to nursing school and lived in the dorm. Then I came out here and lived with my room-mates. Then forty years with your dad. The only time I was ever alone was that autumn when Rita up and entered the convent, and then Midge got married. I think I was alone in that apartment for about three weeks before your dad and I got married." And there it was, the key to my insight into that little Vegas wedding. Instead of being alone and far from home, she had accepted my dad's proposal, and made a home for herself right here in California with a man she loved for the rest of her life.
Although I don't know many details of their wedding, I do know that my dad never forgot their anniversary. Even on the last one they shared, two weeks before his death, he had me go out and buy her a dozen red roses. Theirs was a love and marriage like many others, one that endured loss and hardships and survived, that grew stronger and more tender with the passing years.
After my mother passed away, I found in her purse a letter my dad had written to the grandmother who raised him, in anticipation of bringing his bride to meet his family: "I know you will like her, and all I can say is that I am awfully lucky to have someone like her for my wife. I can now say I know what it means and feels like to be really married. I think you will know what I mean when I say that."
I might not have any pictures of their wedding, but that letter--my father's heartfelt words that became my mother's private treasure--paint a portrait of their marriage.