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Nothing about our wedding was traditional. In fact, when you get right down to it, using the word “wedding” is quite a stretch. Our anniversary celebrations are no more conventional, and John and I planned to mark our twenty-sixth just as we had our twenty-fifth: steal the afternoon from work and spend it at the Yale Art Museum. This time, though, the weather had our attention. It was a fabulous, warm, blue-sky, October day, and in New England, such a late-season day is not to be entered into lightly or unadvisedly, but discreetly and soberly. It most surely is not for squandering; so we did steal the afternoon from work, but we set out for a walk on the beach instead.
No one else, unless you count the flocks of kittiwakes and laughing gulls, was on the sand. A handful of sun-drunk souls sat on the boardwalk benches, big, goofy smiles on their faces, chins pointed up to the sky. We strolled along together, turning over rocks to find hermit crabs and other creatures, scattering drowsy birds ahead of us as we walked. We reminisced about the aquarium we kept in our first house, filled with creatures and plants we collected from the beach just beyond our back door. We talked about the kids, and work, and politics. It was a lot like the day we got married.
Our shared sense of the absurd had made our choice inevitable—Friday the Thirteenth would be the “day” in our “from this day forward.” Neither of us likes weddings or is much of a romantic—in fact, I consider myself a wedding curmudgeon—so no fanfare for us. We made a 1:30 appointment with the Justice of the Peace, and that morning, too, we walked on the beach. I can’t remember what we talked about. Probably our saltwater aquarium, and work, and politics; no kids yet. When we returned home to get dressed, I made one of our few concessions to tradition: I would have something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue. The old was the handkerchief my mother had with her when she married my father. The new was a Japanese print blouse that went well with my (not old but not new) black pants. I took care of the borrowed and blue by nabbing a pair of John’s socks from his dresser.
At the Port Jefferson Town Hall, the judge was warm and welcoming. He made small talk about this and that, parking tickets and jury duty. Then he gave a genteel cough and said, “Will your witnesses be here soon?” Witnesses? We hadn’t thought of that. The judge pushed a button on his desk and an elderly woman in a simple dark dress, unusually soignée for small-town office wear, came into the judge's chambers. She had shown us in earlier, but now had transformed into a cheerful and friendly professional witness. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m good at this.” Worry? We hadn’t thought of that.
The ceremony was brief, especially after we suggested the judge leave out the wildly beside-the-point reading from Hiawatha. We signed some papers, shook some hands, and troths duly plighted, decided to toast our future with a single chocolate ice cream soda and two straws. One more stop was necessary before we hit the parkway to the city to meet my parents and sister for dinner. We were just getting our software business off the ground and needed a new computer memory board. Computer stores then were not what they are now; they tended to be little holes in the wall and none were open on the weekends. We couldn’t wait for Monday, since for better or worse, this would be a working weekend. So, we spent half an hour poking around among the haphazard stacks of merchandise until we found what we needed on one of the brown-carpeted shelves.
We were laughing about that wedding day at the archaic computer store twenty-six years earlier as we left the beach and walked onto the boardwalk. Sitting on one of the benches, we looked down and saw that the long planks of this boardwalk were plastic—faux-weathered, textured, eye-fooling plastic. As we glanced around, the sunlight picked out a glint from a tiny blue bead, and I walked over to it. John joined me, and looking closer we saw first another, then a few more, then a scattering of dozens, like grains of rice. For no reason at all, we began to pick them up. Like two crows lured by the thrill of a shiny treasure, we collected all the beads we saw and dropped them into my jacket pocket. They are still there, and sometimes I jingle them or run my fingers through them when I am grocery shopping or looking for a book in the library. They must have been joined together as a bracelet or necklace before someone put them asunder. Now they are gathered together in my pocket, a strange sort of beachcombing souvenir. No three-diamond ring for me. I much prefer this clutch of tiny, shiny reminders of seashore sunshine. I’ve never liked to wear jewelry, and although John and I have wedding rings—I gave him my grandmother’s simple platinum band and he gave me a silver and aquamarine ring we designed together—we never wear them. Somehow, the orphaned beads were the perfect anniversary remembrance.
The walk left us hungry, so we drove to a nearby deli to split an egg salad sandwich, a small bottle of cream soda, and a cookie. Going out to dinner might be more traditional; dining atop a white waxy piece of paper in the car was more fun. We came home in a buoyant mood, the skin of our cheeks feeling stretched and dry from the sun and wind. We felt lucky and content—powers vested in us by the state of true compatibility. We’d shared the ideal anniversary celebration. Much like our “wedding,” its appeal would flummox most people, but it was just right for this man and this woman. And it’s nice to know that after all these years of wearing the shoe—and the sock—it still fits.
| Author Bio: LYDIA FAZIO THEYS is an astronomer by training, a technical writer by necessity and a creative writer by night. She lives in Connecticut with her husband and their two children. Two cats, a neurotic Italian Greyhound, and whatever else wanders in through the cat door round out the mix. Lydia's work has appeared or is forthcoming in Yankee Pot Roast, Gator Springs Gazette, Quintessence, Somewhat, Quilted in Gator Springs and FlashFiction.net, and has been read on KRCB public radio's Word by Word program. She is a 2004 Pushcart nominee.
Contact Lydia at: Lft10@columbia.edu
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