If the size of the wedding was directly proportional to the success of the marriage, we´d all have huge, budget-busting affairs and the U.S. divorce rate would plummet like Britney Spears´ career. Since roughly one out of two marriages ends up in the dumper, it´s clear that size doesn´t matter—at least when it comes to the actual wedding. Here´s a story to prove my point, and it´s my own.
My future husband and I met on the job. I was a news photographer at a local TV station in Atlanta, and he joined our staff in late spring. I was my usual gregarious self, and I offered to help him settle in, get his driver´s license, show him around the city, suggested places for him to find things he needed. In other words, I was nice to him, and that apparently touched him. We worked together from time to time for seven months, talking, getting to know each other, becoming friends, but he never asked me out until Thanksgiving. His family lived out of state, and he wasn´t able to go home for the holiday, so he asked me to spend it with him, and I did. By the end of the four-day holiday, we knew we were in love. I got an engagement ring on Christmas Eve, and we made plans to marry.
Our Wedding Plans
When you work at a TV station, getting time off, especially weekends, is often tricky. That, coupled with the facts that we were both not into the big wedding scene and my parents didn´t have the big bucks a wedding like that requires, led to our decision to simply elope, though our families knew we were going to get married. The next Valentine´s Day fell on a Tuesday, and we made an appointment with a judge in Savannah, GA (one of my favorite cities on earth) to marry at 12 noon that day.
A few weeks before our wedding date, I spoke with a dear friend of mine, a native Savannian, told her of our plans, and mentioned the name of the judge who would be performing the ceremony. "Oh, yeah," she said. "I know him. He´s blind." Blind?
We left for Savannah the day before Valentine´s Day. This charming city on Georgia´s coast is uniquely romantic. A city rich in history, filled with beautifully landscaped squares, live oak trees with Spanish moss, stately fountains, surrounded by elegant homes from the 18th and 19th centuries, and only a short drive to the beach along the Atlantic Ocean. We stayed at the Hyatt on River Street, a cobblestone roadway along the Savannah River lined with shops, boutiques and restaurants. Our afternoon and evening were spent enjoying the city and one another.
The Wedding
The next day, we dressed for our wedding. I wore blue jeans, a black-silk blouse and black kneeboots. My groom wore jeans, too. We got to the courthouse a little early and waited just outside the judge´s chambers with two women, one of whom had been severely beaten by her husband. Swollen eye. Bruised everywhere. It wasn´t pretty. The woman with her was the husband´s first wife. They were there to get a restraining order. We spent the next 30 minutes hearing how miserable, mean and nasty husbands are.
When the judge came back to his chambers after his court session, one of his secretaries came into the hall and called us in for our "wedding." When the two women heard we were getting married, their demeanor changed. As we entered the office, one of them said, "Oh, y´all are getting married. Well, contratulations!" As the door closed behind us, the other woman yelled, "Don´t let him beat ya up!"
We had our marriage license with us, which the secretaries signed as witnesses. A secretary then ushered us into the judge´s chambers, introduced us to the judge and left. The ceremony began. There we stood, in front of a blind judge who had the civil ceremony well memorized. He pronounced us husband and wife. We kissed, thanked him and headed for a giddy walk on the beach.
No one saw us get married. Weddings don´t get any smaller than that. Size doesn´t matter. Love, on the other hand, does. Next Valentine´s Day, we´ll celebrate our silver wedding aniversary.
My future husband and I met on the job. I was a news photographer at a local TV station in Atlanta, and he joined our staff in late spring. I was my usual gregarious self, and I offered to help him settle in, get his driver´s license, show him around the city, suggested places for him to find things he needed. In other words, I was nice to him, and that apparently touched him. We worked together from time to time for seven months, talking, getting to know each other, becoming friends, but he never asked me out until Thanksgiving. His family lived out of state, and he wasn´t able to go home for the holiday, so he asked me to spend it with him, and I did. By the end of the four-day holiday, we knew we were in love. I got an engagement ring on Christmas Eve, and we made plans to marry.
Our Wedding Plans
When you work at a TV station, getting time off, especially weekends, is often tricky. That, coupled with the facts that we were both not into the big wedding scene and my parents didn´t have the big bucks a wedding like that requires, led to our decision to simply elope, though our families knew we were going to get married. The next Valentine´s Day fell on a Tuesday, and we made an appointment with a judge in Savannah, GA (one of my favorite cities on earth) to marry at 12 noon that day.
A few weeks before our wedding date, I spoke with a dear friend of mine, a native Savannian, told her of our plans, and mentioned the name of the judge who would be performing the ceremony. "Oh, yeah," she said. "I know him. He´s blind." Blind?
We left for Savannah the day before Valentine´s Day. This charming city on Georgia´s coast is uniquely romantic. A city rich in history, filled with beautifully landscaped squares, live oak trees with Spanish moss, stately fountains, surrounded by elegant homes from the 18th and 19th centuries, and only a short drive to the beach along the Atlantic Ocean. We stayed at the Hyatt on River Street, a cobblestone roadway along the Savannah River lined with shops, boutiques and restaurants. Our afternoon and evening were spent enjoying the city and one another.
The Wedding
The next day, we dressed for our wedding. I wore blue jeans, a black-silk blouse and black kneeboots. My groom wore jeans, too. We got to the courthouse a little early and waited just outside the judge´s chambers with two women, one of whom had been severely beaten by her husband. Swollen eye. Bruised everywhere. It wasn´t pretty. The woman with her was the husband´s first wife. They were there to get a restraining order. We spent the next 30 minutes hearing how miserable, mean and nasty husbands are.
When the judge came back to his chambers after his court session, one of his secretaries came into the hall and called us in for our "wedding." When the two women heard we were getting married, their demeanor changed. As we entered the office, one of them said, "Oh, y´all are getting married. Well, contratulations!" As the door closed behind us, the other woman yelled, "Don´t let him beat ya up!"
We had our marriage license with us, which the secretaries signed as witnesses. A secretary then ushered us into the judge´s chambers, introduced us to the judge and left. The ceremony began. There we stood, in front of a blind judge who had the civil ceremony well memorized. He pronounced us husband and wife. We kissed, thanked him and headed for a giddy walk on the beach.
No one saw us get married. Weddings don´t get any smaller than that. Size doesn´t matter. Love, on the other hand, does. Next Valentine´s Day, we´ll celebrate our silver wedding aniversary.
