I reminded my husband that it was our anniversary.

“What made you think of it?”

Slightly incredulous:  ‘The date.”

Two days before the fourth.   Okay, now we all remember.

I get roses on Valentine’s Day, nothing on our anniversary.

I bought us an anniversary gift of a new novel, Andre Aciman’s Harvard Square, in case we run out of things to read.

Often we go to a restaurant to celebrate, and often it’s Red Lobster, but last night we ate a delicious salad with poached chicken, veggies, apples, and feta cheese in front of The Mary Tyler Moore Show.  (I was the chef and sous chef.)

We got married at the County Courthouse on a hot July morning.  I finished a freelance story an hour before the ceremony, not having the sense to tell the editor it was my wedding day.  Then I hopped into a skirt, a summer top, and sandals, and we rushed downtown, stopping at a copy place to fax my story before heading to the courthouse.

At least twenty couples crowded into the courtroom and sat on wooden seats like church pews.  Most were moderately dressed up, the women in dresses, the men in suits or button-down shirts and khakis; only one woman wore a wedding gown.  Judge Ralph J. Perk, Jr., the son of the Mayor whose hair caught on fire in 1972 , officiated over the group wedding.  (“That’s Ralph Perk, Jr.” we all whispered. “The son of…”) Did anyone know him for who he was himself?

There was something sweet about the wedding.  You concentrated on the words; there was not a formal party.  Everybody was happy; it’s not usually like that in court. We were one another’s well-wishers. So many people getting married!

Did  Judge Perk read out our names as he pronounced us man and wife?  Not that I remember.  There were too many of us.  But maybe.  My husband thinks he did, but he doesn’t remember, either.

Now, by the authority vested in me by the State, etc., I pronounce you to be husband and wife and extend to you my best wishes for a successful and happy married life together.

So charming! Just the words.

Some would be happy; some would have regrets and be back in court for a divorce, but for the moment everybody was thrilled.

Photo Booth, Ocean City, Maryland

The judge announced at the end that he only had time to be photographed with one couple per “session.”  He picked the cutest, youngest couple in the room, and his “assistant”  (bailiff?  what was he?) snapped the picture and gave them the Polaroid. Not that I had a camera, but I remember feeling annoyed, because, well, weren’t we the cutest couple?  Okay, so what, we were in our late thirties, maybe our faces were pointy now, maybe we would never be VERY young again, but it didn’t seem right that we weren’t photographed with the judge.

We didn’t have our camera with us, so we have no wedding picture.

A few months later we took the pic above in a photo booth on the boardwalk in Ocean City, Maryland.  It’s kind of dark, and was my face really that pointy? But at least we’re smiling and kissing!