We bopped into the county courthouse like a couple of wide-eyed teenage lovers eager to elope.
“Where’s the clerk’s office for marriage licenses?” I asked a security guard.
On the second floor, a clerk greeted us with all the enthusiasm of a wooden gavel. She asked my fiancé and me the same questions she has asked thousands of other couples.
“Are either of you under the influence of drugs or alcohol?”
Just under the influence of love, I thought. She’s heard all the cute comebacks through the years so I simply said, “Nope.”
“Are you more closely related than second cousins?”
What? Huh? Is this a question only for Hoosiers? Actually, there is an exception if we were first cousins and both at least 65. Who knew?
“Have either of you been judged to be of unsound mind?”
Only if you asked our ex-spouses, I thought. “No, ma’am,” I replied.
“Are either of you a lifetime sex or violent offender?”
Lifetime? What does that even mean? Yikes, no.
After passing this unexpected pop quiz, the clerk congratulated us and gave me a pamphlet on sexually transmitted diseases. I’m not sure why she steered it across the counter toward me, not to my bride-to-be, Karen, but I smiled and took it anyway.
“There’s a problem,” the clerk said in a monotone voice.
“Uh-oh. Did I already fail the STD test?” I replied.
No, she said. My credit card expired for the $25 license fee. How stupid of me. I gave her another credit card and, thankfully, it went through.
The clerk printed the marriage license application for us to review. It asked how many previous marriages we’ve both had.
“I’ve had two. She’s had one,” I replied. “But not to each other.”
The clerk didn’t crack a smile.
“Congratulations, you’re husband and wife,” she told us with all the excitement of a divorce proceeding.
We giggled like mischievous teenagers pregnant with their first child, although we have four children together, ages 20, 23, 37, and 38. Karen’s daughter, Sarah, would be the ceremony’s officiant, taking a temporary leave from the U.S. Air Force to wed us. Karen’s son, Bobby, would return home from college to walk his mom down the aisle.
The clerk handed us our stamped license, with instructions how to fill it out and file it after we publicly say “I do” to each other. In less than 15 minutes we were married under the eyes of, well, the state of Indiana. I kissed the bride-to-be. She kissed me. Not a soul was in attendance to watch us, bless us or condemn us. It was perfect.
Karen and I have been together 12 years, engaged for 10. We’ve never been in a hurry to formally wed despite countless people hinting or urging us to “make it legal.”
On Saturday, we finally did, at the Aquatorium in the Miller section of Gary, where I once played as a kid and where my mother often visited as a girl playing at the Marquette Park beach. The historic building opened 100 years ago as the Gary Bathing Beach House, paid for by U.S. Steel, the founder of the city.
“This is absolutely amazing,” Karen told me when I first took her there on an early date.
Our first date took place at a “Blast from the Past” event in April, 2010, where “The Chris and Lou Band” performed oldies but goodies hits. Chris Sulcer and Lou Samaniego played at our first date. We wanted them to play at our most important date.
For every married couple, a wedding is a storytelling opportunity where their past and future is celebrated in the present, on a momentous day that should illustrate their love, devotion, quirks, and spirit. Our simple wedding will be adorned with homemade touches, not commercial mainstays for such affairs.
It will reflect a small welcome sign in our home: “BE OUR GUEST… But don’t expect much.” As we warned our guests on their invitation, “Think of it as an unconventional little party that also happens to host a wedding ceremony.”
Karen’s coworkers were kind enough to surprise her with an informal bridal shower, featuring a theme of “Real Housewives of Valparaiso.” Some traditions are wedded to our culture and serve a purpose beyond a mere party. As much as we tend to downplay their significance, these generational rituals still matter. And so do sentimental touches.
On the 10-year wedding anniversary of Karen’s parents, her father Albert gave her mother Vivienne a diamond broach as an heirloom gift. It sat in a safe deposit box for many years until Karen unearthed it with a gem of an idea. She asked a talented jeweler to transform the old broach into a new ring, allowing the love of Karen’s late parents to live on.
Karen was overcome with emotion and gratitude when she first saw it. (Watch a video on my Facebook page, www.facebook.com/JerDavich.)
Inside the Aquatorium, a large banner asked, “So… how did you get here?”
These were the first words I said to Karen during a group bicycle ride across the region. She was a reader of my work and wrongly presumed I was asking a lofty philosophical query about how she got to that point in her life. I simply wanted to know how she got to the bike trail. “Oh, I drove,” she replied sheepishly.
We’ve been talking ever since about everything imaginable, including our long-awaited wedding day. It always seemed like a fictional event that would never take place, which was fine with us. A marriage doesn’t provide any guarantees. It provides only an opportunity of a guarantee.
A week before our wedding, an elderly neighbor walked across our street to congratulate us. She and her husband have been married for 56 years.
“I wouldn’t wish marriage on anyone, but you two will be fine,” she said.
I told her that they are the ones who should be congratulated. Getting married happily is easy to do. Staying happily married is the real trick.
