Wedding Story-50 years & counting…

George and I were married 50 years ago today. This is an account of that day from my memoir. Intended, a marriage in Black & White.

When I was twelve, I promised myself that the day before I got married, I would go somewhere alone to think about whether or not I wanted to be married to this man forever. If the answer was no, I would call off the wedding. I made that vow the day my cousin got married and his bride left him before the honeymoon. My mother, grandmother, and aunts talked about it for months. “That girl knew she didn’t want to marry him. She made it worse by going through with it.” 

I didn’t understand how hard it would be to keep that promise. The day before our wedding, people call to clarify directions to our selected site in the middle of cornfields, and call to ask if they can bring extra guests, and since there’s rain in the forecast, call to see when we will decide if we are using the alternate rain site. 

My future mother-in-law calls to let us know George’s aunt is not coming to the wedding but is sending her special pound cake to add to our wedding cake. “There’s never enough cake for everyone.” 

She has that right because there is no cake. I didn’t order cake because it wasn’t in our budget. The reception is a bring-your-own picnic dinner. I make a run to the grocery store for cake mix.

The whole day slips away without time to be alone. 

I lie in bed that night and ask myself questions: 

Do I want to be with George forever?  

Do I love him? Or was I just being stubborn when my parents said no?

Am I strong enough to be married to a Black man?

I thought I’d answer “Yes!” without doubts—but I’m the daughter of a scientist. I question everything.

***

I must have fallen asleep because I wake up to a cloudy day with an 85% chance of rain. The ceremony is in the late afternoon to give the Chicago relatives time to get here, and they are the first to call to ask which site we will use. They are about to leave and need the decision now. They call me because George didn’t answer his phone.          

I tell my almost-brother-in-law we’ll have it at the park. “Bring umbrellas.”

I drive to George’s apartment and find him packing up boxes and labeling them. He is moving out of the apartment today and leaving his stuff on a friend’s porch because our apartment won’t be ours for another week.

I tell him, “You know we should be early to welcome people.”

George nods and keeps packing.

There is no point in asking why he is doing this today. But I can’t stop myself from saying it. I say it while I open his closet and throw his shoes in a box. 

He puts his hands on my shoulders. “Sharon, I think it would be better if you go back to your place. I’ll be there to pick you up at 1:00.” 

I leave, but not before reminding him that he has just three hours to finish packing, take all these boxes to our friend’s house, unload them, go back to the apartment, shower, and get dressed.

***

It’s 2:00, and George isn’t here yet.

The people I’m staying with are ready to go and ask, “Do you want to come with us?”

“No. If George is late the way he always is, I’ll be a wreck.”

The cakes are done. I am dressed in the Philippine dress my friend found on a sales rack. It cost three dollars. I love the dress, but the daisy crown I ordered looks clownish. The flowers are too big for my head.

I can’t sit down. I pace throughout the house, and since no one is there, I yell, “Where are you? How can you be late for our wedding? Don’t you want to marry me?”

The phone rings, and it’s George calling from a pay phone. “I locked myself out of the apartment and can’t change my clothes.” 

His roommates had just left for the wedding, and George is wearing a t-shirt and cut-offs.  He says, “I’m going to Sears to buy something. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

I want to scream, but remember his roommates are picking up a friend of mine. “Call me back in five minutes.” 

I call my friend as he’s about to walk out the door. I explain the situation. “Tell them to go back and let George in the apartment, and when you get to the wedding, tell everyone we’ll be late.”

I am so glad my parents won’t be at the wedding. They might have taken away their consent: “If you can’t be there on time, you have no business getting married.”

When George finally comes, I can’t look at him. He goes into the house to get my suitcase, and I shove the cakes and my flower bouquet onto the back seat and get in the car.   

He starts the car, and we head out of town in silence. I see him out of the corner of my eye glancing over at me. “I’m sorry, honey,” he says.

I nod, but don’t talk. If I do, I’ll cry and mess up the mascara. 

We are on the highway, over an hour late, and George keeps looking at the dashboard. “What’s the matter?” I ask.

“We’re almost out of gas.”

There is nothing but cornfields for miles. I wonder if anyone will pick up an interracial couple hitchhiking. 

We are almost to the exit for the park. I ask, “Isn’t there a gas station in that little town we go through?” 

He can’t remember, and neither can I. Usually I can picture a place I’ve been to countless times. But when I try, nothing appears. 

If we run out of gas and can’t make it to the wedding where more than one hundred friends and family are waiting for us, maybe God doesn’t want us to be married. After five years of hell, it’s going to end like this.

And then we go up a hill and see the Shell sign in the distance. 

I say, “Guess God wants us married after all.” 

George laughs. I laugh. And everything feels right.

Aside from a kid falling into the pond, the rest of the wedding is perfect. Friends play guitars and sing “The Wedding Song” by Peter, Paul and Mary.  Other friends recite poems and chant prayers. George and I read the essay “On Marriage” from Kahlil Gibran. 

And stand together yet not too near together: 

For the pillars of the temple stand apart, 

And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other’s shadow 

The Baháʼí marriage vow is one simple sentence.

“We will all, verily, abide by the will of God.”

George stumbles over it, and I giggle through it.

We kiss, people clap, and then everyone rushes to the picnic tables to eat before the park closes at sunset. Being over an hour late ruins the planned cookouts. No one seems to care except my mother-in-law, who fusses about the meat that won’t keep on the long drive back to Chicago. 

George and I walk around and talk to our guests. They share their food because I forgot to bring food for myself and my husband.

Someone puts my cakes and the fancy cake from Chicago on a picnic table, but there is no carving knife. That doesn’t stop the children from grabbing handfuls.  

It thunders, and the sky lights up. Everyone packs up and runs to their cars. We stand by George’s orange VW bug and wave goodbye until everyone is gone.

Our wedding bands are in the glove compartment. I wanted to exchange them with just the two of us. I imagined this on nights when I couldn’t sleep: We walk down the path past the Fu Dogs. A ray of light spotlights a patch of moss between the trees. We say the vows we wrote…the ones too beautiful to say aloud for anyone else to hear. We take each other’s hands and place the rings on each other. George hums, and we dance…

We are almost out of the park when I remember the rings.

“STOP!!!” 

George screeches to a halt. “What’s wrong?”

“The rings! We haven’t done the rings.”

The rain is pounding on the car so loud I have to yell.

George suggests we wait and do it tomorrow at the campground. 

“But I saw a trail back there!”

“Sharon, you’re crazy.” Then he backs the car to the spot.

The trail is tiny. It may have been made by rabbits. 

We hack our way into the woods ten yards. We skip the private vows I can’t remember, exchange rings, kiss, hug, and run back to the car. 

On the way to the motel, George hums, and I watch light reflections dance on my wedding band.