48 Years is a Long Time

48 Years is a Long Time

Blind dates can be risky propositions. No matter if the man’s handsome, or the woman’s beautiful, it’s the sprockets spinning inside the other person’s noggin that matters. Neither idle chatter nor dark ruminations make for a satisfying date. But if the other individual is witty with insightful prognostications, then you’ve got a ‘keeper’. I met that person, the one who I couldn’t live without, in the month of October. The year was 1972 and I was a man on the go, jetting from the corporate headquarters in Omaha, Nebraska, to the company’s far flung satellite offices. On that particular fall month, I was cooling my heels in Columbia, Missouri.

It was one evening over drinks in the lounge at the Ramada Inn Hotel that a young male associate, said, “Sorry to hear about your divorce. Hey, why don’t I fix you up with a blind date?”

I laughed, drained my martini, then shook my head. “Naw, don’t think so. That kind of thing never works out.”

“Com-on,” he drawled, “don’t be a party pooper.” My nonreply brought an offer. “Do you want a pretty brunette with a treasured chest, or a gorgeous blonde who’s got an ass that shakes like Gina Lolla-build-a-bridge?”

Since he put to me that way, I finally relented and decided on the blonde behind door number two. Four months later, on February 16, 1973 to be exact, Beverly and I tied the knot, one that lasted 48 years. In all that time, even after 3 kids, we never had an official family photo album. Any pictures lucky enough to have survived were filed in an ever-growing stack. Occasionally, the people populating the photographs would be snipped-out and pasted on a piece of cardboard to make a colorful family decoupage.

Most of our family’s photographs, along with important papers, had been packed in hat boxes. It was while looking for my birth certificate, that I was rooting through one of the round boxes. Inside, I found a sheaf of handwritten letters, two birth certificates, neither was mine, and one marriage license which was mine. Shuffling through the assortment of photographs, I picked up a small one. On closer examination, one corner had been folded over and the colors had faded. The photograph had been taken on the day of our wedding. In the photo a young blonde wore a smart blue dress with a matching jacket. She stood next to a rather handsome, goofy looking fellow who was decked out in a Johnny Carson virgin polyester suit. George and Carolyn, groomsman and bridesmaid, posed next to the newlyweds. There’s nothing unduly remarkable about any of those in the photo, except for the dazed look on the newlywed’s faces, either they were madly in love, or possibly suffering from a monstrous hangover from the night before.

****

On the evening before our wedding, Beverly, along with her sister Carolyn and husband, George, decided to celebrate the impending nuptials at the Red Dot Club. I was new to town but had heard the North Kansas City juke-joint was known for barroom brawls, underage drinking and kickass rock bands. To me, the Red Dot seemed like the perfect place for my future wife and I to kick-off our new life together.

It was well after midnight. The band was louder than B.T.O. on meth. The 4 party-goers were shaking their booties on the sawdust covered dancefloor. High on alcohol, weed and life, nothing was going to change our world, but then, from out of nowhere, the fickle finger of fate jabbed Carolyn.

Some oaf accidentally bumped into my future sister-in-law. George, a short man who had a shorter fuse, was quick to take offense. In a heartbeat, punches were thrown in all directions, turning into a barroom blitz. During the melee the same oaf who bumped Carolyn took a swing at George. When the shorter guy ducked, the outlandish roundhouse swished over the top of George’s head. A millisecond later the fist landed. There came a distinct ‘pop’. 

I had no idea who had been the recipient of a knuckle sandwich. At that moment 5 burly bouncers waded into the crowd. George and I were picked up by the seat of our pants, hauled out of the Red Dot to be unceremoniously dumped in the parking-lot. Once the four of us were reunited we spent the rest of the night sitting on hard chairs in an interrogation room inside the North Kansas City Police Station, Precinct #9.

****

The sun was just peeking over the horizon. It was the day Beverly and I were to be married, or not? The wedding was to be held at 10 a.m. sharp. Our solemn oaths, promising to protect and care for one another were to be officially administered by the almost Rev. Humdrum at the North Kansas City Methodist Church. Neither Beverly nor I belonged to any religious organization. The Methodist Church was chosen in respect for Beverly’s Uncle Herm Prussener, a nineteenth century Methodist ‘riding’ preacher.

“No delays,” Rev. Humdrum had cautioned

Then, at exactly 8 a.m., still sequestered in Precinct #9, we found that no charges were to be filed, either from the opposing parties nor the Red Dot Club. Without sufficient evidence the cops dropped ‘disturbance of the peace’.

The wedding ceremony at the Methodist Church started promptly at 10 a.m. After I kissed the bride and the rice was thrown, my new wife and I stopped outside to have our photo taken. Carolyn is standing next to Beverly. The bridesmaid is wearing a wide smile, but it’s obvious from her missing front tooth who took the oaf’s punch.

There was a smile on my face as I folded the photo’s corner back into its original position then carefully placed it back in the hat box. Our memory has a habit of editing the past to give us a rosy picture of what has come before, when in all actuality those long-ago times weren’t as great as we remembered. Nostalgia can be used as a drug, taking us out of the uncertain present, back to a time when everyone knew their place and the status quo ruled. Like any drug, nostalgia is best used in moderation. Some folks can get so hooked on an imagined past they forget to live in the present.