Thirty-Seven years ago today, just about now, Bob and I were saying "I do" to each other, in a friend's livingroom.
My mother and brother traveled from Canada to be there. My mother brought me the wedding gown in which she'd married my father. It fit, and I wore it.
Friends came to the wedding; friends made the wedding possible, with livingroom, a sheet cake bought by a friend, a small buffet made by the same wonderful woman who'd lent us her home, and hammer dulcimer music by one of Bob's fellow musicians. A friend married us, and we didn't mention to Mum that he'd been ordained in the back of his cab as a tip.
Later that evening, carolers knocked on the door, and we invited them in to sing. Bob rubbed the pot roast all over his chest. And we were married.
It was the best choice I ever made. Better, worse, sick, healthy, always together, and better together.
I love you, Bob. Thank you for being my husband.
And here: have a ridiculously over-sized picture of us in our long-ago dissolute youth, the same year we traveled to Winnipeg. maruad , do you recall the year?
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