Thirty years ago today, at precisely eleven o’clock, I stood next to my father at the back of a small country chapel. We walked the few short steps to the end of the aisle, where a smiling young man took my hand and changed my life forever.

The young man and I were little more than starry-eyed kids when we promised before God, the minister, and a church full of witnesses to love, honor, and cherish, no matter what, until death do us part.  On that partly-sunny Saturday morning, visions of happily-ever-after danced in our heads.  We had known each other for four years, and dated for three.  We had never had as much as a disagreement, let alone an argument.  We went together like two peas in a pod. 

Our wedding day

Thirty years later, we’re still in the pod.  (He’s the American Wonder; I think I’m the Homesteader.  We’ll never know for sure; one of the first lessons we learned as newlyweds is that neither of us is a gardener.)  

Most marriages start with a proposal.  Ours started with a budget planner.  While hubby’s parents were out shopping one Saturday morning, we sat at their kitchen table and worked our way through a booklet that covered every possible household expense from tomatoes to toilet paper.  We added our net salaries for a month and wrote the total on the first line of the planner, agreeing that if any money was left on the dotted line at the end of the booklet we would get married.  Neither of us had ever bought groceries, other than the occasional stop on the way home for a gallon of milk or a loaf of bread.  We estimated the cost of everything from laundry detergent to lima beans and used our solar calculators to crunch the numbers.  The grand total on the last line:  Twenty-five cents.  We were married less than six months later.

We bought our first life insurance policy shortly after we married.  The agent suggested that hubby be the primarily policy holder, since he is slightly younger than I.  When the agent asked whether either of us planned to pilot an airplane or scuba dive, we decided that perhaps I should be the primary policy holder.  Not too many years later, hubby contemplated whether to pursue a pilot’s license or certification as a scuba diver.  He chose diving because diving is less expensive than flying.

Twenty-one years and a business later, I suspect one is no less expensive than the other. 

With more years behind than ahead of us, the only stars we see now are in the constellations.  We have shared joy and pain, delight and disappointment, success and failure.  Together we have said goodbye to loved ones and welcomed members of the next generation.  We have owned twelve vehicles, visited seven foreign countries, and lived in four homes.  We have witnessed the advent of the cellular telephone, the disposable camera, and the Internet.  A rotary telephone and a 35-millimeter camera sit among a growing accumulation of relics we no longer use but can’t bring ourselves to sell or throw out.  

We have not lived a fairy tale existence.  The knight’s armor is made of neoprene; the fair maiden prefers jeans and boots to ball gowns and slippers.  We have spent our thirtieth anniversary quietly at home, each of us preferring our comfortable chairs over the prospect of changing into something less comfortable to go out to dinner.  We have had our share of trials and tribulations over the years, perhaps more than our fair share.  Neither of us is perfect, nor will we ever be.  But we’ve grown, and grown up, together.  We’ve learned to stand on our faith in God and our love for each other.  We’re still committed to our promise… to love, honor, and cherish, no matter what, until death do us part.

Just don’t look for me underwater anytime soon.

Copyright 2015 Sherry Hathaway All rights reserved.
By lifeatroomtemperature