Today is our wedding anniversary...18 years. Or, as my wife likes to say, the best three years of her life. One of these days I am going to figure out which three she is talking about. We were married on a beautiful, crisp, fall Sunday in Wisconsin. Nothing like the 90+ weather expected today. There are lots of memories from that autumn weekend like my big bachelor party blow-out the night before. My mom, her husband, one of my brothers, who was also my best man, and I played cards (euchre, to be specific) and ate homemade chewies (Special K, peanut butter, chocolate, etc.) It was a wild time. My brother offered to jump out of cake and do the hokey pokey but I said no thanks. As it was, I don't think my head hit the pillow until close to 11:00 p.m.

That Bobby McFerrin song, Don't Worry, Be Happy, was on the radio a lot and it really was the perfect background music. We really didn't have much to worry about...things had fallen into place very easily. Months before, my wife-to-be quickly found a perfect dress and tasteful bridesmaid dresses. She was even happy with the little engagement/wedding ring I'd picked out. Today, I notice that a lot of rings are huge...you could play the Stanley Cup Playoffs on them or, at least, have a grudge match between Tonya Harding and Nancy Kerrington. Thanks to Jessica's parents, my mom and her husband, Pastor Fruehling and everyone else, the rehearsal, the wedding and the reception all went off without a hitch. No America's Funniest Home Videos moments to be seen. I recall as people left the church, everyone from my side of the family was expressing their condolences to Jessica, while all of her aunts and uncles were grabbing me firmly and making sure I understood the consequences of ever being less than wonderful to "their Jessica." Later, at the reception, they did the traditional "stealing of the bride/groom." A bunch of the men-folk took Jessica down the street for a quick visit to a favorite Madison haunt and then brought her back safe and sound. Meanwhile, the women dragged me down to the edge of Lake Mendota, tossed me in a rowboat and gave me a shove. I didn't mind not having oars but I thought stuffing me in a gunny sack was a little extreme.

At the wedding dance, the band was playing performance type of music. Not really the kind you can dance to very well...unless you're Savion Glover or Twyla Tharp. That name, Twyla Tharp, sounds like the noise made when you are sitting in a leather chair, in your bathing suit, on a very hot, sweaty day and, then, get up really fast. Anyway, at a wedding dance, especially in Wisconsin, you need polkas. It's the law. So, my brother, the Air Force sergeant, requested they alter their play-list. They immediately sequed from their Cats medley to The Beer Barrel Polka and all was right with the world.

For some reason, the photographer we hired had brought along her husband to video-tape everything, despite our not really wanting to have that done. We ignored the fact that he helped himself to the buffet and tried to be pleasant when he started sticking a camera in everyone's face. This was in the days before little hand-held digital cameras, so when he came up on you, you fully expected Mike Wallace to jump out of the shadows and ask you how you can live with yourself while running a sweat shop out of the trunk of your 1964 Corvair. He kept turning the lights on in the dance hall to get better shots. Each time he did, someone else would have to go dim them, again. After about the third time, the same brother who had redirected the musical selections, requested that the videographer leave the lights down. The shutterbug protested saying his art would suffer. My brother made clear that better his art suffer than his...well, than himself. At that point, my brother wondered aloud if the fellow's camera would be suitable for some of those exploratory films--A Voyage to Your Gall Bladder, narrated by Sir Laurence Olivier--that we used to see in grade school science class. The lights stayed low.

That was all 18 years ago. It's been a wonderful adventure since. I've always looked to a great authority on relationships to keep things happy. Not Dr. Phil or Oprah or, even, Jerry Springer.
No, I look to Ogden Nash, who said:

To keep your marriage brimming, with love in the loving cup,
Whenever you're wrong, admit it,
Whenever you're right, shut up.

I'm rarely right so that's not a problem and my wife has only been a little off the beam once that I can think of and that happened when she said "I do." I'm eternally grateful for her temporary lapse in judgment.