So how DO you manage a wedding between two people who live thousands of miles away from
each other, who are getting married in an equally distant location?
You don’t want to see our phone bills, that’s all I’ll say.
I flew into Michigan a little over a week before the wedding so that we could have a
few days to get acquainted in person before we vowed our lives to each other.
Yes, there were jokes about mail-order brides.
We drove to Connecticut on the Tuesday before the wedding with me in a near-panic over
the marriage license. You see, Connecticut is one of only about 3 states left that still
requires blood tests for marriage licenses. Now, in this day of rather deadly communicable
diseases, the logical choice for blood work would of course be AIDS. So what does
Connecticut test for?
Syphilis.
Apparently word has not reached this small state that: 1) There’s a cure for that
disease, and 2) Couples rarely come to their marriage beds without having done the
Mattress Mambo a few times already. But it doesn’t really matter whether the damned
test makes any sense or not; it’s required. And it’s required on Connecticut
paperwork.
Now back in the olden days states all kept each other’s paperwork on file. If a
couple needed to have blood tests done out of state, the paperwork was available in their
own state.
And delivered by Pony Express.
No one in the Alaska State lab had the slightest idea what I was talking about when I
called to get a copy. And the Connecticut State Lab would only send the form to a properly
vetted lab here. After all, not every lab can draw blood and perform a simple test.
Doctors all over America simply accept that their labs are filled with incompetents
fouling up their patients’ blood work. It’s only natural, right?
I finally resorted to begging. I am in Alaska. I will only be in Connecticut a
few days before the wedding. Help me! Finally, they agree to talk to my doctor’s
lab—on my doctor’s dime—in order to "certify" it worthy to
perform Connecticut blood tests.
The paperwork gets faxed.
My doctor does the blood work and one last time I call the Norwalk Town Clerk to
triple-check how this paperwork has to be delivered. I can, indeed, bring it with me, but
it needs to have three signatures and two addresses and it all has to be perfect, so my
nightmares increase the closer we got to the day. After all, it wasn’t like I could
run back to the doc’s and get something straightened out. I envisioned some vicious
Civil Servant cackling as she pointed her bony finger and screeched, "There! That
‘t’ is not crossed! You have to start all over!"
Oh, I knew that if that happened we would go forward with a ceremony of sorts and
quietly legalize stuff once Ferrett and I were together, but that wasn’t what I
wanted.
So we get to City Hall and find our way to the City Clerk’s office. We are
immediately informed that we’re in the wrong place. We have to go to the TOWN
clerk’s office. Already the level of anal-retentive nit-picking has my skin
prickling. We locate the Town Clerk’s Office and tell the woman behind the counter
we’re here for a Marriage License. She looks at our blood test paperwork. A grimace
of horror distorts her face. She eyes me suspiciously.
"Is this form faxed?"
Yes, yes it is, I explain. Alaska doesn’t have your forms and your State Lab sent
it to my doctor’s office.
It’s a moment of decision.
She wavers in the balance. I hold my breath.
"Well, I suppose it’s all right." We sigh in relief. She hands us a form
to fill out—don’t leave anything blank—and we do so, then drag out our
various pieces of I.D., anticipating the final hurdle for finishing this process. We each
have our driver’s licenses, social security cards, and birth certificates. I have my
divorce decree. I had briefly considered bringing my passport but decided it was overkill.
We’re beckoned into the next office. The woman from my nightmares enters the room.
Small, old, efficient. Dry and puckered. Looks like she could vacuum up floor lint with
her butt. From a standing position. She reads over our form. Ferrett left one blank.
County. She looks at him and says, "What county do you live in?" He doesn’t
know. "Oh, we have to have that," she says, alarmed. "You’ll have to
find out, dear, before you can pick this up." But what if he can’t, we ask. Her
eyebrows sidle closer together as she considers this.
We sit there, our eyes flashing panic. Will simple geographical ignorance stand between
ourselves and wedded bliss? I realize that I could make a county up, but at this point
she’d know I was bluffing.
Finally, she sighs. "I could just put ‘unknown,’ but it won’t look
as good."
As in, it doesn’t matter, but in Connecticut we fill in our blanks.
Other than the offending county, everything appears to be in order. We’re ready
for the "identify yourself" part of this. What will they need? Do we have enough
ID?
She looks up at us and says, "Hold up your right hand. Do you swear that the
information you’ve given is the truth and nothing but the truth?"
Uh, yes….
That’s it. No proof of who we are, or that I’m actually divorced. We could
have been anybody off the street, could have lied about our identities, but that
didn’t matter. We don’t have syphilis, and that’s all that counts. Well,
that and finding out what county Ann Arbor is in.
Marriage license obtainable, we turn our attention to the next potential crisis. This
guy Floyd may be crashing the party. Hurricane Floyd.
The wedding is to be held in the Bosworth’s backyard. It’s a wonderful
site—it has an oval brick terrace where we can set up the chairs, and at one end a
3’ retaining wall with a patch of lawn above it where the wedding will be performed,
which means that everyone will be able to see and hear us.
Assuming the weather cooperates. Pat is working on alternate plans, just in case, and
The Weather Channel is suddenly fascinating TV.
Just as I’m adjusting to the notion that we might be celebrating our wedding by
lantern light in a storm cellar, Floyd stops loitering down south and makes a break for
it. He hurtles up the coast in time to slot his New England visit between
Anne-Elisabeth’s arrival on Wednesday and the plane bringing Linda, Ralph and Gabe on
Friday.
The weather we got was exactly what a movie director would order for an outdoor
wedding: sunny, with a few clouds scudding through the sky; warm, but with a light breeze
to keep everyone from getting to hot. Roll cameras and…ACTION!
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
More than the weather is fascinating. I finally met the people responsible for the man
I love—though I’m sure there have been time in the past when they would have
demurred from bragging about that.
Let me say first off that as far as Ferrett goes, the fruit didn’t fall too far
from the tree. Oh, it fell on sloping ground and rolled a ways – he’s definitely
more cynical and sarcastic than his parents – but smart mouths and quick wits run in
his family on both sides.
I met a lot of folks in a very short time, and they were all welcoming and gracious.
Ferrett’s mom, Pat, greeted me as a daughter. In other words, she immediately started
issuing orders and putting me to work. You made me feel right at home, Mom.
Ribbing aside, we never could have had the wonderful wedding we had without Mom’s
hard work. She made all the arrangements, took care of all the logistics, kept us informed
as to what was going on and kicked our butts when we dawdled at making decisions. The
rumor that her nickname is "Little Hitler" is absolutely true, but she’s a
dictator with her heart in the right place, and by God she gets stuff done.
The entire week was a mini-travelogue of missed opportunities. We visited Grammy and
Grandpop Steinmetz and I was promised a chance to go out in the boat. Never happened.
First the tide was out, then the hurricane blew through, then the tide stayed out and the
boat sat on the mud and everyone apologized.
I think they just keep it there for decoration.
Still, visiting at their house was a delight. Ferrett’s Aunt Peggy came along and
when the sun went down I got to participate in what’s apparently a favorite family
activity: sneaking around the streets of Rowayton, CT, peering into the windows of The
Rich.
Not that The Rich don’t ask for it: big houses, big windows, no curtains. You
can’t expect busybodies like us not to inspect the architecture.
The creepy part is, there didn’t seem to be anyone home in any of these gigantic,
brilliantly lit houses. I mean, I didn’t expect them to look lived in, but I
thought we’d see a warm body or two. Nobody. One guy in a modest cottage; that’s
it. Maybe they are all pod people, plugged into elaborate alien machinery in the
basements of their sumptuous houses. Maybe it’s all a cover-up.
We also slunk out to Bell Point, a small outcropping looking out toward New York City
and maintained for the private viewing pleasure of the residence of the Bell Island –
all others need not enjoy. We stole a look that night (I don’t think they’ll
notice it missing) and were treated to a crystal clear vista onto the city. The Twin
Towers, the airplanes landing, every sparkling detail twinkled at us. Ferrett was amazed.
He claimed he had never seen it that clear.
It made me wish I’d been there on a lousy day so I could appreciate what a great
view I was getting.
Ferrett’s dad, John, was with us as well. We’d spent a great day shopping and
playing video games and pool. I am pleased to say that between the two of them they
managed to break through some of my reticence for feeding quarters into video games only
to lose miserably.
Mostly because they were their quarters.
