Thirty-one year’s ago today, a young woman named Viviann and a young man named John eloped to get married on Thanksgiving Day. They were married in Beverly, Mass. at the home of the Justice of the Peace. Our perfect day for escape was filled with the radiance of the sunshine from above and reflected off the gorgeously peppered shades of amber leaves still clinging to the branches below.
I stopped to inhale the magic. Across the street from this House of Ceremony I could hear the nearby voices of a crowd at a local football game. There was an idyllic lull in the Indian Summer air that seemed to herald spring and a new start rather than an end to the last soothing rays of warmth.
We were doing the illicit. Getting married without telling ANYBODY!
It was my first plunge into matrimony but his second. I had faith in it working out.
I wore a wool,plaid skirt cut on the bias and soft, beige sweater. I’d bought a small pink bouquet for myself that matched the boutoniere I inserted into the lapel of my betrothed.
Time stopped when we both said “I do” in the modest living room of our female “accomplice”. I wanted to cry . . . and I did.
For our honeymoon we drove to Camden, Me. We had sailed there often and loved it for its schooners, seafood, and ‘Down East” charm.
I wore my vintage engagement ring with importance. Crafted from platinum, diamonds and an emerald, the insecure part of Viviann was grateful to be a part of the status quo.
Our marriage together was short lived. It was complicated. But each year when Thanksgiving comes around yet again, I give thanks to that wonderful day when a young woman called Viviann and a young man called John made the commitment to give it a go. We tried…and that’s what counts.