If only I could be one of those people like Chris Christie who say exactly what they’re thinking. No, this isn’t going to be a political column. However, I was thinking about him, a person who speaks so bluntly, when a young woman said something to me at a local fast food establishment.
My son Doug was using the bathroom as we were leaving. I was waiting by the front door. One of the employees went over and opened the front door expecting me to leave. I shook my head no and told her that I was waiting for someone. I nodded toward the men’s room. “Oh, you’re waiting for your old man,” she said.
I smiled and said something about no, the “old man” passed away in 1984, and I was waiting for my son. Then I added with “well, yes, he is an old man, all of 67.” We both laughed. This morning Doug reminded me of something said in a Rodney Dangerfield movie he had watched last night. Rodney said — and I quote — “With the shape I’m in you could donate my body to science fiction.”
That’s exactly how I feel when I wake up every morning. None of this had anything to do with my next memory, but for some reason it reminded me of something really blunt I had said when my second husband, Van and I were heading into Reno to be married in 1969. At that time in California, it took a year for a divorce. Our divorces from our previous spouses had been finalized for a few months.
We’d purchased a home just outside of Fresno, Calif., where we both were employed. It was the beginning of a new life for both of us. I don’t think two people could have been happier than we both were that sunny morning. We got up early to head to San Francisco to pick up Van’s sister and brother-in-law, Virginia and Tom. They were coming in from the East Coast to witness our wedding.
The weather was beautiful. Our pick-up truck, with its big camper, was all set up to take us on our trip. Plans were to use the camper’s sleeping quarters if needed. These two New Jersey residents had never been west, and our plans were to show them some of the sights. Tom and Virginia came out of the plane each carrying a suitcase. Great, I thought, we’d head back to Reno.
They’d left the east at 6 a.m. Now, here in the West, it was just 7 a.m. giving a lot of time to head across Donner Pass. But no, we had to wait, They had more luggage. I was surprised when Tom gave me one of those “husband type looks.” There were five more suitcases, in total seven for a week’s trip. Four days in the West, and then they were flying to Texas to see other family members.
We piled their luggage in the back of the pickup and squeezed our four bottoms into the single seat cab. It was fun. Back then you didn’t need to use a seat belt, but it wouldn’t have been needed. We couldn’t budge an inch in either direction, and it was known as getting acquainted rather quickly. The trip to Reno didn’t seem to take any time at all.
As we entered Reno, we passed one of those “get married quickly” chapels. I turned to Van and asked him if he’d ever been married there? He said, “No, never,” and then asked me why? My answer was, unfortunately, one of those blunt kinds I was speaking about earlier. I simply said that I didn’t want to be embarrassed if the minister would look at my intended and said — “What, you again?” I was to be Van’s fourth wife.
We all needed to change from jeans and polo shirts, and Virginia went into the camper and came out dressed in a beautiful orange, chiffon dress. I told her how nice she looked, but told her it was a little too formal since I wasn’t wearing anything so fancy. It took some time. Finally both men were in suits and ties, Virginia in a plain blue dress and me, the bride, in a plain, but very pretty green suit.
Whenever I’m down, I recall that day in 1969. Van messed up his vowels. We all laughed. It doesn’t matter; I had 15 wonderful years until Van left this world in 1984.
Edna Van Leuven is a Churchill County writer.