Wild Bill loved her freckles; Red loved his sense of humor.
He proposed over a requested glass of water, with her family eavesdropping in the hallway.
When I was a child, I used to sit with my parents’ white leather wedding album and pore over the details: a huge double ceremony, both mothers in furs, the groom in platforms and to this day, my mother is upset about the florist.
What I love most about their love story is realizing these two kids have no idea what life has in store for them. The plot twists and tragedies, the good times, the adventures. The pain. The laughter. The dancing (must be seen to be believed).
They will make a home and a life.
They’ll grow up together without outgrowing each other.
For better or worse. For richer or poorer. In sickness and in health.
They’ll stick together through it all.
I wasn’t at their wedding but I’ve been around for most of their anniversaries and in spite of all we’ve been through as a family I can tell you: I’m grateful God chose them to be my parents.
Forty-two years later, Wild Bill is still pretty hilarious and Red is still undeniably fabulous — especially with her freckles. I hope that when they look at each other they always see who they were at the very beginning.
The peau de soie heels she wore that January evening have been dyed deep blue and wait for me to wear or display at my own wedding one day. I’m hanging on to a remnant of rich brown velvet from the handmade bridesmaids’ dresses. I’ll make sure she has an exquisite bouquet, and that he gets to do his signature dance.
To connect the future with the past. To honor all they mean to me that can’t be put into words.
Happy anniversary, Mama and Daddy.
We’ve already started planning for 2026.