Sunday was our anniversary; today, Cliff turns 64, and for about three weeks, we'll be the same age. Then I'll be a year older than he is again.
There's a story behind the timing of our anniversary and its close proximity to Cliff's birthday.
Back in the old days (the 1960's), men needed parental consent to be married in this state if they were under twenty-one. For women, the age was eighteen. Two of Cliff's younger siblings had ill-fated, short-lived marriages around the time we first met, and I often heard his mom say, "I'm never again going to sign for any of my kids to get married."
So, when we decided to get married, I was of age. Cliff wasn't, quite. We told his parents we were going to get married in a couple of weeks, and his mom asked, "What are you guys waiting for?"
"We're waiting for Cliff to turn twenty-one," I told her. "You said you weren't signing for any more of your kids."
"Oh, I'll sign for you-uns," she responded.
So Melva signed for us to get our marriage license and we went to get our blood tests (blood tests were required in the olden days). And we became man and wife two days before Cliff turned twenty-one.
I've always detested the hype and expense involved in big weddings, so we tracked down a nearby preacher the day we were to get married, and had him do the deed; he asked us, "What sort of ceremony do you want?"
"The shortest one you got," Cliff told him.
His mom, and his brother's wife, Faye, were our witnesses.
And we lived happily ever after.
Quite a contrast to Pioneer Woman's black heels and tractor wheels, wouldn't you say?
My mother, having been totally left out of the wedding plans (what plans?), baked a cake a few weeks later; you can read about that HERE, and see a picture of us as newlyweds. Probably in the same clothes we wore when we got married.