April 1989, Pacific Grove, California

By Michele Miles Gardiner

“I guess this means … we have to get married,” Ian, my boyfriend of two years, said as he strangled the steering wheel. We were stopped at a red light. From my passenger seat, I turned to see his abnormally gray-hued face and took notice of the supermarket across the street, behind his head. I let the image sear into my brain – his ashen face in front of the bright red grocery store sign. This is how I will always remember my “marriage proposal.”

As a kid in the 1970s, I grew up watching TV shows like Love American Style, where stewardesses in mini-dresses had a different boyfriend in every city. So I imagined my future grown-up self would be a jet-setting bachelorette – not the marrying kind of girl. I never fantasized about a fairytale proposal and wedding, or any wedding at all.

But, then again, it never occurred to me that the closest thing I’d get to a marriage proposal would take place at a stop light in front of a grocery store. Yet, there we were, only minutes after leaving the doctor’s office. We just found out I was pregnant.

A week later, we applied for a marriage license and decided – since my parents were miserably divorced and neither of his parents is living – that we would elope. The two of us would drive up the coast to Pacific Grove near Monterey to get married. So I made an appointment with a Justice of the Peace for April 26, and then reserved a room in a yellow and white Victorian Inn with a view of the Pacific Ocean.

“Ha! Who needs the stress of planning a wedding?” Ian said.

“Yeah. Why spend months planning a guest list and seating arrangements?” I agreed.

We felt so smart for avoiding the stress of wedding planning. Yep, we’ve got an appointment with a Justice of the Peace and a room reserved. We’re set, or so we thought.

Our only stress came from the dented sardine can of a car we owned that sometimes worked but often didn’t. Days before our wedding date, Ian took our car to the mechanic to see if it would be in condition to drive up the coast from Los Angeles. Right up to the day before we were to leave, the car remained in the mechanic’s shop. I spent the last hour of work pacing in front of my desk, nervously nibbling on crackers.

“Why isn’t Ian calling? Is the car going to work? Where is he? Are we going to get married or what?” I muttered, as my co-workers looked at me with pity.

The closer the clock hands ticked toward five O’clock, the queasier I got. Five minutes to five and still no call. My stomach churned. Then I heard…vroom, clunk, vroom…faintly in the distance. The sound grew louder and louder, until I could feel our car’s engine rumbling in my chest. It was Ian in our junky little car coming to pick me up from work and carry me away. The wedding was on!

In a scene sappier than any Meg Ryan movie, I ran out into the parking lot toward my husband-to-be in our rusted metal heap as though it were a carriage led by white horses.

The next morning we left for Pacific Grove, arriving at the often foggy beach town around two in afternoon. But that spring day, there was no fog to be found. The sky was turquoise and cloudless. The sun sparkled on the ocean like it was strewn with diamonds. We couldn’t have planned for better weather. But then, as I said, we really didn’t plan much at all. With only a couple hours before our appointment with the Justice of the Peace, we still didn’t have a wedding ring or a bouquet.

So we walked through the coastal town, passing cottages and Victorians, until we found an antique shop where Ian bought a delicate gold band engraved with intricate leaves for my wedding ring. After that, we found a florist who put together a bouquet of white and pink roses surrounded by babies’ breath.

With an hour to spare, we returned to our Inn with the incredible ocean view. As the golden sun poured through our room’s windows, we dressed.

“And now I’m off to apply the ball and chain,” Ian joked (or maybe not) as he buttoned his shirt.

Fifteen minutes to 4 p.m. we walked along Ocean View Boulevard to Lover’s Point.

Once there, we stood on a cliff above the ocean as breeze blew through our hair. And then a very serious looking man in a dark suit, who we realized was the Justice of the Peace, approached us. After quick introductions, he looked around and asked, “Where’s your witness?”

“Witness?” Ian and I asked in unison.

“Yes. You need a witness.”

That might’ve been something he could’ve mentioned when I spoke with him on the phone, I thought. I mean, I wasn’t exactly the wedding professional around here. My husband-to-be (or … ugh! maybe not) and I looked at each other. I hadn’t planned much, but a witness would’ve really come in handy at that moment.

Our stress-free wedding was just about to cause me, a three-month-pregnant woman, to hyperventilate or puke or maybe both. How did such a perfect day go so horribly wrong? I began to wonder. And then, on a nearby path, which hadn’t had anyone on it the entire time we stood there, a man in a gray sweat suit jogged into view. Ian looked at me. I looked at Ian. We were together for a reason; we think alike.

“Excuse me!” I yelled to the jogger as he came closer.

He jogged over to me, sweating and panting, “Yeah?”

“We’re trying to get married. But we don’t have a witness. Would you be our witness?”

A smile stretched across his red and sweat-beaded face. “Yeah. Of course!”

“Uh … and,” I said, holding my camera out to him. “Would you mind taking pictures?”

The rest is a bit of a blur. Ian and I, with the ocean splashing onto the rocks below, looked into each others eyes. He held my hands in his. We repeated our vows after the Justice of the Peace, and tried to stifle laughs as the jogger mumbled to himself, “How, exactly, does this camera work?”

Only after I developed the film did I see my wedding photos were out of focus, under-exposed, and occasionally only of our feet. But then, with the way I “planned” things, I suppose I’m fortunate to have any photos at all.

It’s been 18 years since Ian said, “I guess this means we have to get married,” while stopped in front of a grocery store. After all these years, we’ve gone through at least a half-dozen broken down cars, a few burst water pipes, countless over-flowing toilets, and one water-saturated ceiling that collapsed in the middle of the night. We’ve even survived a major earthquake and raising our teenage daughter – the latter being a way more frightening experience than the former.

Yet, through it all, we look back and laugh (usually), just as we do when we remember the sweaty man in a jogging suit who was our wedding photographer and witness.

Michele Miles Gardiner is a freelance writer. When she’s not having absurd experiences, she’s writing about them. She blogs at www.aprilbaby.typepad.com.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Monday, April 23rd, 2007 | Email This Post

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