As I recall, it was a pleasant spring day in Northern Virginia.
April 19, 1975.
Exactly 50 years ago — half a century. I was 25, she was 21 and it was our wedding day. There have been 50th wedding anniversaries in the two previous generations of my family, my maternal grandparents in 1970 (they actually made it to 65) and my parents in 2006. Theirs was more of a challenge since it was a second marriage for my mother.
The above picture was the first wedding I ever attended when my mother remarried in 1956.
The next wedding was in 1974 when one of my cousins got married and the third was my own.
On April 19, 1975.
I was 25 years old and it might just have been the first real adult steps I had taken in my life.
I figured 50 years together and a golden wedding anniversary would be a breeze, with our children and grandchildren honoring us. If that were the case, today would be the day.
Of course we split up in less than five years and the last time we saw each other and talked face to face was almost exactly 43 years ago.
In fact, I have had no contact at all with her since 1982, the year our divorce was final. I know she has been remarried and divorced and remarried and widowed more than 15 years ago. The only other thing I’ve seen of her was two photos on her sister’s social media from 1999 and 2022. The older photo was recognizable but if I hadn’t known the one three years ago was her, I would never have recognized as her.
I don’t miss her. I have been married for 32 years to a far more wonderful woman.
But there is one thing I’ll never understand.
Who was the good-looking guy cutting the wedding cake?